Friday, November 21, 2008

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

Thursday, November 20, 2008

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

Thursday, October 30, 2008

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

Sunday, October 12, 2008

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.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

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.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Religions-The Debate

I have often wondered how much more good religions could do for mankind if they would stop worrying about which religion is the one God wants. So I wrote a rather long poem about my thoughts. This may take two sections. So be sure to look for that.

The Debate

As I was taking a midnight stroll through the neighborhood, A building blocked my path, that was never there before.
It was a very ancient hall with flickering candle lights, huge compared to the houses here. It was, indeed, an unusual sight.
I was drawn to enter this ancient hall by some forece well beyond my strength. I entered and saw a crowd of men, women too, but just a few. Dressed in robes that draped and flowed as if they were a spirit world.
Some of the men I recognized from pictures in history books, like Socrates, Plato and Buddha, all with their distinctive looks.
I realized then these people were the ancient and modern philosophers representing religious beliefs, from every age and place, known for what they said about the nature of God and mankind.
With awe I stayed in a corner where I could see and hear, for I truly wondered why these great men were gathered in this ancient hall.
At the center of this August Group, Logic stood to speak. All turned their heads to hear what he said about why they gathered in this hallowed hall.
"This is a debate for each of you to argue your beliefs, so we can judge what's best for man to worship God. Each will have for as long as it takes to present their case to the others. When all have argued we will vote to decide, once and for all, which religion all mankind will follow to praise God.
It was a long and tedious debate lasting for days with no breaks. When the last of the theologians gave their case, a vote was taken, the results were in. To no one's surprise no one changed, each religion got one vote. The exercise to no avail. Nothing was settled with logic's debate.
Then in walked a very old man, horrible to see. Scarred and crippled from head to toe, scarcely able to walk to the center of all who gathered there. He spoke to this remarkable crowd, each hearing clearly what he said. "I am an endless people from every age who was tortured and killed for my beliefs. From the time of Baal to this very day, fed to the lions, killed in the Crusades. Who can forget what happened to me in the death camps during Hitler's rage. Down through the ages men have tortured and killed in the name of God and religious beliefs. What blindness shadows your minds to think that this is what God desires.
Then a gentle breeze filled that ancient hall, God's presence permiated each and every soul, till tears flowed freely from our eyes, each understanding how ignorant we are as intelligent man, fighting and squabbling about who knows God best.
I left that ancient hall continuing my walk filled with thoughts of what happened there. Wondering if it will finally bring together all the power that religion has to change a needy world. for evey religion at it's core believes all men, powerful or poor, must be treated with respect and love in order for God to be adored.
P.J. Wolf

Sunday, July 27, 2008

As you grow older, you have a lot of memories. These are some poems about memories. The first was written when I started writing these verses I call poetry. The second was more recent. You can see the difference. The first was inspired by Walt Whitman.

A Memory

From thoughts that constantly ramble inside me, From sounds of the creek as it flows through the hills. From visions of light as sun shines through the leaves, From tints of redness in the hair of the sky.
From awakenings of sensitivities deep, From feelings of sadness that slowly have faded, I sing and I dance and refoice in their strumming, The music created by togetherness bundling, Pulses and prods and pushes my heartbeat, The drumbeat that surges the blood of my youth.
A remembrance of you.

Memories

Time can go awry, Moving backward, Decades at a time.
Set off like a rifle's report, Triggered by a single sight or some passing thought.
A feeling tugs, Memories flood, Emotions overwhelm.

P.J.Wolf

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Love

You can view love in a number of ways. You can consider the human side of love and Devine Love. These are the thoughts I have had about both.

God Is Love
I thought about some words I heard, "God is Love" a wise man said. They startled me.
I had heard those words before, never so loud and clear.
I thought of all the meanings those three words explained. Infinite love, limitless in its entirety.
I never understood, a cloud of cotton in my brain, this time pierced as the words came through.
A fleeting feeling of awe, a sense of something beyond, no intellect can argue.
Only elation follows.

Young Love
I remember love when I was young, like a burning burst of flame,
An exploding firecracker within my chest, totally insane.
When I was young I relished all the turmoil of the moment. The rush of feelings overwhelming,
The blush of craziness in my head.
Now my love is sedate, surrounding me with warmth,
Like an old easy chair, snuggling down into its depths.
This seems better to me now, comfort soaks and lets me know, the love I feel will last and last
Till my bones lie in my grave.
Both loves are something I have had
Both are welcome in my soul
They fulfill my greatest wish, to be loved until the end.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Code

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Growing Old

As I grow older, I think about what has changed. This poem expresses some of those thoughts.
Growing old is confusing, A world inside that never squares with what you really are. Like waking up in some land where Alice lived, Never knowing when the rules will change. It is very strange. You feel able to do the things you did as a youth with dreams, that faith and work executed. They you try but find a rebellious body, a forgetful mind. The more you muse, The more you see. Your house of steel crumbling. Thoughts turn to a coming end. When you're young Life's an adventure like a novel, Never knowing where its author will delight or madden, Assured you will get to its end. When you're old, you never know if you will finish this chapter, putting the book to the side and leaving it there. Work began, projects started, Stand idle like the ancient stones waiting forever to be completed. Youth thinks not of death. Death embraces age, lurking in the corners of the mind as a shadow one ignores, clinging to the habit of the past. A time arives and mortality stares. We cannot ignore it, it is there before us with it's awesome fear. When it comes, we have no choice for death is what we, every one of us, share.
P.J. Wolf