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Roger White Poem
Of Passing Cloud
- Roger White
Unaware of the world below, a wispy cloud suspended between Heaven and Earth
drifts westward against an azure sky…
…blithely
As if coaxed by an unseen presence or hastened by a gentle call,
reaches the setting sun of the western horizon…
…quietly
Awash in hues of gold, beautiful and radiant,
delicate tendrils touch the night’s first stars…
…gently
A wispy cloud escapes the bonds of Earth,
ascends into the embrace of Heaven…
…peacefully
Copyright © Roger White | Year Posted 2024
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Roger White Poem
Old Glory has Something He Wants to Say
By – Roger White
The dawn’s first sunlight crests over the eastern horizon. A midnight dark sky leisurely changes tinctures: blue becomes purple, bright azure and soft yellow create a pastel veneer across the skyline. The bellies of plumose clouds reflect the hues and turn the sky into a watercolor image of quiet beauty. Shimmering white contrails streak in every direction, revealing that as we slept America was busy at work and travel and play. As the sun climbs upward, its light expands over the Earth’s countenance. A gentle breeze drifts west to east. It is early dawn in the heartland. Commuters race to home, school and work. Some take a fleeting glance at the flag slowly ruffling in the breeze but drive past preoccupied with the coming day. Today is Flag Day, they will pay their homage later at a ceremony in its honor.
Old Glory rises, shakes off the last of night, unfurls himself proud and strong for all to see, and begins his special day of recognition across America. But this year – on this occasion, He will give his beloved people a stern commentary about the state of the nation for which he stands.
With a crisp, deliberate snap in His tone, Old Gory begins to speak: Stand obediently beneath me now. Look up at me and show some respect. Take off that silly cap. Toss aside your hubris masquerading as patriotism. Listen to the ruffling of my stars and stripes, you will hear me speak. Do not interrupt.
Since the of summer of 1777, I have been your symbol of all this great nation stands for. You gave me origin. You asked me to represent you at home and abroad, in strife and war, peace and solidarity, and I gratefully accepted.
It was the flash of bombs that proved to Francis Scott Key I stood proudly while an invading enemy attacked our seat of government. I represented your just cause when a great part of America wanted to leave behind my stars and stripes for a different flag. I leaned broken above blood-stained ground, only to again stand straight and proud when you won the battles of Normandy and Iwo Jima. Since then, I went to war with you several times even when you were wrong.
You take pride in hoisting me at sporting events at home and on the world stage. You pay tribute to me and salute me on national holidays and funerals. You fly me above your bases, schools, office buildings, in your front yards. You speak glowingly about me in your campaign speeches. But you dishonor me with your contempt, your prejudice, your conduct. Have you even once read the inscription at the feet of my dear friend, Lady Liberty?
“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of you teeming shores. Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door”. Lady Liberty speaks those words, I represent those words, you are supposed to live by those words, but you do not.
I did not grant you permission to enslave a race of people. I did not give you my blessing to discriminate against anyone because of their race, color or creed. I did not bestow on you the right to hail the flag as your property. I belong to all people of this country, I do not belong to a demographic, a sect or a cult.
You grow angry when people young and old, black, brown, yellow or red, kneel before me during the National Anthem, burn me in effigy in the streets, desecrate my visage. Do you not understand? It is not me with whom they are angry – it is you. They protest against you, your prejudice, your discrimination, your hatred. You take personally what they do to me because you have the selfish audacity to believe I belong to you. You fly me upside down in your front yard when it is not our country that is under duress – it is your moral principle that is under duress.
Because of you, I have I lost my symbolism and true meaning to many of the people of this country, and yes, you are among those people. You do not realize it, but you too protest – you protest granting liberty, freedom and justice for Americans not of your race, color and creed, you do not consider that I represent those people as well. Let me remind you of this; the protesters, immigrants and asylum seekers are among the huddled masses yearning to breathe free – just as your ancestors once were counted among the tired and poor, the wretched refuse that came to America’s teeming shores. You are all one in the same to me. In a field of amber waves of grain, no one stalk stands taller than any other. Now go, and be better for your sake, and the sake of America. I pray I will not have to repeat my words.
Beneath the flag – not a word was spoken. With heads bent, humbled and pensive - men and women slowly sauntered back to the remains of the day.
As with every day, this day ended with a solemn tribute to Old Glory; the ceremony with bugle and salute at 5:00 pm. Midnight blue spangled with twinkling stars, a waxing moon and bright spotlight show that even in the dark of night this distinguished and venerable symbol of a country bewildered by its self-inflicted identity crisis will remain committed to the American experiment.
