A Poet

A poet is a nut, writing words of wisdom and humor.
A poet is a scholar, or is that a rumor?
A poet is a dreamer, and that's for real.
A poet is probably needing a good hot meal.
A poet will write all the songs that we sing,
will probably mention a few favorite things.

A poet makes time for the good things of life.
To see the sunset, to cancel the strife,
To gather no moss, to feel the rain,
To walk in the sun, to live not in vain,
To write it all down, the good and the worse,
Memories of life in the form of a verse.

- Becky Nichols Hill

Summer Like A Dream

Remember the summer, laughter and fun?

Friends, blue skies, lazy days and the golden sun.

Worries forgotten, responsibilities gone.
Summer is there but never for long.

Why does it go by so fast?
It's never in the present, always in the past!

Wish for a moment - a second or two.
Summer will come back, just for me and you.

- Lara Inman

Insanity

Why?

Why do we wait til a person's gone before we tell his worth?
Why not tell him now he's the finest man on earth.

Why do we wait til a person's gone to send him flowers galore?
When a single rose would have meant so much if we'd taken it to his door.

Why do we wait til he cannot hear the good things that we might say?
Why put it off, why not tell him now and share in his joy today?

Of course we're busy, that's our excuse. But why, oh why do we wait
     to tell a person our love for him until it becomes too late?

- Lela Lynch

It's Not Enough

It's Not Enough 

Time to think...Time to hide...Time to realize things inside.

Time to work...Time to pray...Time if I just want to play.

Time to sing...Time to cry...Time to know the reasons why.

Time to talk...Time to feel...Time to strengthen nerves of steel.

Time for friends...Time to grow...So MANY things I'd like to know.

My times possessed, But time I need...Is this wanting/needing GREED?

- Patricia McDonald 

Feet

Over a year ago I had a guest who traveled here to Michigan from Oklahoma to visit her father. During her visit she had the opportunity to acquire some family history all bound up in several large, old ledgers. The handwritten daily entries dated from the late 1800's to the 1950's. Among the numerous artifacts contained in these books were notations of how many pigs or cows were sold or butchered, who owed what, and recipes  to make soap, chicken feed, and pig wormer; who was born, who died, who got married or divorced. I was right in my glory when my guest allowed me to copy some of the items I found interesting. Actually, all of it was interesting, but I only had so much ink and paper. To me, family history is the foundation of where we live. And every family has interesting history.

Among the items and entries I copied were newspaper clippings. One such is dated August 2, 1927 and it was a regular newspaper column titled "Lyrics of Life" by Douglas Malloch where poetry was the theme. I have typed the poem below.

I am unaware of what town newspaper the clippings originated from that I found in the old ledgers, but it had to be from a city in the southwest part of Michigan where the family was once established. Thank you to Mikki Mast for her generosity in allowing me to rifle through her family history.

Feet

by Douglas Malloch

Feet go walking up and down,

Taking folk all over town,

Great big feet in great big shoes,

Little feet like babies use,

Quiet feet like mothers wear,

Noisy feet that just don't care,

Children's feet that romp and run,

Old, old feet whose romp is done.

People seldom think about

How their feet help people out,

Take them where they want to go,

Just as though they seemed to know,

Always take them somewhere, then

Always bring them back again.

People don't appreciate

How their feet just work and wait.

Father talks about his hands,

But it's on his feet he stands.

Sister talks about her face,

That won't take her any place.

People go buy hats to wear,

But their feet must fetch them there.

Feet, no matter what one spends,

Are just about our best of friends.