My collection of original poems
Silent Words—a poem
Sometimes I sit and listen,
silent words touching my soul;
a wisp, a whisper, words floating by,
silent words making me whole.
An inner calm washes warmth
through my inner being.
I listen and hear
as silent words bring peace,
Knowing you are there,
I yearn for more…
and hear answers in the wind,
in a song birds singing,
cattle lowing or even a baby cooing.
I see your smile
in the glint of another’s eye,
a rush, a sigh…
I reach out and you’re not there.
But is that true?
Maybe I’m just not listening,
to your silent words,
Silent Words that make me whole.
© 2012 Rich Weatherly
February 21, 2012
Mother’s words calm a worried child,
Words of hope and joy outlast the latest toy.
These words are like waters,
Flowing from a mountain stream;
Where child can hope and child can dream.
A whisper, a laugh, a tease or a cheer,
Moments remembered, so cherished – so dear.
When doubts bring fear of monsters out there
Reassuring words from Dad say, “No need to beware.
You are with us child and that’s all that matters.”
Ghost and goblin, vampire and bat;
Nightmares and terrors, so what’s up with that?
A firm and calm voice so steady and true,
“Daddy, I thank you for just being you.”
When you feel discouraged, your friend says, “Just do it.”
You doubt and withdraw. Some will say I just blew it.
Friend urges, cajoles — knowing what it’s about.
They bring it on when you are all doubt.
You think and ponder and they must be right.
With message so true & your interest in view,
they know you better than even you do.
Not all spoken words are so good and so true.
Rants from a mad man who hated the Jew—
His ravings drew many, though stormy— untrue.
Detestable tirades yet many he thrilled,
For them did it matter, he wanted them killed?
That’s why we fight; stand up when it’s right,
Strength against strength with all of our might!
Spoken words guide us and show us our path.
For good or for bad, we hear them each day.
How do we speak them and what do we say?
Spoken words matter, let’s show all the way.
A way that is just and faithful and true,
One that works right, for me, and for you
To show others honor a life to renew.
Rich Weatherly, February 29, 2012
Small Town Homecoming
A month ago this small west Texas town
with a single crossroad and railroad track
looked empty and barren
except for Mary’s café and a small Czech bakery.
Faded letters on abandoned red brick buildings
hinted of better times long ago.
Wind tossed tumbleweeds danced along dusty
cobble stones, gone as soon as they came.
A spiny-back lizard scurried over crossties
and vanished behind a weathered log.
A little more than a year ago wildfires raged close by;
racing down from the ridge west of town.
Now a mosaic of white ash on gray scorched earth
mingles with black barren mesquite tree skeletons.
This near ghost town was almost lost to conflagration.
A few days ago I sped down the lonely road
past fields green from recent rains
to this little town with its six man football team
for a homecoming celebration.
Like butterflies from cocoons
cheering crowds lined streets while
proud parade participants jostled in queues
waiting for the grand marshal to wave them on.
Mounted riders waved to smiling faces and cheering friends.
Riders sat on saddles gleaming with silver Conchos
sitting tall and proud as hooves clip-clopped on cobble stone streets.
Out came motorcycles side-by-side,
boys on bicycles, tractors, golf carts, atvs and lawn mowers
and the procession inched on.
Along came cheerleaders in pickup trucks tossing beads
horded by bystanders who waved for more.
Next came, old cars and new cars, fire trucks and a stagecoach.
The procession inched on.
Last in line was the 1st Cavalry detachment,
its mounted soldiers riding two-by-two,
their captain led the way—
young men wearing wide brim hats,
blue shirts, gray trousers and black boots.
After the parade everyone moseyed
over to the town pavilion where
folks were meeting and greeting
recalling memories from long ago.
Barbeque, potatoes salad
and iced tea nourished those gathered
while talk returned to stories
of those who have passed on.
After hugs and handshakes
and encouraging words
the crowd dissolved
leaving a near empty town.
Mary’s Café siphoned off some
while kolaches at the Czech bakery drew away others.
