My Lady

Nutmeg brown the color of her eyes,
Silver-black her hair
a smile that opens like a rose
greeting the morning air.
A blossom slowly opening
on a century plant.
A river of bluebells with
a forest for its banks.

A chipmunk shyly peaking out
ready to scamper under the leaves,
or a couple of squirrels
on the ground searching for their burried food
worried about losing what they have,
in constant motion to feed their brood.

Waves lapping on the shore
smooting jagged pieces of stone
like water flowing over a cliff
forming its cup in the rock below
creating a basin of foam.

Or a Grandfather Clock in a hall
ordering time by its pedulum swing,
never stopping its persistent march
to never ending dreams.

Constantly thinking of ways to please
like getting a kiss from a springtime breeze.
Catching fireflies on a summer night to place in a jar
watching the eerie green light.

These images and memories past
are brought to life by her acts
of kindness and generosity.

P.J. Wolf

The Robbin's Song

Each spring I listen
for the Robin’s song,
hoping and straining
to hear it’s unique trill
which lifts my spirit,
renews my will.

When I was a young man
walking the woods
listening to the sparrows
squawking in the bush,
watching the cardinals
flit in the snowy brush
singing their songs in the
morning’s blush.

It was the Robin’s song
that said winter is past,
spring would be here
with its color and warmth.
I never forgot how pleasing it was.

Through the years of worry and work
when doubts of survival touched my soul,
never knowing what madness the day would bring
I listened for spring and the Robin to sing.

Like a horse that’s burdened
with a wagon’s load,
plowing ahead step by step,
never knowing when it will end,
expecting the rights to become wrong,
listening then to the Robin’s song.

When nature took the good things away
leaving of life an empty loft,
nothing existed that brightened the day
and darkness settled into my bones.
I remember what I learned
when walking as a young man
listening to the Robin’s song
until the sadness fades away.

P. J. Wolf

Treasures


Today I stopped to watch
a squirrel scurry from tree to tree
carrying acorns in its mouth
burying them in a squirrel pantry.

Its coat fluffy with winter fur
intent upon its work;
driven for what was needed
to live through cold and snow.

Looking around I see the earth
bedding down for the frosted months,
brown and grey with little green,
waiting for its coat of white.

The wind picks up, the rain begins.
Hurrying toward my warm home,
I think about the dark days
during winter’s blast, bone chilling cold.

Wondering whether it will be
a long and dreaded interval
before the crocuses raise their heads
through the melting snow.

When did I lose
the joy of looking at winter’s fare
full of fun, sledding down hills,
snowball fights and snowmen?

Those buried treasures of my youth
never to be lived again,
except deep in my memory
waiting patiently for new birth.

P. J. Wolf

The Baby-Sitter

I sit in a quiet house
Darkened in the middle of the day.
My grandchild asleep on a couch
A cat asleep at her feet.
I sit alone with my thoughts
To keep me company.

Time passes slowly as I watch
Looking at her, I question
How beauty can embrace peace
Which before was stormy action
How quickly it can change.

I wonder if this beautiful child
Will find a future filled with love
Long past the time I'll be gone.
Will I be able to see her then
Watching over her from a place
I believe exists, but cannot know.

At this moment I wish I could live
As long as she, protecting her
A wish I know cannot be.
But then, maybe it can,
I'll never know while I'm alive.
That can wait, I'm happy here.

P.J.Wolf

Questions

Years ago when I was young, I drank the doctrine taught to me.
Many ideas to read and learn, I sought them out more and more
A thirst I am proud to own.
Facts and theories about creation, The universte and all within,
Plants, Animals, man, Divinity, the hardest to comprehend.
The older I grew the more I studied The more I wondered
What we really understood. Who is this God? What is his creaton?
What does it mean to me? How can I reach my destination?

Now I am past all those years When questions stirred within.
I have learned to quiet them, Living now in peace.

I have done what I could To follow my beliefs.
Not always, Nor somethines with a perfect heart.
But then, I am just a man.

For all of this the one belief, That gives me comfort in the end
God will forgive for he loves me
Just the way I am.

