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Best Poems Written by Bob Quigley

Below are the all-time best Bob Quigley poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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I remember as a young boy, going out to play, I would sometimes see old Mr. Kimball, sitting on the steps of his porch, often reading the paper. World War II was in full swing so the newspapers and radios were avidly sought out for the latest news. Mr. Kimball was a fireman, and probably not even that old, but he seemed that way to me.

Sometimes, he would invite me to sit with him and we would talk about everything and nothing. I loved spending time with him because, he was the only grown up I knew that took the time to entertain the mind of a young boy.

In his front window hung a small flag. It had a red border surrounding a white field, upon which there were two blue stars. I was always curious about it, so I asked him what it was. He said “It's a Sons in Service flag. One star for each son serving. You remember my boys don't you?” I did of course. Chuck, the oldest, used to tease me, calling me a sissy to get a reaction. Bobby was a couple of years younger, and the bike I was riding once had been his.

Mr. Kimball went on to explain how Chuck was now in the Army and fighting in France. Bobby was in the Navy, aboard a ship somewhere in the Pacific. He didn't say it, but I'm sure he was worried about both, communications being what they were back then.

One day, when I was walking over to see him, I noticed that the flag had changed. It now carried one blue star, but the other one was gold. With the innocence that comes of being a child, I asked what the gold star meant. He quietly said “It means Chuck is coming home”, and without further comment, he turned and went in the house.

A couple of days later, I saw a hearse pull up to the Kimballs house, and four men carry a flag draped box up the porch steps. That is the moment the meaning of war came to a small boy. I knew Chuck was home.

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Untouched

Take from me that which you will
Those things that I possess
Strip from me the trinkets
That speak of my success

Look at me with jaundiced eye
With disdain on your face
Treat me as subordinate
Keep me in my place

Speak to me with vitriol
Mock my point of view
Contradict my every word
Their meaning misconstrue

I can overlook these things
As you strive to denigrate
Because the measure of a man
Is forgiving those who hate

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Windows

In youth I looked at life through my front window
Everything was new and unexplored
Expectations flowed like rushing water
Nothing that I viewed could be ignored

Paths untested prompted me to venture
Inhale the fragrance of discovery
Taste the nectar of a love awakened
Embracing life wherever it took me

Today I look at life through my rear window
And savor the experiences I've had
Reflecting once again upon my journey
Accepting what life gave, the good, the bad

The edges of my world are now more rounded
The colors are a softer, warmer hue
However, I have not a favorite window
Through either one I've much enjoyed the view


Bob Quigley
Sept 29, 2011

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Walter

He stood and aimlessly watched the parade of patrons and volunteers that wandered daily past his kennel. All so familiar, so ordinary. Just like every other day he mused. Nothing new. Nothing special.

Moving to the small crumpled blanket near the back of his cage, he turned several times and finally curled up, head on his paws, positioned so that he could watch the activity around him. But in reality, he was bored. It had been a long time since he had met each morning with anticipation. Too many days. Too much disappointment. He would leave all that barking and racing to the front of their cage to the younger pups who hadn’t figured out yet that the cute ones went first. It didn’t really make any difference what you did to attract attention if you weren’t young or cute, or both.

Too much time had gone by to participate in the charade. In reality, Walter had seen a lot of people that he would rather not spend a lot of time with. You know the type. Kind of hyper, bouncing from stray to stray, looking for a perfect dog. Kids poking their fingers through the kennel screen or banging on it. Some even making barking sounds. He didn’t need any of that and was glad when they were gone.

Walter was very picky. Set in his ways after so many years. He had had it good for a long time. An only dog in a household of two people that let him be himself. No tricks. No stunts. Just long naps and daily walks. A yard to himself to reflect on what was for dinner. He had been fond of his doggy bed in their bedroom. Each night he would help his owner walk through the house turning off the lights and checking the doors before they climbed the stairs together. And there was always one last good night pat before settling down.

But those days were gone now. First one had become ill and went to the hospital and never came back. The other one changed overnight, spending long days, sitting mostly. The walks became less frequent. Walter did what he could. He could see it in their eyes that they were hurting from their loss. He would make a point of laying his head in their lap, trying to let them know that he missed them too. At times like this, he instinctively knew that although it remained unsaid, they only had each other.

He remembers well the day that his owner snapped a leash on him and said, “well Walter, I’m afraid we have to say goodbye. I have to go to a place where they won’t let me keep you, so I am going to have to let you go.” Walter could see the tears in his eyes. He knew it would do him no good to whine or resist. It was obvious there were no alternatives. And besides, it would just make it harder on his owner. But he was going to miss him. It was not going to be easy to adjust.

But adjust he did. He had been here a long time now and had seen countless pups and dogs trot past his cage with light hearts and new owners, heading off with new found hopes and expectations. But it soon became obvious that there weren’t a lot of people that wanted an old yellow hound. Everyone wanted the young ones. So here he lay, dozing a bit, but still keeping an eye on those walking by, many giving him but a glance before moving on.

He heard them before the saw them. ”Honey” the voice said. ”That looks like Walter, old Mr. Whitney’s dog.” Walters ears perked up a little. ”Do I know them” he thought. ”They seem to know me”. I’d better go take a closer look” and with that, he stood and slowly ambled toward his kennel gate, giving a cautious wag of his tail.

“It is him” the man said. ”Walter, how you doing boy? Do you remember me?”

And upon closer inspection, Walter did remember him. He used to live right across the street. He would see him in his yard and if Walter were to ramble over, he usually had a dog treat in his pocket. With the recognition, Walter gave a little stronger wag and moved toward the fingers extended through the fencing. It was good to see an old friend.

