To The Builders
I want to share from time to time the poetry by my dear Aunt Luella, who died four years ago at just over 100. She was like a mother to me. I miss her still. ---BBB
TO THE BUILDERS
By Luella Doering
Oh you, who would be down to quiet rest
Untroubled by the noisy wind and rain
That taps with restless fingers at the pane
And prowls the roof tree in relentless quest.
Forbidden crevice that they may attest
(With scattered beam, and stone to earth again)
How frail is Man, and all his bright domain
The Earth endures upon her ancient breast.
Build well the house! Lest on some night of storms
From gentle slumber you should wake and hear
A crumbling wall or stair, and no escape;
Lest of the clamor of the wind's alarms
With stricken horror you should think to hear
The harsh, primordial chatter of the ape.
BBB
She was profound, your Aunt Luella. I thank you for the opportunity to share her verses.
Don't Tax Me!
DON'T' TAX ME
By BBB
I want services but don't want to pay'
SOCK IT TO THEM! I SHOUT AND SAY.
Don't tax you and don't tax me,
Tax the other guy and leave us free,
With our money in the bank doing fine
Living the good life on borrowed time
With our IOUs stacked under our beds,
I don't want the bill, give it to the Feds.
But the Fed's not them, its you and me,
Not some guy with a blooming money tree.
Daddy Long Legs
Remembering childhood memories and fears--- BumbleBeeBoogie
DADDY LONG LEGS
In my tiny bedroom, hardly wider
than a closet four by eight,
a spindly Daddy Long Legs spider
keeps her nightly nocturnal date.
My window's narrow shaft of light
slams against the wall each dawn
as the hated creature of the night
scurries back to her haven calm.
But surely as dark comes creeping
and silence spreads across my bed
Daddy Long Legs will be leaping
and dancing o'er my sleeping head.
I know that shy lady arachnids,
with their delicate silhouettes,
are harmless ballerina kids
doing dainty spider pirouettes.
how fondly i roved
from state to wond'rous state
in a younger time
barriers were stoved
and the hour never late
in a younger prime
how lately i came
home from a wand'ring way
in an elders time
the lions now tame
and their long manes are gray
in an elder's prime
those days are all gone
cart wheeling on the lawn
jumping from high up...heck
without breaking my neck!
staying up all night, going to work the next day
dancing till dawn, has a price to pay
the stretch in my bounce
has gained an extra ounce
my bones make a sound
when I sit on the ground
but my brain has survived
it much more alive
and much better for use
then it was in my youth
BBB
I particularly like the Daddy Long Legs poem.
colorbook
I hate being at the bottom of a page. I always feel that my post will be overlooked because folks will automatically open to the new one without looking behind. But, I saw and appreciated your political poem. Your last was appreciated too.
Don't worry, because I always read everyones posts...even the ones at the bottom of the last page. Sometimes my poems are inspired by yours.
when the football game is over
you'll have all of my love
not when there's overtime my lover
but the end of the last push and shove
even if my teams losing 35 nothing
and the pictures full of static and fuzz
so don't incur my wrath and loathing
until the game thats is is the game that wuz
These last few pages have been good for my soul.
Laws sneak through
in a boring bill
That's how it works
up on the Hill
Does no one notice?
They are so bold.
The bills become big oil's
neverending pot of gold.
BBB, Daddy long legs. Gently pulling the delicate extension of their bodies as a child and asking: "Which way did the cows go?"
Lovely, BBB. Did you know that they are not spiders?
Diane, I just knew the butterfly would emerge as a poet.
We need to pause, my friends.
Comment and say hello on the thread that never ends.
Should we lose this touch of grace,
We lose our sun; we lose our place.
I believe in the spectrum,
Not sweet philosphy,
The deepness of a color,
The whisper, "Meant to Be."
Letty, sometimes you make my catch my breath. Beautiful.
Yer all beautiful people. I intend to never let this thread wither.....
