Long Toddling Poems
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I awaken to the lovely snorts of my sweet English bulldog,
Frankie sits up in my bed, legs out, looks sort of like a frog.
Toddling down the stairs assessing the light from the window,
We know whether the trip outside will be short or rather slow.
Terrified of thunderstorms, she’ll do her job with no delay,
But she’ll wander and sniff, taking her time on a sunny day.
While Frankie smells the grass and deposits her little gift,
I make a tea and look out over the river, it gives me a lift.
Blue Herron feeding and carp jump, the temperatures scorch,
Cardinals, Bluejays and yellow Finch fill the trees by the porch.
You breath in the fresh air and appreciate the nature present,
Peaceful and filled with hope, its a typical morning, no big event.
I refill the bird feeders to keep my feathered friends coming back,
Then Frankie and I go inside, mornings we’ve perfected the knack.
Written August 9, 2012
By Lee Ramage
For Francine Robert’s contest
“A couplet- morning”
Hey there little one
Toddling ‘round your parents’ feet
Not yet knowing who you are
A whole wide world to meet
You have Nobility -
Heroes’ blood pumps in your heart
Martyrs, warriors and pioneers
Are part of who you are
Both your grandfathers
Served honorably in the military
Tom was in the Marine Corps
I was a UN Peacekeeper in the Army
Fred Halliday served,
Himself a war refugee,
Somewhere in Korea
With the US Army
Mark L Halliday served
In the British Army
Fighting Nazi oppression
Buried in Italy
Paul Redeuilh,
Your Nana’s grandfather
Morte pour la France
At the start of the Second World War
Pappy’s grand uncle
The late Wilford Berry
Fought the Japanese in the Pacific
He was also in the Army
Fred’s grand uncle
The Englishman Cyril Kinsella
Was an indentured servant, then soldier
Twice wounded in 'The Great War' for Canada
Not all heroes fight in wars
But do great deeds that matters
Such were the Utah Pioneers
Who crossed the Plains from Winter Quarters
One Pioneer, your fourth great grandfather
Elder William Shanks Berry
Was a missionary martyr for his faith -
Assassinated in Tennessee
Uriah Roudy, your sixth great grandfather
During the American Revolution
Was wounded at Bunker Hill or Brandywine
And served General George Washington
George Berry, his father Bradley, and
Moses Clack Sr (father-in-law of George)
Were in Virginian Infantry Regiments -
Bradley and Moses at Valley Forge
So Carolina, there may be
More heroes on your mother’s line
Search for them; honor them, too
Dig deeply and see who you can find
Live nobly little one
Because heroes blood pumps in your heart
Martyrs, warriors and pioneers
Made up all of who you are
A gentle breeze wafting in through the window
Still, white waves lapping the seashore
The sun bidding goodbye to an iridescent sky
Leaves rustling as the zephyr kisses them
Soft snow swirling down from heaven
Stars peeping out through the darkness of night
Raindrops dripping in harmonious beat
Fluffy clouds changing shapes to impress
Songbirds belting out melodic music
Rainbows cheering us on from their lofty position
Waterfalls cascading over rocky mountains
Flowers blossoming anywhere in brilliant hues
Moonlight filtering in through the dappled shadows
Soft grass growing beneath to tickle our feet
Dewdrops decorating each blade in the dawn
Children toddling about babbling in their own language
The hot sand accepting the imprints of our feet
Stones turning to pebbles as the river rushes over them
Dandelions dancing with the puff of wind ~~
Are just a few snippets of God's everlasting wonders !!
1st April 2023
A bundle of joy you had arrived on a day in May
With deep eyes that sparkled in shades of grey.
Rocking in my arms you gripped softly my fingers
Rolling down the years the warm touch still lingers.
With you by my side I walked on the wavy beach
I saw toddling footsteps grow, mine in your reach.
The fairy tales I told you at night before you slept
Took me to my childhood days memory had kept.
In colorful dusks I showed you how the sun sets
How from their sky the birds fly back to the nests.
Time came when you found your sky and to say
Goodbye to me in twilight hours and to fly away.
October 19, 2017.
Why do you haunt me dear cousin of mine
I desperate to leave all this sorrow behind!
But how can I wash from my young memory
Or chisel your face from our family tree?
The laughter and giggles and joys at the park
Mama in the kitchen and songs of the lark
The rain on the rooftop like pattering feet
Like toddling cousins in childhood sweet.
The mists off the river moistened each face
Niagara's cool waters in our childhood place
My soul screams in agony "Oh....what have you done?"
The mud pies long dried in the afternoon sun
But muddied in rains of those tears that we cried
When our family was torn to no longer abide
And the quest for the West pulled us children apart,
You were pulled away, and it shattered your heart.
But remember the rays of those once sunny days?
Mud pies on the riverbank memory stays.
But those memories muddied and bloodied for years
for when you took your life
Left us drowning
in tears.
Your love for song is all over known,
All fair boys lure you with the melody
Of their ill-tuned harps, and tone
Their ill-meant motives of the body
With deceptive tunes that easily tempt.
But I think there's much you can learn
From the didactic lyrics of maturer harps
That pipe the theme of beauty's sun
That only rises because it intends to set.
Some other harps do speak of the cruelty
That cheeky girls inflict on besotted boys
Who seek to give meaning to their bloom
But instead play with them like toddling toys.
Your untouched sun rises while mine sets
And I do not intend to rewind the clocks
To look behind where my shadow lies,
And seduce my junior sister with lewd talks.
A true sage I was born and I intend to remain
The reliable harp that dispenses rare wisdom
To young lasses who listen to the wrong harps,
That they may use their love for song for great learning
And like the back of their hands know song's evil traps.
Our small loop of a street
usually quiet
Today receives a loud grooming
with chain saws
and wood chippers
and diesel trucks slicing
and ruining silence
into anti-solitude.
