Author Dianne Salerni is featuring different books each month on her web site, based on various themes.
"I have posted the IAG Spotlight for July on my website, featuring books by Al Past, Marva Dasef, Linda Tuck-Jenkins, Amanda Hamm, Joseph and David Rhea, Robin Reed, Ann Keller, Lee Cross, and Sylvia Engdahl."
Check out these great IAG authors at http://www.highspiritsbook.com/Spotlight.htm.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Last One
My Uncle Norman Yelton passed away today. He was the last of his generation in our family, the last of fourteen siblings. I wrote this poem in his honor.
Copyright 2008
His hands shook a little as he lit his cigarette
his gnarled fingers skillfully flipping the lighter
with a click
A smoke cloud blew upward and
he closed his eyes in pleasure
“Been smokin’ sixty two years
and loved every one of ‘em.”
Then he spoke of the past with a look in his eye
that told me he saw seventy years gone
like it was yesterday.
Days when Roosevelt was President
and swing music was new
and folks rallied around
to defeat a primal evil
and save the world.
He told of getting sick on the victory ship
in the North Atlantic
and how the German torpedo missed them
by fifty yards.
Of how the landing at Normandy
took five of his friends
their lifeblood leeched out
on that grim and sandy shore.
And how they fought the Nazi’s
and the plink of a round against his helmet
of twisting his ankle
and then marching fourteen miles
of sleeping in the mud
for eight straight nights
of being spattered by the brains
of his platoon sergeant
in front of a little church in France
when the Germans opened up with their Mausers.
He killed three of them,
said it was the first time he had told anyone.
He was sick with the flu for two weeks in November
confined to his bed in the field hospital
they told him he almost died of exposure
but he went back as soon as he could
caught up with his comrades at a bridge
where one German tank blocked the road
and Sammy Nelon of Huntsville swam across,
climbed on the tank
and shot the driver with the lieutenant’s .45.
Then he slung a satchel charge into the treads
but it went off before he could get clear.
Sammy was nineteen.
A single tear trickled down.
He looked out the window at the blowing leaves
“This’ll be my last winter. Will you see the antifreeze gets changed?”
A practical people, this greatest generation.
The house was quiet, just the old man and me.
I nodded yes and he nodded too.
The last of his family, the rest all gone
and he alone just waiting
for the final reunion.
Copyright 2008
His hands shook a little as he lit his cigarette
his gnarled fingers skillfully flipping the lighter
with a click
A smoke cloud blew upward and
he closed his eyes in pleasure
“Been smokin’ sixty two years
and loved every one of ‘em.”
Then he spoke of the past with a look in his eye
that told me he saw seventy years gone
like it was yesterday.
Days when Roosevelt was President
and swing music was new
and folks rallied around
to defeat a primal evil
and save the world.
He told of getting sick on the victory ship
in the North Atlantic
and how the German torpedo missed them
by fifty yards.
Of how the landing at Normandy
took five of his friends
their lifeblood leeched out
on that grim and sandy shore.
And how they fought the Nazi’s
and the plink of a round against his helmet
of twisting his ankle
and then marching fourteen miles
of sleeping in the mud
for eight straight nights
of being spattered by the brains
of his platoon sergeant
in front of a little church in France
when the Germans opened up with their Mausers.
He killed three of them,
said it was the first time he had told anyone.
He was sick with the flu for two weeks in November
confined to his bed in the field hospital
they told him he almost died of exposure
but he went back as soon as he could
caught up with his comrades at a bridge
where one German tank blocked the road
and Sammy Nelon of Huntsville swam across,
climbed on the tank
and shot the driver with the lieutenant’s .45.
Then he slung a satchel charge into the treads
but it went off before he could get clear.
Sammy was nineteen.
A single tear trickled down.
He looked out the window at the blowing leaves
“This’ll be my last winter. Will you see the antifreeze gets changed?”
A practical people, this greatest generation.