The breeze lessens, Old Glory rests his weary head and dreams of a better tomorrow in America.
Copyright © Roger White | Year Posted 2024
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Roger White Poem
Falling Asleep
Roger White
Languorous head caresses feathered pillow. Fatigued back and limbs repose on cushioned bed. Eyes finish the day’s tasks and rest beneath their familiar blanket. Opaque darkness, serene silence are all that remain of the day. And the journey begins.
First comes gentle abandonment from the urgencies and routines of daily life, left to express uninhibitedly the spirit within mind and heart. A kaleidoscope flashes in quick succession fragments of the past, pieces of wishes, bits of joy.
What little wakefulness remains languidly morphs into the dreamlike tranquility between awake and drifting to sleep - that best time of day when the brain slows - recalls nothing about the day, just wonders playfully through streams of serenity, fields of memories and mountains of wishes.
At last, the mind randomly clutches a memory and grasps a wish as both whisk by in slapdash hurriedness. Mother sings with angel’s voice a lullaby I long forgot. He’ll be a world-renowned scientist when he grows up. Oh yeah, we beat them by a point in overtime. Grandchildren laugh and tease me as we play a game of tag near a lakeside cottage I do not recognize, only dream of. He was such a wonderful dog……………………………….
Copyright © Roger White | Year Posted 2024
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Roger White Poem
Voices from the Stones
A message from those who made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom.
Make these stones everlasting. We will tell you how.
Do not stand before these stones and weep.
We gave our lives, but we do not sleep.
Our names and ranks are etched in these stones.
Sturdy, more enduring than our flesh and bones.
Read our names, see our day
we gave our all for you to say…
…FREEDOM IS MINE!
Freedom is our gift for you to share.
it is also a duty you must bear.
Our loss of life is your gain,
Do not let us die for you in vain.
Pass freedom on and it will keep.
Fail in your duty, and we will surely sleep.
By: Roger White - Operation Desert Storm Veteran
Copyright © Roger White | Year Posted 2024
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Roger White Poem
The Room of the Unrequited
By Roger White
That evening, stillness permeated the lavender-scented room. Dusk crept through the windows
smudged by oily fingers, The day’s twilight left a dull umbra on wall and floor. A beam of
fading sunlight cast onto a fluttering moth circling fruit, glinted off the gold gilded legs of a chair
plush with pink velvet cushions and seemingly vanished into the luxurious kilim situated on the floor. Suddenly,
a clock of ancestry standing in the corridor droned proudly in baritone the evening hour and went silent.
Outside the door, echoed whispers searched for raison d’etre, found nothing and went hush. Gradually, light
turned to shadows, and shadows succumbed to inexorable darkness.
That day, the parlor was beautifully decorated in the image of a pastel Monet. Filled with the gaiety of
Spring sun, it was a living tapestry of rosy cheeks, pink lips, sparkling gems and elegant bodices. The crisp
swish of petticoats and satin skirts harmonizing with delicate voices softly chattering strummed through
the air like an ode on a string harp. Every detail was dressed and embellished for what was to come. Frosted
petits fours placed on a white porcelain English platter. Succulent persimmons and plums exquisite as gifts
from Gaia filled the threshed basket of Egyptian papyrus. A crystal decanter of sweet, red wine only
vintners to Dionysus could produce sat next to gold rimmed goblets. The chair was draped in elegant, silk
chintz. The hours passed, the door to the room remained unopened. At last, guests were excused. The
hostess gathered herself, heart and emotion. Quietly and with dignity, she left the room, locked the door
behind her and retreated to the chamber she had prepared for their union.
A generation of years has gone by. The room has taken on the image of a still life in chiaroscuro.
The decay of loneliness has withered the fruit, without seed and hopeless of bearing its own. The wine has
gone from the nectar of the gods to the vinegar of the forgotten. The coral pink chair now cushioned in dust
stands on brittle legs the pallor of ochre. Delicate chintz turned gossamer rests crumpled on the floor. The
fingerprints on the window have yellowed. The light of a waxing moon brings with it the arc of a naked
branch cast tall across wall and floor. In the corridor, the clock tolls the evening hour, then goes still. Again
and without fail, the stagnation of time and memory repeat in light and stillness and knell.
Echoed whispers of a voice forlorn by the emptiness of the past mutter sotto voce. Not a sound comes
from the cool, dank room. Stale perfume lingers outside its door but dreads to enter, for
this is the room of the unrequited.