This is my last day off
until summer school begins
in two sultry weeks.
Morning rain passed through
to breezy summer camp sun,
crisp shade tree shadows
moving slightly within lush grass
waiting for my non-motorized mower.
It feels *****...
I feel *****,
at sixes and sevens
at 67,
to trust that I need
not just more solitude
to become healthy again,
but more silence
to become vocally wealthy
again.
To go
or to stay
here
too near a State highway
trafficking toward two casinos
now more native to American economies
than Native Americans to empowerment.
This last bus
not quite upon us
while thoughts wonder
and feelings wander
about shouting sawers
and clanging chipper
banging my longing
back to a rural dirt dust-path
along side a Michigan Centennial Farm
where I knew breezy
silent
summer encampment days
of solitary
fresh freedom.
I wonder why
we can't go home again,
Yet I can go back to childhood
solitude served up
in sacred silent
unsettled dusty memories
of toddling freedoms lost.
Incomplete metamorphosis of this stilled adolescent...
petrified, sheltered, and mortally wounded prepubescent
I consider myself
analogously buttressed, cocooned,
garrisoned, hardened, insulated,
where cell baited jumping frog
o' Montgomery County ne'er
went leaving larvae stage,
now no divine providential
power can assuage,
yours truly metaphorically locked
within invisible iron bound cage
every occasion to shower
validates steep wage
permanently doled out,
yet tis futile to rage
against this human machine
i.e. body dielectric rampage
clocking three scored
orbitz chronological gauge
forever fixed feigned fodder,
when unlived uber story
of mein kampf writ faint
chicken scratch final page
gin hated anorexic
regressive toddling cribbage
deadly game of mine Life pampered
post infancy attended
Aladdin (a lad in) his hermitage
late childhood marriage
with grim reaper as
coefficient co-inhabitant
feasting emaciated lovely bones
verily scrawny, puny, and
nerdy, yea easy to lyft
courtesy lost livingsocial scrimmage
trademark spindleshanks -
stagnant embarrassingly useless
two legged equipage
at childhood's end...,
me skinny package then
weighing, eh no
more'n half dozen stone,
these days when
undressing to wash
forced to espy physical
*****sapiens wreckage
constant visual reminder
this spare rankled, stunted,
tendered ship of state,
yours truly nah oh sage
enlightenment gleaned i.e.
20/20 hindsight kickstarted
quickened, leveraged, mortgaged...,
principly unbalanced worthiness
anatomical disparity
impossible mission to salvage
accounting rent permanently askew
fixed APR rendered
amortization sabotage
irreversible penalty suffrage
escaping serfdom volunteering
self as webbed vassalage
til death do me part.
*** OF AND ABOUT IT ALL ***
Life’s so much a-coming or a-going,
With hours of waiting or flowing
From now to next
While we step about, hopefully blessed —
On a quest for things major or minor to cherish
In our sometimes to come. We sojourn thence
From this place over to a rushing creek’s edged cliffs—
To linger, to draw some solace, some rest…
And there, we see suddenly manifest:
The sacred red rose, growing
Near, beautifully on high,
Surrounded by the flames of our worship-full prayers.
Life’s a range of highs and lows waving
Aside the roads that fork and lead ventures
Along moss-lined knowns
Or beneath shaded canopies of unknowns.
Our searching, dawn-to-dawn roamings
Carry life’s tales of getting and giving;
Suffering and forgiving;
Ever grateful for living and breathing.
Life brings mapped ways that vacillate
Over ranges of changes; lessons
And puzzles; ideas, moods and feelings
Immersed in working and dreaming of someday
Realizing true love — wondrous, sweet.
From birth and learning to stand, to speak…On to
Old-age dimming our eyesight as happens…
Even to such gifted artists as
Edgar Degas, Mary Cassatt, and Claude Monet.
Yet, they went on painting masterpieces, nearly blind —
With God’s inspiration helping them to find
A new approach, perceiving and creating
With their Inner Eyes.
Life’s an orbiting
Between reality and imagining;
Between perchance and possibly —
Between the often said, “If-only’s…”
And the magical, “Look there
At what’s already appeared.”
Life’s a calendar of playing and celebrating,
But includes sad times and final wakes…T’is
Somewhat a dizzying dance of circling turns,
Of rounding passes for however long
Until that unknown day of going on beyond…
Taking our storied hours along,
Relating how we stayed
Alligned to God’s willed ways,
For the good of the All and Everlasting,
From our toddling time
To our leaping with starlit promises
To compose a delighting song,
Unfurl wings and fly —
Eternal
————————————————————————-
(c)sally young eslinger 11/8 /2022 - 1/12/2
Written to Bocchenini’s Cello Concerto in B-flat major
Thanks be to God…
Praise the LORD our King,
Raise his praise and let his honour ring.
His mercy thrives,
Verily verily,and rise.
Praise he who fashioned the sun,
That always on the sky shone.
His mercy thrives,
Verily,verily,and rise.
And the moon in night,
That spreads her light with fright.
His mercy thrives,
Verily,verily,and rise.
Praise he who scold the sky,
And made her weep that the tendrils wouldn't die.
His mercy thrives,
Verily, verily,and rise.
One who sanctions the land,
That she made many fruits on herself stands.
His mercy thrives,
Verily,verily,and rise.
Praise him for bountiful harvest,
He made our grains filled storex.
His mercy thrives,
Verily,verily,and rise.
Praise him for toddling food crops.
Blessing's prooves,refilling cups.
His mercy thrives,
Verily,verily,and rise.
Glory to the glorious king.
Let all creatures seldom sing;
Glory to Father,living son,
And his spirit,that in trinity shone.
His mercy thrives,
Verily,verily,praises rise!
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