I LOVE TREES OF ALL HEIGHTS AND COLORS - LOVE THIS ONE BECAUSE OF THE ABUNDANCE OF YELLOW FLOWERS!

It's almost trite

to write as I please

...a simple poem

and you won't be inundated

with enormous words that

cause you to seek

a meaning about the thought

I'm trying to speak

There's a simple meaning to this prose

Nothing too complicated - you won't have to 'suppose

Just notice what words rhyme with 'trees'

think of how they capture

that marvelous 'breeze'

Thinkg of the chill - and we all feel the

'freeze'

and we think something's 'wrong'

when the wind blows so strong

Yet the trees stand tall

with no complaint at all

People cut them down - that's make me frown

because the birds build their nests

to give the trees a seasonal

crown

People use the wood to fence their chickens and goats

We build wooden houses; we build wooden boats

We carve them into totems - we turn them into poles

We treat them often cruely; as if they had no 'souls'

But I love to sprawl beneath a beautiful Willow

I like the tall grass beneath me - it is my pillow

I look at the stars as they peer through the trees

I love the rustling sounds; it puts my mind at ease

I find my peacefulness - among the trees.

One of my favorite authors - Henry David Thoreau.....

If you really want to read an extraordinary web-site, use this link (below). You can review every single chapter, and find links to other works by Thoreau......it is a treasure indeed!

In fact, I just sent an e-mail to my son (Tom), so he could enjoy it too (since he also likes Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson - two remarkable writers with exceptional insight into the nature of man; more prophets, than writers in many ways). The e-mail was brief (for a change) - it read:

"I think you'll enjoy this page/web-site, and all the links - very easy to go through each one."
http://thoreau.eserver.org/walden00.html
Love, Mom

I remember hoping I'd live long enough to see my children all grown up.

As I looked at this picture of me with 3 of my grandchildren, and one great grandson, I realized my 'dream' had more than come true.

I have two blogs of poetry; this one speaks about things that I think about; wonder about, and sometimes cry about. Most are based on 'real life' events.

If I start writing again, I'll make a link to that site, because I think this page offers plenty (maybe too much) to absorb and read at a sitting. I welcome you, and hope you enjoy the music that starts with a more current-day/modern collection of artists, and I've saved the heavy-duty classical stuff for the last. There is a total of about 8 hours, so you can read; don't read - walk away, but turn the volume up, and you won't get any commercial-interruptions; no static, and you won't have to dig through your CD file. Just think of it as a 'radio station', and each song was lovingly picked 'just for you'. Diane

How I love my old refrigerator; don't know how to title this one right now...May 20, 2008

Oh how I love those magnets
and my refrigerator too
I can cover all those scratches
and this is what I do
I plop up the photos
that make me smile each day
I enjoy filling that cold-chest
and putting those carrots away
I slam the top; the bottom as well
I fill it up - and the photos tell
the story of my life and deeds
I've even tacked up a packet of seeds
those 'peel-off' stickies; the magnet
is my buddy
But photos gather dust and grease
and photos wind up 'cruddy'
Still, I love them - I don't see
the dirt
I see my joy
and forget any hurt.

Hey, that wasn't so bad - gotter done!

Now, I need a title....

I wrote this May 14, 1994 - TRASH-CANS APPEAL TO ME

I was surprised to hear my trash-cans talking

..collected by the patio..

I listened to their story

they were playing 'one-up-manship'

discussing their lives and glory

The saddest-looking one; no top - rusted

dented and dirty

was now retired to holding cat-box litter

discarded wood; broken glass

and nails

and he signed as he said:

"I'm not pretty...."

One - still with a top; a big dent that

made it bulge

he claimed he had a herniated disk

and he started to divulge

his secrets; the many mysteries

..then he spoke to the rest of the

group

He complained about that newest member

colored so bright - a square

'container'

who was now the President

(and on retainer)

like some attornies - yes, the 'new boss'

This new model we'd added

...the 'cleaner trash', in it

we'd toss...

"Tidy trash" - tidy trash is clean paper or styrofoam

or we might desginate it to hold

earthquake items; food & flashlights

..keep it dry and sealed..

it would never be filled with mold!

Another can complained most bitterly

about their desginated task

when the smallest of them all interrupted and said:

"Can I ask..."

"Ask what..." the quartet demanded - irritated in their tone...

"Well I just wanted to tell you a miracle

given to me as I stood so alone..."

"Late, one night, I only had papers and pop-corn packing..

I felt so empty - so unfufilled; somehow I was lacking..."

"Then I heard foot-steps; a baby's cry

my top lifted up by a lady

then I heard her sigh..."

"Inside me she placed a new-born child

..covered the top, and I went wild!"

With glee - a new baby for me

I was a nest

for a child to rest

it didn't seem like the place for a babe

but I remember that Bible that was tossed away

and it talked about a

special son

who was born and placed in a tiny straw bed

after his life

had begun

So I held this one - like I was its womb

never realizing it might become

its tomb

And then I heard foot-steps as they walked away

it was then, I realized this child

had been abandoned...

...so I started to pray.

The next day I was fortunate to remember

that the owner was tidy as tidy could be

it was also Wednesday - the day before trash-day

so I knew I could get this baby free!

Calmed by this, I settled down - and with all my might

I shook a little to make the papers

like a mattress

I made it ever so soft

and the baby rested quietly

that Wednesday night.

On Thursday morning, sure enough - as

the sun came up; another day and new light,

The lady of the house brought the daily trash;

lifted up the top, and saw the child

resting near that bit of ribbon

and discarded

sash.