Traffic trickled to an occasional passing car,
and the regular rumble of a passing train.
©2012 Richard L Weatherly
A Tribute to August, from “The World According to August — One good friend,”
by Sandy Westendorf
Poem for an Autistic Child
To soar on wings of eagles
to glide along the glade
to bounce and jump and whirl and twirl
to dream and search and sway.
He has so much in common
with you and me you see —
a bright and charming sweet young boy
who senses all with clarity.
To hear, to see and touch and smell,
he takes all in so well,
his self expression is unique
his feelings hard to sell.
We might whisper, he might yell
but one can never tell.
He likes himself and folks like him
and that works out quite well.
August has needs and we have ours,
life comes with give and take ―
love and comfort, peace and joy
needs all share, so we partake.
A smile, a doubt, a look askance
a wave, a nod, a sigh —
He needs hugs and love at times,
same as you and I.
He gazes on the sights nearby,
is stirred by beauty there.
A swan takes flight, a songbird sings,
if only he could fly.
Unspoken words may bite his tongue,
but thoughts within belie.
A word from Mom, a smile from Sis
unspoken things give him answers to why.
Show him love and friendship now
his joy you’ll never miss.
Don’t ever leave just stay nearby,
he just might make you cry.
August is a special child
and August needs a friend.
August is a special child
And August is my friend.
a poem by Rich Weatherly, October 7, 2011
For more information about autism and “The World According to August – One Good Friend” by Sandy Westendorf refer to http://purplebirch.com/books.html .
Sandy managed a team of behavioral specialists and is the mother of an autistic child. According to Sandy:
Every child is unique; the extent to which they are affected is also individual. If you are not living with autism, it is easy to miss the child and only see the diagnosis.The aim of this book is not to speak to autism as a disorder or to define it; there are many excellent references which address those specific topics…
The book was written in an attempt to demonstrate, although outwardly,
these children may appear different; but inside—where it counts—they
are the same as you or me.Children with autism love, have an ego,
feelings which can be hurt, a sense of humour, and even a mischievous side.
I heartily encourage you to support research into autism by purchasing this book. A percentage of the proceeds will be donated equally to support Canadian-American Research Consortium (Autism Research) and the International Society for Autism Research.
Infamy– a dark poem on inhumanity
Above, Kevin Carter’s Pulitzer Prize-winning 1993 photograph of starvation in Sudan. Top, some of the text of Alfredo Jaar’s work, which is based on the photo.
Infamy is my interpretation of the photograph above. It does not represent my typical approach to poetry. I found writing on this subject to be an unpleasant experience. The poem addresses, what I believe, is the cause of much of the suffering in North Africa. It was written as a contest entry, the rules of which, prohibited rhyming.
Infamy,Participants and witnesses to tragedy, all
Vulture – servant of the powerful, Tent– shelter for those who could help but don’t, Child – our object of compassion and Carter – Do we thank him or pity him?
Gods of greed
saté their thirsts
on ill-gotten gain.
Brokers of souls
barter lives to soothe their guilt…
a guilt that seldom fades.
they slake dry throats
with blood from silent sacrifice.
Their altars appease
acts of genocide—
or so they think.
Memorials to evil
overlaid with childrens’ flesh,
Tyrants trampled posterity
with famine fed horrors;
thieves of life and love.
devours child’s last hope –
dashed on a bed of clay.
Will sheltered sycophants
Talking heads, poison pens,
jellyfish hordes swarm,
they talk, but never act?
Their poison spreads
on rivers of dust,
bold ones who pay
for rights to remain,
cozy with death and destruction.
Tribute to power brokers,
with funeral pyre smoke.
detached of soul
hearing sounds of feedback,
microphones of phony fantasy.
Peeking through slits —
“Move on now,” their only cry;
too many little ones
fall to eternity,
their deaths only a memory.
Carry on Little One.
You are ours still
while you have breath.
Hope dangles on threads;
we demand to know why.
Governments won’t do it.
Will you hang on?
