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Marymkilker Marymkilker Poem
As we walk along the river of creation.
We begin to watch the rocks at our feet for those of interest by sight.
And those of which was collected had brought many thoughts to mind.
These rocks of ages are the Stones of Time.
If these Stones of Time could see and speak, we would hear the story of all the ages.
And as a visual check begins to decipher the stones, many variations come to mind.
For each stone is different beyond compare.
Shape, color and contrast are all there.
Through thousands of years the stones had formed yet in the beginning were they already
there?
For they are neither animals nor plants, yet they exist.
Each one different yet the same in a mysterious way.
And those with holes from dripping rain.
Aggots with much beauty are they.
The earths crust is embedded with such time lines such is a tree.
Yet, many answers still lie in the Stones of Time.
Copyright@March 2010 MaryM.McShirley/Kilker
Copyright © Marymkilker Marymkilker | Year Posted 2010
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Marymkilker Marymkilker Poem
Off in the distance are fields of blue.
A beautiful wild state flower for Texas through and through.
Once called a Buffalo Clover, but now a state flower.
An Indian Paintbrush every now and then, but most of all are,
Fields of Bluebonnets growing once again.
For the Yellow Roses of Texas are pretty, yet they do not compare
to the Bluebonnets of Texas with colors to share.
My friend Polly painted a picture that hangs upon her wall.
It is a masterpiece to us all.
For she has captured the Bluebonnets within her minds eye, put it on canvas, and
it is as beautiful as a lullaby.
She said oh yes those Fields of Bluebonnets of Texas, for they are as beautiful as
can be.
The fields of Bluebonnets come up every spring.
As my one-hundred and five year old friend spoke to me, it was like the next title
to be.
The fields of Bluebonnets began calling to me.
For the only thing as beautiful to me is my friend Polly and the Fields of Bluebonnets
of Texas in the early spring.
Copyright@March 2010 MaryMMcShirley/Kilker
Copyright © Marymkilker Marymkilker | Year Posted 2010
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Marymkilker Marymkilker Poem
Not on the streets where one would fear for safety.
In a home where nobody is rood.
Not under a bridge in search of a place to sleep.
A bed upon a pedistol for a wonderful night of dreams.
Not digging in a dumpster seeking warm food after a restraunt had closed.
Soaking up gravy with the last bite of a bisket upon a shiny plate.
Alone and lonely not knowing where to go.
Driving home to a family whos waiting to see me.
Clothes dirty and no shower or bath to use.
Bubbles glistening in a tub of delightful essance.
A cold winters night will take ones breath away.
A home with a wood burning stove gives warmth to the lucky ones.
Yet a poor poper am i.?
Words to write and why.
Aww for I am not a poper but one of wealth beyond ones dreams.
For i have been given a gift that no money nor fame shall taketh away.
A poor poper is not me.
Copyright © Marymkilker Marymkilker | Year Posted 2011
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Marymkilker Marymkilker Poem
sky fresh breeze
rain clean trees
a mother can leave her nest
Copyright © Marymkilker Marymkilker | Year Posted 2011
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Marymkilker Marymkilker Poem
There is a pretty lady, who lives up north you see.
One of the fairest maidens from the Columbia to the
shining sea.
She always looks her best, even through a storm
i think it is in her stature, to have superior form.
She is always going out, and she knows dusk and dawn.
Always is this fair maiden, from the St.Helens fog.
All packed up and ready for her maiden voyage.
There have always been men where this maiden would go.
For fishermen were always her closest friends, from the deepest
waters, to the muddy shores.
They would come from all around to see a maiden so fine.
From storms to shining seas, you would see her go by.
The Columbia River was Captain Mac's favorite place to fish.
Family and friends would come from miles around, to go with
Captain Mac on his fishing trips.
In between the fishing trips the fair maiden would wait for Mac's return.
For this fair maidens mane is the Myrna Mae, a forty-two foot cruiser
always makes waves.
Mac built her from the hull on up, a fine vessel was she.
Never was a man so ment for a maiden such as she.
Mac was the proudest Captain, the proudest there could ever be.
Years have gone by and Mac and his vessel are gone, but the stories of
the fishing trips still live on.
For the real Myrna Mae is my mom.
She has outlasted it all and now stands alone.
For now she has an angel, with a fishing rod in hand.
Mac lives on in our home land.
Copyright@march 2010 Mary M.McShirley/Kilker
Copyright © Marymkilker Marymkilker | Year Posted 2010
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Marymkilker Marymkilker Poem
What was this land like many centuries ago?