P.J.Wolf

Grand Child

I haven't been attentive to the blog for various reasons, mostly just too lazy. However, a certain nephew reminded me that he reads my poetry and I should get with it. So here I am again.
I have written a number of poems about my granddaughter. She had major heart surgery when she was three months old and I wrote something about those harrowing experiences. Here it is.

Intensive Care by P.J. Wolf

You see your granddaughter lying there, A baby in Intensive Care
Tubes and wires floating around, Machines making sucking sounds.
Gauges flashing signs about her tiny body's health
It scores the heart like eagle's claws, Especially when that baby smiles.

Her mother there by her side, Bends to kiss her on the head
The one free little arm and hand, Grabs a bit of the mother's hair
Both giggle and laugh giving some light
To a place where worry and fear Permeate the air
In that room in Intensive Care.

You put yourself in a different place, Looking down from an outer space.
The surgeons did a miraculous job, Complications, however, have occurred.
A lung collapsed in her tiny chest. They work to make it breathe again
So the baby remains with her mother there
In that room in Intensive Care.

Nurses come and nurses go, The baby greets them
Looking around as if she knows, Each one personally and lets
Them turn and touch her with tender love.
While we continue with worry and fear
In that room in Intensive Care.

Eventually the surgeons solve the case, The baby is using both her tiny lungs.
The tubes and lines and all the machines are removed so she can leave that place.
Going home with her mother and father to her own familiar room.

Joyful for all of us, To have her home again
They say my granddaughter won't have a memory of her stay
In that room in Intensive Care.
I wonder if that might be true, I know the tear in my heart I felt
Will stay for all eternity, Especially when my granddaughter
Smiles at me.

Pets

Over the years I have had to care for many pets. My wife loved animals and our child had every kind of pet available, even a lop-eared rabbit who loved to chew electric wires in two. I could never understand why the animal never got electrocuted. Generally my daughter had cats and dogs. I always ended up caring for them. And I always ended up as their companion for most of their lives. Here are a couple of poems I wrote about those pets.

My Cat

Striped gray fur flying through the air, landing lightly on a small table top. Chasing squirrels from window to window, Trapped inside, but afraid to go out. Calling to birds with a guttural chirp, cocking her ear as if they could hear. Seeming to wonder why they don't come, Ready to pounce, like a tiger hunting its prey.
Batting a crumpled paper across the floor, like a soccer player heading for a goal. Chasing a long lace of leather around a chair like a dog chasing its tail. Playfully poking her paw through the crack in a door, hoping you'll join her for a game of make believe. Play, play playin much of the day.
Sitting in the window when I return from a brief outing or a long sojourn.
Never coming to meet you, or show any concern. Seemingly aloof, as if to say, all I need is food, that's enough for me. But then she jumps into my lap and snuggles, or sleeps on a pillow near mine. And I think I'm okay in her eyes. She's my cat.

My Dog and I
Most mornings just about dawn, my dog and I walk in the town. Taking in the sights and sounds all as part of healthy exercise.
Rows of houses on large lots. Three different kinds on lawns of green, one a ranch, one two storied and third one in between.
The yards are cut, the trees are trimmed, the streets are lined with maple, elm and larch, old trees high into the sky, touching there to make an arch.
The early morning sun shines low through the branches, leaves and over the roofs. Latticed shadows fill the street lying at our feet, my dog and I.
In the winter, crisp and cold, chimmeys spew wisps of white, reflected by our breath as it appears. I bend into the wind, my dog behind.
In early spring we listen hard for sounds of birds that disappeared. Or look for buds in the early light. We straiten up, my dog at my side.
As the morning sun grows warmer, we listen to the birds and watch the gardens grow with flowers and herbs. Unburdened with my dog in front.
In the fall the air is cool and fresh. Colors of the trees grow bright.
There is a joy and sadness too, another year has parted for us two.
I watch my dog on these walks grow older as, indeed, I too. Her coat motley with gray, my hair hoary with each passing day.
Some day soon I'll walk alone. Sad but looking for the season's goods. Wondering when I won't be able to walk the streets of my neighborhood.