Little by little we will try:
Sight with compassion,
ache for answers
while others turn
and walk away.
What do they see?
Child far from throngs,
they fail to count the need.
Blindness gives bliss.
of precious life lies
in our hands now,
and stirs upon our soul.
Separated by time and place;
May our gifts,
not come too late!
My child on canvas,
anguished little one.
I prayed for a world
with no suffering.
That budding bastions,
aid to add flesh
to skeletons of hope?
“Why did I not aid this child?”
Had I? Who knows…?
Would Pulitzer brighter be?
Anguish encircles my soul,
yielding to endless sleep,
to join this child in silent rest.
… Let poison spread my way.
†At around 9 p.m., Kevin Carter backed his red Nissan pickup truck against a blue gum tree … used silver gaffer tape to attach a garden hose to the exhaust pipe and run it to the passenger-side window. Wearing unwashed Lee jeans and an Esquire T shirt, he got in and switched on the engine. Then he put music on his Walkman and lay over on his side, using the knapsack as a pillow. Quoted from –http://www.thisisyesterday.com/ints/KCarter.html
¤¤ I prefer to end comments about Infamy on a positive note. It is my sincere hope that readers take away a positive message from this tragedy. Relief organizations exist that support the victims of tragedy directly. CRF feeds, houses, educates and provides medical care to children in need throughout the world. Please consider supporting my friends at http://www.christianrelieffund.org/
The Poems below represent my typical approach to poetry. They tend to be reflective and a bit philosophical. Some simply marvel at the wonder of creation.
I wrote the first two poems below while attending college.
The year was 1967,
just before the turbulent times of the late sixties and early seventies.
I dedicate these two poems to lost comrades
and especially my Uncle Bob Hebisen for his
critique of Time Marches On.
Time Marches On
Moving, pacing, racing on –
can’t stop, won’t stop – why not?
Ever crowding, endless passing –
will it not stand still?
Tombs of pharaohs cannot hold it
future plans await.
Empires rise, decline and fall,
a breath withdrawn by hungry fate.
This is time
a vast domain
Always on the wane.
Today what is it
do we know?
Today we share it
do we grow?
Today is important
most of all
Today is here
our foremost call.
One by one
Our plans today,
A warm summers eve
and song birds sing
calling on the cooling day.
North sky color
mother of pearl
gentle breeze presses
young foliage tips obey.
Boughs sway in gently
slow, lazy rhythms.
Relaxation, more reflection,
So many loved ones gone away.
Years gone by,
moments cherished –
a relaxing calm
brings quiet thoughts
of life and a millennium – just a babe.
Moments stir thoughts,
of times when dreams turned away
Light, gentle breeze
Morning cool belies
yet to come today.
a sparrow cheeps,
as a dove takes flight.
flitting toward Western sky.
bands of cirrus
pink-tinted cotton wisps
zenith to horizon.
Red horizon grades to zenith slate
Mourning doves perch
back yard fence
a time to rest.
calls cah coo,
Cicadas trills ring.
below western sky.
Inspiration from a Scottish Fantasy
by Max Bruch **
Chords of unspoken words, a soul lifted to heights unknown.
He scatters seed, the bringer of bold ideas;
Beauty stirs the soul.
Waking at eve it calls, but morn brings gifts of love.
Stand back irreverent hordes – a fortress protects our shores.
Such beauty rides on wings of grace,
And your eagles soar.
Tides rise and fall the morn ebbs on,
Contented & warm they ride.
Noontime dazzles with light of day
Splendor and glory… radiance we must obey.
Times grow tough, waves roll and crash
Troubles all swept away.
A wash of foam brings joy:
Redemption now! No more delay.
June 12, 2011
** The Scottish Fantasy by Anton Bruch is a nostalgic orchestral piece with stirring violin accompaniment.
It is a symphonic adaptation of melodies taken from traditional Scottish folk tunes.
I listened while writing prose. Vivid imagery brought forth by the music inspired the poem.
© 2011-2013 Richard L Weatherly
All rights reserved.