Copyright © Roger White | Year Posted 2024
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Roger White Poem
Interview With a Rock
I was conceived in the warm haven of a mother’s womb. Developing, growing, morphing through the epochs of time. Then, on no day in particular, I emerged into the sunlight.
Mother never asked how I was or where I was. Unnoticed, unwanted. Kicked, trampled, tossed. I lay still in the dust for countless millennia. But unlike flesh, time smoothed my countenance and gave me ethos.
Then, on no day in particular, slender fingers gently lay hold of me. They lifted me off the very site from which I had witnessed the passing of time, the evolution of my environment, the tempest of human history.
I was taken to unfamiliar surroundings. I had known only decaying branches that served as habitat to life’s smaller creatures. I had witnessed only thirsty grass and weed struggling to survive in the parched soil. I had come to rely on the sun to repeat its rise and fall and signify the passing of time.
Now, I am neighbor to polished mahogany, flowers in vases, plants in pots. The sun seems to come and go as marked by the arrival and departure of the natives residing in this new locale.
I have been given venue. My visage sparkles in the light. I am noticed and admired, appreciated as the art of nature. A new epoch has begun.
I do not know what my future might hold. Will I become an heirloom? Will the next occupants not admire the beauty others found in me only to toss me out into the dust I had known for so long? Will I be placed in a box in a dark, musty room awaiting an uncertain existence? Regardless of my fate, what will change? I am a rock.
Water Makes a Commentary
I gave life before you existed. I sculpted the land before you lived on it.
My rivers are the arteries in which the blood of life flows through Mother Earth.
I shelter as ice on the mountains and become the hot tea in your cup. From the skies,
I satiate withered tongue and desiccated Earth after droughts of mischievous
neglect. I am an infant’s response to life, a girl’s tears of happiness, a loved one’s look
of grief. I washed the feet of Roman tyrants and baptized the son of God. I drowned
your thirst when you thirsted. I drowned your children when you were not paying
attention. I saved your homes from fire, only to wash them away in flood. I have
raged in storms and swallowed mighty ship and crew, then turned still as a lily pond
for sportsmen and children to enjoy.
You call me languid, vexed, mercurial, indignant, and I understand your ambivalence.
Still, do not take for granted the gifts I give you. For as you have witnessed my
rage and know, either by me or without me, you will perish.
Copyright © Roger White | Year Posted 2024
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Roger White Poem
Missives on Time
I am writing this missive at the age of sixty-seven years, seven months, twenty-five days, two hours and eight minutes of time on Earth.
As I record my thoughts about time, I wonder if I understand it. Did it exist before mankind, before the big bang? Was time once only uninterrupted darkness and stillness? Was it stationary, did it pass, did it have a beginning, and will it have an ending? Did we create time, if so, why? Does time bring order to what would be chaos without it? With its intrinsic flow of past into present into future, does time offer us a place in the world?
A clock tells us when to rise from bed. A schedule tells us what time to be at work. Timetables for transportation tell us when to be at a specific location. Imagine no mention of time when planning a vacation. The material items that transport us to destinies would be useless without the measure of time. What good is an airport without a flight schedule.
To answer two of my own questions: Yes, time does bring order to what would otherwise be chaos. And no, we did not create time, we created the measure of time, and chaos is why we created it.
We read of past events we never witnessed. Centuries old stories of people who once lived on this Earth tell us what time was like then. We hear tales of family members gone and imagine a time when they were here before us. Some remember when they were here with us. Time gives us our place in the world.
We use time to mark and record the chronology of events. Our wedding invitations tell guests on what date and at what time they should be present at what location to be witnesses to a significant change in the lives of two people. A child is born, an elderly family member passes away. For each, a document records the exact moment on the calendar of time eternal.
The Earth is believed to be around 4,000,000,000 years old. A man who lives to be 100 compared to the length of time the Earth has existed lives a life shorter than a mayfly’s life measured in human time. Thus, man’s time on Earth is fleeting, a nanosecond in the continuous, infinite motion called the arrow of time.
I do not know when my time began. It was at the moment of conception, but there is no record of the specific date, hour and minute. There is a precise measure of the time of my birth, there will be a precise measure of the time of my death. Nevertheless, when I depart the earthly world, my time will continue in memory. Friends will recall me. Daughter and grandchildren will remember when… . Then, the time will come when friends and family will pass. And when there is no one left who remembers me, my time will end.
