Details |
Vernon Witmer Poem
Your strongest day is standing
just outside your door. Let it in.
Each day the sun comes home to you
it whispers with the wind
calling out your name.
This is no video game.
Life’s a bouquet banquet
made from your reflections.
You do not need directions.
Pick your moments carefully.
Stop and smell the roses,
leave your motor running
for the dangers trust exposes.
Listen to where life comes from
the beating sound of your own drum.
Make the most of music that it brings.
Unraveling all your tangled balls of strings.
With patience Iron out each peace,
holding tight to all you love
with nails and teeth.
Now put your stubby thumbs
through their tiny holster loops
and pull your britches up.
Hitch them high,
and puff out your chest !!
You’ve always been ready for this.
This is not a test.
This is your life.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Vernon Witmer Poem
I met a man who was a builder, harder life than some.
His lifetimes measure built of him the man he has become.
A carpenter who works with hands, grown tough through each nail driven.
For each connection made he stands to witness love he’s given.
A life that’s built of wood and people, dreams all shared with God.
Connected through a path of faith, a worthy man might trod.
He builds the dream of home and hearth that each heart so requires
with hands that strive forever forward, even though he tires.
With back that bends toward prayer as a soul on bended knees
he places pieces one by one til finished home he sees.
A sculptor of each family’s home and all their vested futures.
With caulk and nail and sweat and blood his only given sutures.
Directing useful trees to be arranged by artful hand.
Conducting symphonies of glory, weather to withstand.
A visionary born of lumber, plaster, tile, and stone,
making memories of houses where his light has shown.
A designer of dreams he moves with speed to completion.
Steady with strength, quick with purpose, into every season.
Delivering hollowed caverns of life for those to call their own.
Shaping shells whose contents hold the people he has known.
A shaper of fluidity, measuring courses, marking flow;
constructor of places where souls reside, and lives have space to grow.
This man I met is but one finger, not at all so odd,
who moves with steady purpose, on another hand of God.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Vernon Witmer Poem
He followed the motion and before it left the hand, he was away.
His greatest thrill was fulfilling his purpose, to please.
On returning, he stood patient, waiting for that firm stroke
That caressed his spine; and the feel of the palm on his ribcage;
Two pats coupled with the words: “Good Boy”.
He knew this pleasure was a current that ran both ways.
This game of fetch, as close as he could ever come,
To playing catch with his father.
The way they did,
When he was once a boy.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Vernon Witmer Poem
She rose from the table moving slowly to the sink. This was not her favorite time, too much time to think. Her body moved from memory now, the right bit of dish detergent, she must refill that bottle soon, moving the faucets to memorized positions, water streamed out on cue, precisely the right temperature, “hot to clean - not to scald”.
She and water worked well together, having partnered in so many chores; laundry, toilets, sinks and floors. One plate now, one knife, one fork. Sometimes she would cut things like meat loaf or fish with the edge of the fork, skipping the knife, one less utensil to wash. Less time at the sink, less time to think. Against the outside darkness she could see her reflection in the kitchen window. How old she had become. Reminders were everywhere of how her life was dwindling, shrinking, shriveling. She felt too small for her skin, which hung loosely on her like a half-filled bag of potatoes, pouches and folds everywhere. She would need to put this dishcloth in the laundry after finishing. She always rinsed them in cold water to inhibit the bacteria growth but they would start to smell after only a few days. She had become accustomed to foul smells. The smell of dying cells and incontinence pads and bad breath, side effect of certain medicines. She hated eating alone, living alone, being alone, but sometimes she hated it even more when memories of better days settled in upon her. it was like a visit, full of joy and expectation, exciting conversations, catching up, and sharing fond memories. But it was always followed by goodbyes, the pain of separation, and a return to loneliness. She put her plate in the cupboard and was reminded of how she had put other things in her life away; her younger sister from an accident, her only son from someone’s war, her husband three years back from cigarettes she had threatened to divorce him over. She put her silverware in the drawer and closed it tightly, closing her mind tightly at the same time. It wouldn’t do to dwell on any of this, what’s done is done. The dishes were done
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Vernon Witmer Poem
The mind eternal lies before us always.
Less pure in tone, we come to it drenched with life;
Fearless companion in our hour of days.
A purity not withstanding breadth of knife.
Away! Away! succubus death,
much less a breach than I.
How many not mislaid in breath,
In priceless toll, said duty to be paid.
No field of honored memories
they preach without belie.
Captured each, and each with closed fist shouting;
Me or not, Cold or hot, we stand between as choice;
all for desperate screams grown silent.
Pastoral in the presence, of one solitary voice,
Whose form of words so hesitantly mouthing.
Whence came we witness to the stream.
Whose eyes are these that hold our field a-view?
Memories whose touch a solid scream;
Form ignored and glory gored of few.
We are not the man.
No animal or simple word defined.
We pause, we pleasure, we perform,
With speck, and all our mind deform;
Our fingers will one day unfold.
Our torrid tortured tale be told.
Yours, mine, ours,
Drumroll spam-like dance,
Become the gist of one more fist
To smash against the sand.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Vernon Witmer Poem
Morning Sun to Wash My Skin,
Air So Crisp and Clear.
Musical Songs From Every Bird
Soft Laid Upon My Ear.
Bougainvilleas and Magnolias,
Beauty From Every Shore;
Upon My Face, all Heaven Placed,
I Could Not Want for More.
Yet Somewhere Someone Waits For Me,
For Whom My Heart Completes
Who Sees In Me The Birth
Of Every Moment
Their Heart Beats.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Vernon Witmer Poem
They move to the breeze
Created by life’s movements,
Seeding nations, trusting
The world’s touch.
We may hold our breath
And say it was taken away
When it was only our words
That disappeared.
They offer themselves up
Like earth’s fingers
Pointing to the stars,
Sun warming
their drawing stems,
Reflecting the innocence of god,
Over and over hoping to be noticed
For their lack of any casual mistake.
Pull them close and breathe,
Collect them in glass,
Protect them at last;
They are each a living mirror
Reflecting our truth.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Vernon Witmer Poem
It dropped white suddenly,
As predicted.
The empty air embraced it;
Faced it
With the recognition
of love.
In the quiet
It would seem forever.
The birds knew.
We counted thirteen
In the closest tree.
Unsettled,
They seemed to dance
With the restless joy
Of children.
They knew
That what we think of
As the beginning,
Always comes in the middle.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Vernon Witmer Poem
a small cloud passed white
against a dark blue sky
curved, for eyes like mine,
remembering eyes like yours.
a small cloud igniting
another heart
to burn along its way
that was my yesterday.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Vernon Witmer Poem
The car door opened
The first thing I saw
Was an explosion of balloons,
More than I’d ever seen
In my entire nine-year life.
For the first time
We were at the fair
I leapt from the car
Feet running before
They hit the ground,
Knowing I had to see
Everything,
Do
Everything,
Taste
Everything
In just two hours
Before the long trip home
And, I did!!
The drive home was filled
With dizzying, dazzling,
Stupefying memories of
Excitement, movement,
Colors, noise,
Tastes,
People,
Rides.
I had taken in
As much as I could
As fast as I could
Leaving scarcely room
For a breath
Now I finally let it all out
By throwing up
In the back seat
With a loud, “Brrraaaggghh!!
As he pulled the car over
My father mumbled,
“Never again”,
My mother whispered, in reply
“Never again”,
I scarcely heard them
As I shouted,
“When can we go again??”!!
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
|