The Song of Nature
Immersed in a color-wheel of ever-changing,
Undulating light from the setting sun,
I sit silent and motionless upon a footstool hill
At the feet of the great rock-ribbed granite Sierras.
Held firm within this vast panorama of undisturbed geological
Evolution, my eye is led from the valley floor, past dappled
Terrestrial hues and tones of green, gray and brown,
To saw-toothed peaks etched upon a background of gracious,
Deepening empurpled evening sky.
Surrounding me, the cry of the hawk;
The caw of the crow; the lazy hum of bees;
The panpipe song of the birds;
The soft-voiced spatter and splash of the creek;
The gentle brush of breeze, wafting with the scent of sage,
Whispering through the boughs of pines, rustling the trembling
Aspen leaves, all filling the solitude with sound.
Each contributing to the constant, yet never the same,
Gladdening mirth of nature's song.
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poem by Lynn W. Petty
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The Bittersweet Of Christmas
A pervading warmth wraps the heart at Christmas time.
It comes a messenger of peace; a recall of home;
The pipings of the past; the evidence of forgotten joys; Memories of friends, gone from us and, loved ones far away.
The most tender of mysteries, it permeates society, displaying
An underlying oneness for all human kind.
A time when labor turns to love, fatigue evolves to festivity.
There are weeks involved in making ready for a single day's Event: decorating the house; selecting the tree; shopping for Gifts and food; setting the table with silver and china;
The house warmed by fireplace flames; the laughter of children;
The exchanging of gifts by the tree.
Suddenly over, family departed, the house becomes a vacuum, an Echo of tomorrow's emptiness.
The day, added to the yesterdays of all our years, is recorded In memory as a genial recollection.
There is no measurement that weighs the hours of preparation
For the approaching holidays. There is no holiday that leaves
One with such a glow of nostalgic reflections as does Christmas Day.
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poem by Lynn W. Petty
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I Think Well of Her
It was years ago when I first met her.
She was the siren of Laguna Beach,
Well endowed, a body to be envied by all women
And, licentiously desired by all men.
She walked like a cat;
Mysterious behind her large, darkly
Tinted glasses, causing people to turn
And watch as she silently passed them by.
She was not pretentious, she was herself,
As she was born to be.
She was not young but, at that time of life
When all was an intoxicating awareness
Of love and beauty, wrapped in a ferver for life,
Living it to its maximum.
I saw her again, many years later,
Confined to a home-health care facility;
Mobile to the limits of a wheelchair.
The shadows of time deepened,
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poem by Lynn W. Petty
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Our Sixty Years
Well, they said that we would never last, yet, here
We are, two relics from the past.
We out-survived the skeptics who had said
Our marriage would be doomed, if not misled.
But, sixty years have passed and we have proved,
That we together, heart to heart, improved our lives
With each successive year.
We have endured the substances of living.
The salve of love has healed the wounds of life.
You, by your sweet constancy, lifted up and drew
From me my best, and I, the more, did grow.
How happy those fond days, how fast they go.
Often I would travel back along that old
And traveled track, as when we were so young,
Those early days when I, so serious, attempted
To apply myself to jobs of meager worth,
So proud of my supply to family gain.
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poem by Lynn W. Petty
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Lunch With a Poet
I had lunch with a poet, just the other day.
A poet who has written fine and lofty verse,
Conveying his experiences, emotions and his ideas, in
Vivid, imaginative ways, condensed in simple language,
Choosing words for sound and power,
Rather than impressing readers with poetic adulterations.
Almost apologetically, he said he uses 'nickel words'
To write his inner thoughts. It was as if he were at fault,
As though he thought those simple sounds
Had lessened the intent of his poetic worth.
I emphasized how wrong he was, and tried
To make clear, a poet writes in sympathy with his reader,
Overleaping the barriers of understanding by the simplicity
Of his language, and of his words.
To write with words of misty meaning does not make
A mystic.
To write with vulgar words does not lift up the poem
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poem by Lynn W. Petty
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The Force of His Words
The skeletal fingers of dawn folded back the
Cover of darkness revealing the machinery of war.
Battlewagons, Destroyers, Troop-transports,
Supply and Hospital ships blackened the lagoon.