By – Roger White
Recorded On 19 November 2023 at 10:12 am CST
Copyright © Roger White | Year Posted 2024
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Roger White Poem
Though I am but a Janitor
Roger White
A dim yellow light filters the tiny room with shadow and pale glow.
In a bucket - trickle, splash, whirl, woosh, trickle.
The door groans and quietly latches. Wheels squeak, rubber soles shuffle slowly on tile floor.
A little lost, a little lonely, yet content in his solitude, the janitor leads on into another night.
A sigh passes from his chest, his lips curl into a smile. Through his ear bud, faintly audible,
he hears – And at the end of three, the visiting Cubs lead the Cardinals four to one.
Night is a time to put chaos to rest. And so, the work begins.
Soiled floors regain luster. Grime and dust are wiped away. The back strains to empty bags of
garbage and linen. The stale carpets turn floral in fragrance.
Lunch break, what’s the score? A voice familiar to the city announces - In the middle of the
seventh inning, the Cubs now lead the Cardinals seven to three. Crumbs from a bologna and
cheese sandwich and a bag of chips are scooped off the table and tossed in the waste bin. A
few swigs from a bottle of sweet tea and it’s back to work.
Night is a time for inner happiness. So as he returns to his chores - he remembers.
I could throw a pretty mean slider in my day, better than that rookie hurling for the Cubs.
Man, those were the days, but it didn’t happen. The Army was an adventure - saw some
world, didn’t like a lot of it. The factory was a living, that was all. The little woman and the
kids were my joy in life. She’s gone now and the kids are grown and moved away. I have this
job, my nights, my solitude, no chaos, plenty of happiness, and my Cubs. The night wears on.
The alarm on the phone chimes – shift is over. As he leaves the building, a sigh of relief passes
from his chest. Sunrise will bring the chaos of the day, but he will sleep through it.
Through his ear bud, faintly audible – It was a good night for the Cubs on the road, let’s recap
their nine to three win over the Cardinals earlier tonight. His lips curl into a smile.
And he considers - though I am but a janitor, no happier could I be.
Copyright © Roger White | Year Posted 2024
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Roger White Poem
Your ego will deceive you,
Integrity never will.
On Wealth
The wise man said to a poor peasant: I will make you wealthy.
Of the three riches I offer, what do you wish as wealth?
Gold and many servants
Wisdom and many followers
Integrity and many enemies
The peasant contemplated, then answered:
Integrity, with all wealth comes enemies.
With gold and servants, I will know my enemies when I become poor.
With wisdom and followers, I will know my enemies when I become feeble.
With integrity and enemies, I will know my enemies because I am honest.
- Roger White
Copyright © Roger White | Year Posted 2024
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Roger White Poem
Consider for a moment freedom as a greedy banker. It does not sell the country perpetual security, liberty and happiness, it loans those qualities at a high rate of investment, and it does not allow default. We must make payments regularly. For over two hundred years, we have paid freedom in installments of over one million lives lost in war.
Freedom demands family separation as a premium rate for duty – war. Freedom takes as collateral a troop’s mental health. Freedom charges many service members and arm and a leg. And freedom compounds anguish and sorrow, suffering and grief when it demands the highest price in blood and life.
In our history, we stood against the world’s greatest military and political power and won independence. The fledgling nation’s determination to remain united and bring about emancipation to the enslaved people of our country took place on the battlefields of the Civil War. In WWI and WWII, with our allies, we faced down kings, tyrants and dictators who, at the expense of all that is good in humanity, attempted to turn the world into a wasteland of subservience and oppression. The Korean War saw America’s resolve tested again only five years after the end of World War II, and again, America arbitrated for democracy. Though we did not fully understand the reason for fighting in Vietnam, when the nation turned to its young people to fight again, they marched forward into war.
The Cold War witnessed opposing ideologies of communism and dictatorship vs self-destiny and democracy. Through perseverance, self-destiny and democracy prevailed. From the jungles and rice patties of the Far East to the sand dunes and deserts of the Middle East, the cities of Europe, the plains and villages of North Africa, the shores of the Americas, men and women of uniforms gone, and uniforms worn today have borne and continue to bear the price freedom demands.
Tombstones, monuments and flags seemingly whisk by through car windows as we travel down the roads and through the towns of America. We notice how well manicured the cemeteries are, how gleaming the iconic granite colonnades with rows of names appear in the sun, how proudly the flag waves in the breeze. What we do not take time to see is that these are the receipts we paid in exchange for our freedom, and we have paid dearly the greedy banker who issued those receipts.
Copyright © Roger White | Year Posted 2024
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