The house was quiet, just the old man and me.
I nodded yes and he nodded too.
The last of his family, the rest all gone
and he alone just waiting
for the final reunion.
Monday, June 23, 2008
At Night on Winterstar
Copyright 2008
There is quietness here
on this pinnacle at six thousand feet
where balsams sway in breezes
from the west
and speak to the weary traveler
in airy tones redolent
with scents of
the mountain forest at night.
The tent puffs and ripples,
the wind insistent now
the storytelling takes on
an urgent air
though the night is long
and we have eternity
here on top of this soaring
granite mound
amidst the forested giants
craggy and old.
Speaking in whispers now the wind
seems resigned
as though just another mortal
has lain here and listened and will
do naught
but listen
it sounds weary
like an old woman slowly sweeping
an endless corridor.
It sighs with
exasperation as it sweeps across
the ridges
and tumbles into the valley
and the rain comes with a soft patter
laughing at the wind
as it has since creation
crying also
for the mortal who lies
wondering at it all
wondering for a moment
only
until his thoughts are stilled
and he lies within the solid earth.
And the wind and the rain and the mountain
continue
until that momentous day
when the rocks melt
and time ceases
and the wind learns
what it means
to be mortal.
and the rain laughs
no more
There is quietness here
on this pinnacle at six thousand feet
where balsams sway in breezes
from the west
and speak to the weary traveler
in airy tones redolent
with scents of
the mountain forest at night.
The tent puffs and ripples,
the wind insistent now
the storytelling takes on
an urgent air
though the night is long
and we have eternity
here on top of this soaring
granite mound
amidst the forested giants
craggy and old.
Speaking in whispers now the wind
seems resigned
as though just another mortal
has lain here and listened and will
do naught
but listen
it sounds weary
like an old woman slowly sweeping
an endless corridor.
It sighs with
exasperation as it sweeps across
the ridges
and tumbles into the valley
and the rain comes with a soft patter
laughing at the wind
as it has since creation
crying also
for the mortal who lies
wondering at it all
wondering for a moment
only
until his thoughts are stilled
and he lies within the solid earth.
And the wind and the rain and the mountain
continue
until that momentous day
when the rocks melt
and time ceases
and the wind learns
what it means
to be mortal.
and the rain laughs
no more
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Canta Libre
Copyright 2008
by Barry Yelton
Early in the morning when the sun lifts its head
above the blue horizon
and the rooster sings his atonal song,
the spirit is lifted almost absurdly
given life’s circumstance.
Here on this showy crest where blueberries grow
like crabgrass
and a grumbling black bear ambles
through, taking her fill,
I stand, breathing in the vernal air
of the new day.
A Neil Diamond song about freedom and music
runs through the morning
as we explore the high country
like tourists from Mars.
There is no greater freedom than that found in the mountains,
where no alarm intrudes or schedule inhibits.
They are places of solace and hope.
Somewhere deep in tribal memory they reside
those highlands of Scotland
and wooded hills of the Rhineland,
where ancestors fought bloody wars,
lived in caves and ate raw meat.
Even they stood at times on hilltops
far away
and wondered at it all
and even now their dust
fills the valleys
and they rest in their final emancipation,
their song of freedom
forever wafting on ancient winds.
by Barry Yelton
Early in the morning when the sun lifts its head
above the blue horizon
and the rooster sings his atonal song,
the spirit is lifted almost absurdly
given life’s circumstance.
Here on this showy crest where blueberries grow
like crabgrass
and a grumbling black bear ambles
through, taking her fill,
I stand, breathing in the vernal air
of the new day.
A Neil Diamond song about freedom and music
runs through the morning
as we explore the high country
like tourists from Mars.
There is no greater freedom than that found in the mountains,
where no alarm intrudes or schedule inhibits.
They are places of solace and hope.
Somewhere deep in tribal memory they reside
those highlands of Scotland
and wooded hills of the Rhineland,
where ancestors fought bloody wars,
lived in caves and ate raw meat.