Sixteen-inch gun shells split the sky, with the sound
Of tearing canvas, as projectiles passed overhead.
As if in agony the earth writhed and collapsed
As the explosives ripped into the sub-strata,
Exposing its connective tissue.
In desolation, the island lay scourged as the sea soothed
Its torment by filling its wounds with water and sand
Through the action of the healing waves.
Landing craft hugged the sides of the ship as the 81st Army
Division disembarked. Clinging to the bulkhead nets, they
Climbed cautiously down into the open maw of the small
Craft beneath them.
As a young lieutenant swung his legs over the side,
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poem by Lynn W. Petty
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Speechless Sorrow
I have read in the 'Legends of Monastic Orders, '
The great saints found ecstasy in the pain endured
For the love of their spiritual convictions.
I found no ecstasy in my pain.
I found only irredeemable gloom hanging
Over the entire air terminal.
I observed an emotional hurt so deep it spilled over,
Flooding the hearts of all who witnessed
Its dibilitatiing affect.
Our son, the father of our grandchildren, wept
With a faint, melancholy, rueful, passionate weeping
So painful to see, it was like the stabbing
Of an already lacerated heart.
Hugging his children he, with heart full
Of speechless sorrow, released his girls
To the stewardess, and with a sort of mental depletion,
Wiped his tears and sighed in liqued grief.
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poem by Lynn W. Petty
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I Know, I know, I know
'I know, I know, I know, ' you softly say.
But, how can I be sure you understand
My depth of love? From you what will convey
Assurances to me, that when we stand
Alone, we two; I whisper in your ear
Equivalent soft-spoken words, I'll know
That you will comprehend that what you hear
Is uttered from my soul? Not just a flow
Of idle praise but, solemn words that mean
That unrelenting, pounding, lonely heart
Of this, perhaps, most foolish man, unseen
Behind a mask of practiced calm, that part
Of me that dies a little more each day,
By longing for your kiss on lip and brow,
Has had to speak or break; has had to say,
What lies so heavely therein. The vow
So long withheld from you, of silent love,
Is broken, breached, confessed, oh yes, its true.
My penance paid, now truth, and God above,
Forgive my sin, my sin of loving you.
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poem by Lynn W. Petty
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An Old Book Store
There is an old bookstore, on the other side of town.
The owner, a man of gentle disposition and kindly mold,
Changed an empty, cold, commercial store into a warm
And friendly shop.
With faith, hope and trust, he stirred a pound
Of old Americana with a cup of European flare.
Then, he added good old Texas charm to complement the mix.
The symmetry of shelves gives one a feeling of congenial Cordiality. Their polished woods, mahogany and oak, colored by The hand of age, exposes one to welcome warmth and shades of Soothing calm. It is a grand repository, holding silent urns of Moldered learning, side by side, with tomes of modern thought.
So come, indulge yourself and spend a guiltless hour seeking
Out a seldom-read old book found back in some secluded niche.
Imbibe the long, settled wine of knowledge poured from ancient
Literary ewers, filled with vintage scholarship.
Walk the paths of knowing, knowing they were walked
Before by half-remembered authors, with half-forgotten names.
Allow the spirit of the hour to pass unfettered through the Mind, where re-awakened literature supplies the substance of the Past and gives insight unto the future.
Rise to the superior society of your own thoughts,
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poem by Lynn W. Petty
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Sara's Garden
Fashioned out of a park-like setting is a small,
Commemorative garden, dedicated in memoriam
To the short-lived life of a beloved child.
A retreat, created by her parents who believe
It is a fair and beautiful image of her youth,
An island filled with mystical dimensions.
In its center, on a slightly raised mound of earth,
Stands an ash-tree, softly green, symbolizing
The everlasting permanence of the spiritual experience,
Representing the elevated central life of her soul.
Around its roots, a saturation of floral colors,
A spectrum of her spirit, in a whirlpool of intense color.
From the shelter of its branches, one is immersed
In bird sounds, as their song descends and lingers
Upon the ear.
Establishing the curtilage of this sanctuary,
Warm wooden benches are placed on sandstone squares,
Bringing into harmony the day's discordant
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poem by Lynn W. Petty
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