“What do you say hon” the man said. ”How would you feel about bringing Walter home with us?”

Walter looked at the woman and saw her nod in agreement. ”You wait here and I’ll go find a volunteer.”

The man bent down and said “What do you think Walter? Would you like to go home with us?”

Actually, Walter decided, he could think of nothing he would like more. A chance to go back to the old neighborhood with people he already knew. What was there not to like.

Soon the woman returned and the gate opened. A leash was snapped on Walter and together they proceeded past the rows of dogs and puppies, all vying for their attention. Walter couldn't help but stand a little straighter, stepping a little more lightly, showing off. ”This is what going home looks like guys.” he thought. ”Good luck and goodbye”.

As they neared the car the man said “I can’t believe we found you Walter. There is someone I am going to take you to see. I can’t wait to see the expression on his face when you walk in his room>”

Walter, of course, knew exactly who he was talking about. And he couldn't wait to see the expression on his face either.

Details | Bob Quigley Poem

Ghost of Winter

I can feel him in my bones. 
A chill has descended on my world
I can see him in the breath that forms a mist before me.
I can hear him in the wind that whispers to the pines.
Barren trees flex their skeletal fingers 
While wasted leaves plummet to their death.
His presence is betrayed.

I am not alarmed.
I have met him before.
We oft have locked in struggles between seasons,
I have fended off his frozen arrows
Beaten back his snow filled storms.
Broken his sword of ice and forced surrender.

I have left his broken spirit
To wither in the pristine fields of spring. 
Knowing that his soul has not been vanquished.
On the morrow, the ghost of winter will return
And I, like a worthy foe, 
Will wait to challenge him again


 Bob Quigley

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Dementia

I see her sitting in her chair
The wheels are locked in place
My gaze is met by hollow eyes
No expression on her face

It's clear she does not know me
Nor does she recognize
The life that swirls around her chair
She cannot visualize

In her lap there rests a doll
Cupped within her arm
With the instincts of a mother
She shelters it from harm.

I wonder what still lies within
What thoughts run through her head
When her whole life consists of
Her wheelchair and her bed

How much of life does she retain
What treasures does she hide
How much does she really know
That she keeps locked inside

Does in her heart a love still glow
Do cherished memories play
Or like her withered body
Have they too gone away

I wish that I could reach her
And visit for a while
But I can offer nothing
But compassion and a smile

11/25/2011

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Willows

Ascending from a fertile earth
The graceful Willow flaunts it's birth
Toward the sky it's branches rise
Like skyrockets in disguise

Then bursting with a  rockets flare
Creating star bursts in the air,
They gently fall back toward  the ground
And weep without a sound


Bob Quigley
Sept 30, 2011

Dedicated to Andrea Dietrich who, if she were a tree, would like to be a willow.

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Old Soldiers

He sits in a wheelchair pushed to the curb. The people around him move aside to assure he is able to see. His shrunken body a shell of what it used to be. His breathing labored, aided by the tube that extends from the oxygen tank attached to his chair. On his head, he sports a blue campaign cap with VFW stitched in gold. He is one of America's finest, come to pay his respects.

Behind him stands a younger woman who has guided him there. A daughter perhaps, fussing over him, adjusting the robe in his lap, assuring his comfort. He shows no resistance to the attention, but simply sits and waits.

In the distance drums are heard, soon to be joined by the sound of horns. A stirring march riffles over the crowd, and an electricity grips their senses. Soon the call of cadence is heard. The measured tramp of boots, perfectly in time with the music. It grows louder until at last, a military formation looms into view. Uniformed soldiers, marching in perfect rows, perfect columns, gleaming boots, ribboned chests, weapons at rest on their shoulders. The crowd stirs. Small flags are waved. Cheers erupt. Pride hangs thick in the air.

The color guard approaches. Banners held high, snapping in the breeze. Some spectators remove their caps while others cover their hearts. Children, hoisted to their fathers shoulders, clap in excitement.

The old man tugs at the woman's sleeve and motions for her to come closer. She leans down and listens as he speaks, then asks "are you sure"?. He nods his head. Walking to the front of the chair, she removes the robe and, grasping his outstretched hands, pulls him slowly to his feet, where he stands with her assistance. Those around him watch as the frail, stooped body, with some difficulty, stands more erect. They see the pain etched on his face, and the tear that escapes his eye as he offers a salute as the flag passes by.

Suddenly, the cadence count stops, and in it's place is heard a command . A command normally reserved for when passing a reviewing stand. "Company, eyes right" the guidon bearer bellows, and with that, he returns the aging veterans salute, a sign of respect for an old soldier. After all, it is his flag. It is his country. He bought them both many years ago.

Bob Quigley
Jan 10, 2012

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I See Beyond

I see beyond the crosses  
In the snow covered field
Like soldiers in formation
For whom our hearts aren't healed

I see beyond the sacrifice
Of those that gave their life
And with their faith to guide them
Left a husband, child, or wife

I see beyond the caisson
That a single stallion drays
Committing one more hero
Feel the pain their loss conveys

I see beyond the sadness
Carried by the bugles trill
The sense of loss hangs heavy
As if the earth stood still

I see beyond the honor guard
And their shots fired in salute
A tribute to their brother
Who before them now lays mute

I see beyond all these things
With my heart if not my eye
But what I cannot see beyond
Is why they had to die

Written for the "I See Beyond" contest

Best Poems Written by Bob Quigley

Grandpa

Gold Star

Untouched

Windows

Walter

Ghost of Winter

Dementia

Willows

Old Soldiers

I See Beyond