Even they stood at times on hilltops
far away
and wondered at it all
and even now their dust
fills the valleys
and they rest in their final emancipation,
their song of freedom
forever wafting on ancient winds.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
A Mule Named Dawg and a Dog Named Myool
Copyright 2008
Round the bend and up the road
lives a farmer name of Micah Joad
Joad’s gotta mule name of dawg
He can plow a row and pull a log
Down the road and around the bend
lives a farmer name of Howard Lend
Lend’s gotta dog name of Myool
Long in the tooth but he ain’t no fool
Lend come around to farmer Joad’s
needin’ a mule to pull some loads
Cuttin’ logs and takin’ ‘em to town
Thought old Dawg could pull ‘em on down
Brought old Myool along for the ride
That dog stayed right by old Lend’s side
Until the minute he spied old Dawg
Joad a plowin’ him out in the fog
Now Myool took out after old Dawg
And Dawg took out into the bog
Dog named Myool chasin’ a mule named Dawg
Peculiar doin’s out here in the fog
Down they went Dawg and Myool
Dawg had the lead but begin to drool
Myool was a catchin’ up real fast
But Dawg refused of bein’ passed
So Dawg sped up and turned the bend
Right behind was Myool and Lend
Lend was a hollerin’ to beat the band
For all this nonsense he wouldn’t stand
Old Joad come along but he was old
He give it his best but begin to fold
Old Myool caught up with the hard runnin’ Dawg
So Dawg just stopped beside a log
Myool was a barkin’ to beat the band
A carryin’ on and a raisin’ sand
Dawg just turned his rump toward Myool
Then Myool went and broke the cardinal rule
He stood a barkin’ at old Dawg’s rump
When Dawg let loose and give him a thump
Myool went a flyin’ across the log
That’s what happens when you’re kicked by Dawg
So the moral of this here story is
Mind what’s yours and him what’s his
Don’t borry a mule, no matter how poor
Cause dogs and mules don’t mix for sure
lives a farmer name of Micah Joad
Joad’s gotta mule name of dawg
He can plow a row and pull a log
Down the road and around the bend
lives a farmer name of Howard Lend
Lend’s gotta dog name of Myool
Long in the tooth but he ain’t no fool
Lend come around to farmer Joad’s
needin’ a mule to pull some loads
Cuttin’ logs and takin’ ‘em to town
Thought old Dawg could pull ‘em on down
Brought old Myool along for the ride
That dog stayed right by old Lend’s side
Until the minute he spied old Dawg
Joad a plowin’ him out in the fog
Now Myool took out after old Dawg
And Dawg took out into the bog
Dog named Myool chasin’ a mule named Dawg
Peculiar doin’s out here in the fog
Down they went Dawg and Myool
Dawg had the lead but begin to drool
Myool was a catchin’ up real fast
But Dawg refused of bein’ passed
So Dawg sped up and turned the bend
Right behind was Myool and Lend
Lend was a hollerin’ to beat the band
For all this nonsense he wouldn’t stand
Old Joad come along but he was old
He give it his best but begin to fold
Old Myool caught up with the hard runnin’ Dawg
So Dawg just stopped beside a log
Myool was a barkin’ to beat the band
A carryin’ on and a raisin’ sand
Dawg just turned his rump toward Myool
Then Myool went and broke the cardinal rule
He stood a barkin’ at old Dawg’s rump
When Dawg let loose and give him a thump
Myool went a flyin’ across the log
That’s what happens when you’re kicked by Dawg
So the moral of this here story is
Mind what’s yours and him what’s his
Don’t borry a mule, no matter how poor
Cause dogs and mules don’t mix for sure
Monday, June 2, 2008
Gold Mountain
Copyright 2008
Along the tree strewn ridge on a sparkling fall day
the light glistens on the rocks and the cool breeze
ruffles my hair as I stride the wonderland that is the Blue Ridge.
