In A Box of Black Wood

It’s funny how things happen sometimes. I think everyone at one time or another just sits there in a quiet moment and reminisces. That’s the time when it seems the flood gates open and a whole box of memories run rampant all over the living room floor like the memory alphabet gone mad!

I had a day like that not too long ago; the truth is, I get many nights like that, it must be an age thing, or maybe just reviewing inventory of my life.

Sometimes I sit here looking over my files and thinking where did all these thousands of words came from, not only that, but also under what circumstances did these words make their escape. It’s a writers thing I guess.

Recently I was having one of those such moments and “The City of Poets” came to mind. The city was a forum where many people like myself would go and post their poetic creations. The forum was put together and run by Roy York, a southern gentleman, better known online as “Knight-owl or Sgt. Pop”, we quickly became online friends. It was a great place to be and you met lots of good people. Roy is an excellent writer in his own right with some beautiful creations to his credit. I saved a piece that he wrote that I want to share with you, I think it is a brilliant poem. So without further ado and Sgt. Pops permission, I give you his poem.

In A Box of Black Wood

Opening the book, he searched for the final paragraph he read the last time he had this problem. It was only two nights ago, not time enough to catch up with the sleep necessary to make each day bearable. Somehow he managed to keep going though.

The tasks of the day were minimal, amounting to not much more than picking up around the house, which was always picked up anyhow.
No one there to make a mess; the dishes were not used,
save for his plate, a coffee cup and an occasional glass, like now.

Not remembering the last passage in his book, he slipped it into it's slot, placing it just so to match the neat soldierly line of its neighbors.
Walking to the porch, he surveyed his part of the world, spying William across the road, and Perry next door, hard at their labours.

Suddenly, with the fury of a terrier pup in hot pursuit of the neighbor cat, a small bundle of energy burst through the thick, green hedgerow bearing down on him with a look of joy and determination in it's eyes.
He was shocked when he thought; "How fast that boy seems to grow!"

In the boy's arms was a tiny ball of fur; his little friend, a small kitten. Their advance was swift, but the attack on the steps was a slow one.
His joints were stiff and painful and his heart was weak. But he came to love and to cuddle; then sleep came to an old man and his grandson.

The boy was seven; he was seventy-seven.
Though he still had his sleepless nights, so had the child his painful days.
Each, when he could, made the others' life full in so many ways.
He survived twelve more years.

On a cloudy, windy day in May, Cat and I laid the old gentleman to rest in a box of black wood.

We were alone. I wondered,
"When my turn comes, will I have someone, or will I be alone?
What do I do now?
Will there be a grandson to build my box of black wood?"

Roy York, Sr
© October 20, 2002

C'ya

A Soldiers Homecoming

In these uncertain days in a world of wars, most assuredly the thoughts must cross the minds of those leaving for the countries of war. Will they be the one who may not return?

This poem is dedicated to all the combat forces of today.


A Soldiers Homecoming

Time is fast approaching when, I shall soon be home
Has it really been so long that I’ve been gone?
Your memory is like sweet music, to my mind when I lay prone,
But your smell and tender touch, is what I long for while I’m gone.

How long is long, in life my friend, with years still yet to come
For this parting in my memories, I will keep,
As I treasure all the moments, when once more I am home
For in that magic moment, for you I know, I’ll weep.

All the hours that I have lost, won’t really mean a thing
For this country is the thing that I’ve missed most,
All the pain, my longing, will be but a moments sting,
For has it really been that long, since I was there on your coast.

The time is fast approaching when, I shall soon be home
And my wanderings, will be a thing soon, of the past,
All else will be forgotten, as I no longer roam
All else, except the hunger for the country, I might have lost.

Eric Valentine Sept. 18/94 ©

Poetry

Inspiration comes from the depths of the mind
Which is triggered by the feelings and
Emotions of the body.
That in turn, transcends into an outpouring of words,
Which struggle to actively express,
The torments of the soul.
This is known as Poetry.

E. Valentine 1994 ©

A 2nd Chance?

I was reading an interesting article about Reba today. I had written a few words along that line, surprisingly enough. ~

Just Thinking

To be born again in today’s world,
Could just be a recipe for failure.

With the luxury of having been born once,
Perhaps that’s all one can afford.
For when was the last time you
Opened your windows
To let some reality in.

Eric Valentine Oct 1/08 ©

Willow Park

We were down at the park on sunday, what a beautiful sunny day for pictures. A brilliant sight to behold and of course, there was Ted's music drifting on the breeze..... Perfection.

Misted thoughts

As One

My love,
You are my heartbeat.
But if in time,
You should fail to beat,
So too would I
Then cease to breathe.

Eric Valentine Oct 5/08 ©
***
Observation

Unfortunately the world is full of
‘Gladiators’ who carry the scar's,
They picked up in the arena of life.
They are not always hidden,
By the fine clothes they wear.

Eric Valentine Nov 1994 ©

South is Thataway!

Canada Geese getting ready for the parade.


I have been studying these geese for some little time now.

There is a park across the road from where we live. Beside there being a sizeable lake, there are walkways, gardens and a playing field. This area is a sizeable habitat for a variety of wildlife and the geese in particular.

When not on the lake or some other such mischief, they congregate on the playing field in large numbers especially when the sun is out. The strange thing I found is, they all sit facing the sun as it dips toward the west, in rows almost like a battalion of soldiers on parade. It is very regimentally impressive I have to admit.

I have come to the conclusion, that just as humans have a need for vitamin D, so too do wild life, the birds in particular. Almost as if they are charging their batteries ready for the long flight south.

Of course having the geese around in such numbers, one gets to see them in flight, in their now well known V formation. Which raised another question, why? To which I also formed my own opinionated answer.

When in flight there is always one goose at the lead position, changing one could presume at intervals, moving from the lead down back to the rear of the flock. I determined then, that over the course of their journey, no doubt every goose within that group, would spend a time both leading and also at rearguard.

It occurred to me. What if they arrive at the wrong destination? They would have no one to blame, but themselves. Maybe even, all that honking is everyone trying to give the lead goose directions! Bunch-a backseat drivers! J ~

C’ya