Furbished and full.
For is it science or religion that will make us a whole?
That would actually touch our soul.
Like babies once born of the pure.
Now filled with chemical aftermath and no cure.
Has living this live been done in vain?
Does experimenting have no shame?
Those ultimate ships that once sailed the blue.
For discovery of something new.
Fashioned dresses that went from foot to hip.
Beauty is that of ownership.
Transportation that was once by horse.
Now is space of course.
Schooling that was so simple then.
Computers now until the end.
The one room shacks with a dirt floor.
Modular homes with sinks of brushed chrome.
Fresh drinking water from a near by mountain stream.
Tanted city water claiming to be clean.
Land of plentiful virgin timber untouched by man.
Acre after acre of raped land.
Small buisnesses were built to get us by.
Skyscrapers were built and why?
We went from two parent familes with much stability.
Single teen mothers what a shame, no parenting skills children untamed.
Murderers were hung in the city square.
Now walking the streets to support their career of crime.
How man has made a place that we are to call our country, our land of
the free and the brave a danger to our childrens grandchildren.
Copyright@3-2010
Copyright © Marymkilker Marymkilker | Year Posted 2011
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Marymkilker Marymkilker Poem
sky fresh breeze
rain clean trees
a mother can leave her nest
Copyright © Marymkilker Marymkilker | Year Posted 2011
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Marymkilker Marymkilker Poem
My career is of the word in which I think.
My goal is that of which I seek.
For this time until forever, no man will come in between me and my endeavor.
For the unspoken is that of which will unravel on this page full of ink.
I have done all that I could, and lost as I see.
Never again will I do for others without taking care of me.
Putting all aside for the dream, I will go.
To look back at the path, and those faces I have known.
For each step, that I take becomes a brick of path that is laid down as my future.
And those of whom I have left behind I hope they will follow for their own piece of mind.
Life is of a very big race, and a career is that of which we all must face.
Born to be something is our human race.
Copyright@3/2010 marymmcshirley/kilker
Copyright © Marymkilker Marymkilker | Year Posted 2010
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Marymkilker Marymkilker Poem
Oh my friend of fishers fair.
Of all those waters we wish to dare.
Those lures and lines of many happy times.
Trout unlimited and desired wines.
Your gleaming smile and voice of care,
many more times are that of which we will share.
And that big fire in which you built,
the flames held many feelings in which are glid.
Something that is not easily rid.
Our time will come next to those sweet glistening waters
under the sun.
When jokes are plenty and sorrows are few,
these are the fishing trips I've spent with you.
For fisher's fair will have us there competing for the best.
And when we do, I could promise you I'd catch the biggest of all.
But, there you are pride as seen, you've out fished me once again.
For in a day of fisher's fair it was just the pleasure of being there.
And as dusk begins to appear, I usually regret reeling in our gear.
Even if those fish don't bite, we could fish all night.
So, our day of fisher's fair comes to a close.
And once again those bright spring days are on their way a fishing we will go.
But these are not the only times of that of which are aglow.
For you have been more than just a friend, you have lended me many helping hands.
To repay you is a debt that I hold deep within.
For we will grow older each and every year.
And if we move or grow apart, these are the special times I will hold in my heart.
For it has been friends like you of whom one would wish not to part.
So my friend of fisher's fair I will always see you out there.
copyright@2010 MaryM.McShirly/Kilker
Copyright © Marymkilker Marymkilker | Year Posted 2010
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Marymkilker Marymkilker Poem
In the woods of great greens and fast running streams are Trilliums growing in the late
spring.
Three white peddles with a hint of purple bloom, yet there are more colors where the
Trilliums bloom.
In the Forests and the woods floor, the Trilliums grow next to the great ferns of the great
northwest.
Where everything drips with supple dew.
Everything is wet fresh and true.
The Johnny-Jump-ups came early this spring, nothing short of amazing are the sweet
Trilliums in bloom.
Awoke to the loud frogs croaking as if to remind one that spring is calling.
Then one could not sleep as the dew started falling.
There were once two girls that made a trip up on a hill every year at the same time.
Mayday was here and it was picking Trilliums in their prime.
If a May basket was not made in school, they would still pick large bouquets and surprise
their mom with them.
For those days are gone now and the girls have moved apart, but the memories of mom and
the Sweet Trilliums still warms this girls heart.
Copyright 2010 by Marymcshirley kilker
Copyright © Marymkilker Marymkilker | Year Posted 2010
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