Now and again I catch a glimpse of distant valleys
bejeweled with lakes, golden in the afternoon sunlight,
beyond them distant ridges of hazy blue which melt into the sky
thirty miles distant.
It is a time and place of revelation,
when the clock means naught and time is held suspended
like a thought in a tired mind at days end,
while I walk these ridges in the warmth of gratitude
and hope in the future of a troubled earth.
It would not be hopeless were Nature in charge
and man but a player in the cosmic game.
But taking to himself the fate of the globe
smashing and staining, his hands drip with
blood drawn from mother earth.
I wonder as I hike these ancient hills
if even they will escape that day of reckoning
when mountains smoke and
oceans boil like cauldrons.
I wonder if man will somehow open his jaded eyes
and see.
But then, across the valley there, a hawk glides
on thermals that carry her high on the dusky wings
of this blessed day and I smile
because hope will not go easy.
Along the tree strewn ridge on a sparkling fall day
the light glistens on the rocks and the cool breeze
ruffles my hair as I stride the wonderland that is the Blue Ridge.
Now and again I catch a glimpse of distant valleys
bejeweled with lakes, golden in the afternoon sunlight,
beyond them distant ridges of hazy blue which melt into the sky
thirty miles distant.
It is a time and place of revelation,
when the clock means naught and time is held suspended
like a thought in a tired mind at days end,
while I walk these ridges in the warmth of gratitude
and hope in the future of a troubled earth.
It would not be hopeless were Nature in charge
and man but a player in the cosmic game.
But taking to himself the fate of the globe
smashing and staining, his hands drip with
blood drawn from mother earth.
I wonder as I hike these ancient hills
if even they will escape that day of reckoning
when mountains smoke and
oceans boil like cauldrons.
I wonder if man will somehow open his jaded eyes
and see.
But then, across the valley there, a hawk glides
on thermals that carry her high on the dusky wings
of this blessed day and I smile
because hope will not go easy.
Anniversary
Well the one year anniversary of this little experiment in soul baring, self-absorbed bloviating has come - and gone - without my realizing it. It was May 24 of 2007 that I posted the first chapter of Scarecrow in Gray. Time flies, as they say, when you're having fun.
It has been instructive, the way this blog has changed over that year. It has become primarily a place for publishing my little poems and book reviews (both of my work and others). It has also become a place where I can help promote (in a modest way) my friends of the Independent Authors Guild, a collective of self published and small press published authors seeking to gain recognition for their work in the brutal, over-crowded world of book publishing. They have been very helpful to me and I am trying to return the favor by adding their links to the blog as well as featuring a different IAG author each week (look at the column to the left).
I suppose I started with the idea that I should opine and wax eloquent about this subject or that. The fact is that although I am very interested in politics, hiking, and other things, my first love is the writer's art. Therefore, since I do not have legions of publishers clamoring to publish my poems and essays, I publish them here and at authorsden.com. I suppose it is a natural progression.
I hope something here makes you think, inspires you, or just entertains you a bit. After all, you're the reason these words are on this page.
It has been instructive, the way this blog has changed over that year. It has become primarily a place for publishing my little poems and book reviews (both of my work and others). It has also become a place where I can help promote (in a modest way) my friends of the Independent Authors Guild, a collective of self published and small press published authors seeking to gain recognition for their work in the brutal, over-crowded world of book publishing. They have been very helpful to me and I am trying to return the favor by adding their links to the blog as well as featuring a different IAG author each week (look at the column to the left).
I suppose I started with the idea that I should opine and wax eloquent about this subject or that. The fact is that although I am very interested in politics, hiking, and other things, my first love is the writer's art. Therefore, since I do not have legions of publishers clamoring to publish my poems and essays, I publish them here and at authorsden.com. I suppose it is a natural progression.
I hope something here makes you think, inspires you, or just entertains you a bit. After all, you're the reason these words are on this page.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