...written feelings, threaded through a needle
interwoven among these pages
Letty
Letty, as a child I thought Daddy Long Legs were spiders. It was not until just a few years ago I learn that they are not.
http://spiders.ucr.edu/daddylonglegs.html
Growing up in our two bedroom house, my two brothers shared one of the bedrooms. That room had a large closet, which became my bedroom and a favorite spot of the Daddy Long Legs.
BBB
My Aunt wrote her own epitaph decades ago in the 1930s.
THE PAGAN
By Luella Trumley Doering
Why murmur at the thought of laying by
A life that has a round of a hundred years?
Aye, a hundred years, or more or less, of sky
And good and golden earth, of hopes and fears
Proved transient by another day's retreat.
Full one hundred years of rain and wind and sun;
With flowers or snow indifferent on my feet.
My life I'd count a satisfying sum
Of happiness to have so wide a span
Nor ask that from my body a pale wraith
Draw to a futile length what I began
With birth and ended with my death.
Or if a shorter stay should be my chance
I shall not murmur at the falling blade.
I have myself a warming radiance
Sufficient for each day as it is made.
I ask no joy of any living soul
Save that my right to live shall be my own.
Each day, each year, has paid a rounded toll
Of life's unmeasured music and clear tone.
My only immortality, if it may be,
Some humble verse, some laughter of my heart--
If not, content and with serenity
I shall unto the elements depart.
Summons
This poem was written by my Aunt shortly after the death of my father, her younger brother, and my mother at ten months old in 1930. She was diagnosed with cancer and the Judge would not allow her to adopt me for fear I would be orphaned again. BBB
SUMMONS
By Luella Trumley Doering
"Come my child, the sun is high,
The morning dew is long since dry,
You have hands so young and new,
And mine are aging, come child, come."
"Mother, mother, my hands are young,
And strength within them scarce begun."
"Come, my child, lift up your head,
The East has long since lost its red,
You are young, your eyes are bright,
Mine, dear child, are losing sight."
"Mother, mother, I am blind
With tears,--I pray thee be more kind."
"Come, my child, the morn slips fast
Into the noontide's fiery blast.
The day demands your study feet,
For mine for toiling are not meet."
"Mother, mother, say not so,
My feet know not which way to go."
"Come, my child, I plead no more,
There stands the gate, the open door,
You must out and win your bread,
But ah my child, God guard your head."
"Mother, mother, say not so,
I fear the very winds that blow.
I fear the town, I fear the wild,
Mother, mother, bless thy child."
Both, very moving, wonderfully written, BBB!
curious destiny
one old man
one old chair
one bad tv
one bed
one hospice
one iv
his past
a garden grew
a mothers hugs
wartime cast
wines of love
and babies
not to last
moments of gold
leaves and gutters
cold gray eyes
halls of mammon fold
cool walls of brown
nights like spider coves
a heart grown small and old
uncurious destiny
uncurious cold
inattentive hospice
veil over the sea
are there gardens
families in love
yes but none for thee
(Luella Trumley Doering was 14 years old when she wrote this poem.)
A Poem by Luella Trumley (Class of 1917) Freshman Class Editor
Published in The Sinewesah by the Students of the Pasco High School,
Pasco, Washington, 1914
"NIGHT"
At night when all birds cease their song,
And travelers hearts are chilled with fear;
When white clouds are all out among
The Starry lights of mortal's sphere,
Then men all cares put out of sight,
Let naught the peace of evening blight,
When fireflies their small candles light
And truant cowbells, tinkling sound
Is heard, Diana's sphere of light
Is casting golden beams around
That dazzle eyes of children small,
And make more sweet the night bird's call.
Then in the nursery's close retreat
The white robed figures kneel before
The fond and loving mother's seat,
Their father lingers in the door,
A smile plays fondly on his face,
Thinks he, "Ah night, the birth of peace!"