The child's legs now wiggled - tiny hands started to wave

then a tremendous cry emerged...my, that baby

was brave!

I heard my owner gasp in surprise

she said: "What a wonderful gift I've found; this tiny bundle

...and what beautiful eyes!"

Well can you believe, by the time the day ended for me

I was on television - a regular

celebrity!

So many people helped and rejoiced

and later I heard this child has been

adopted

by choice

Now 2 loving people who had no child - not even one

they adopted this little munchkin

and now they have a son!

Just like that story about the son of God

they got a son from a trash-can

...little old me.. - sitting on the grass

thinking 'now he'll grow to be a man'...

Well wouldn't you know, my owner said I was the best trash-can she'd

ever had

and she rewarded me from that time on

by lining me carefully - those liners she calls

GLAD!

Once my mission was fulfilled - once I'd been deployed

I sat ever so strong - protecting my post

...never again was I annoyed

Well after the smallest can had impressed the entire group

they suddenly found a new-found pride

never again did they complain

about holding a pile of weeds and flowers - nope, they

simply rejoiced in storing

the things that

had died

They never said 'why me' - now they felt needed

they were vital; important

so each day they now greeted

they welcomed the visit

from that lady who showed up early

never again were they

angry or surly

And now I think about trash-cans and their mission

I look at all of them - they appeal to me

I realize they have a simple and special purpose

so I daily bring them 'presents'

and treat them very carefully...

I wrote this March 13, 1993 - 'FOR THE COMING SNOW'

Is there a star with many points

stuck to my weathered hat?

Upon my nose a few clustered, and I just

went trudging to find

my cat.

Following its foot-prints; light upon that silver fluff

The stars at midnight, sparkled over me

and the shadows of the moon trailed me

as I walked along the bluff

In the night I tripped over decaying trees

toppled - bent - some standing with the burden

of this late-night flurry

when a faint 'meow' from a distance sent

my footsteps - quickly did I hurry

for my furry friend

and if I must sum this up in a word

it was this little frail kitten of mine

found a few days earlier

it was this voice

I

HEARD!

My adopted friend had sneaked out 3 hours earlier

scampered quickly away

and I was packing up to leave; unable to pay the rent,

I had to move the very next day

I thought it absurd to cry - absurd, and I stopped - smiling

when I HEARD

I also saw in my mind's eye

my computer's cursor blinking - it idled after I ran outside - crying; oh my little friend...

why, oh why, oh why

and then I again, began to

cry....

As I race toward the sound, words start to flood my mind;

they all rhyme - such a strange time, and yet I

run - then walk - in the chill of that lonely night,

I'm now focused only

on that little kitten's plight

Why am I thinking about elephants - some type of tacky packy derm

and wonder if this is an elephant about which I'm supposed to speak

...no, it is the kitten - and now my legs are growing weak

This night - it's cold; chilling - damp

one would call it 'bleak'

Then I find my shivering, frightened cat

now I hold him against my cheek

Suddenly he purrs - we're back, and he's upon my lap

and I type quickly, this simple poem

I hold my half-frozen friend - typing; and he's quietly

waiting

'til the small pan in the kitchen

upon the stove

makes that small cup of milk

so perfectly

warm....

'ALL OF THIS......'

.......and without Miracle-Gro

no roto-tiller

- no bags of 12-12-12

no 'soaker-hose'

- no 'weed-killer'

.......missing from the cover

of HOUSE AND GARDEN

nothing to mow

and nothing to hoe.

I WROTE THIS FEBRUARY 19, 1996 - IN MEMORY OF THOSE WHO DIED IN THE OKLAHOMA CITY BOMBING...

'WILL IT BE OKAY'

In memory of those that perished in the Oklahoma City Bombing.

Diane Stirling-Stevens

The fences carry toys; notes

the memories - a simple token

of what reminds each of their sadness

hearts so broken

Offerings placed for this future museum appear

about the many people

who've shed a tragic tear

Those that grieve - and still believe

in love, life - renewed birth;

flowers - rabbits - nature's mirth

the wind that whispers; the

flower that smells so sweet

the early spring rain

the touch of a new baby's feet

the laughter of a child

the summer night

calm and mild

The autumn - twisting turning

blustering winds

the golden maple leaf

it sends

like a feather - floating

to the soil below

the seeds of cycle; of love

we all must now commit to sow

Reaping - weeping

this harvest yields

too often this militant voice

yet so few - these are the facts

but they too often

in vicious anger

wield these terrible and

tragic

acts

These actions that make the evening news

our confidence in human-kind

..often, they sorely bruise

Does it matter of their fame and glory?

Did they think it would make

a 'news-worthy' story?

Did it matter on that April day

when in Oklahoma the blast

took any and all away?

Yet we must remember

Hiroshima - Nagasaki

to the millions of deaths

in some Nazi camp...

the tears shed on each dying loved one

are still wrenched from deep heart sorrow

and are still

just as wretchedly

wet

cold

and damp!

FOR MY DAD: 'VERN, THE FULL-BIRD MEMO' - DAD DIED MAY 26, 1993

Subject of memo: AS WE SALUTE THE GENERAL MEMOS,
LETTERS & FAXES...

By: Vern - THE
FULL-BIRD AUTHOR OF MEMOS

My little cat

so quiet in the house

suddenly 'click'

and the magic mouse

rousted up the General Memos, Letters and
Faxes...

other documents entered format

who was one step above the 'ruler'

and had more authority

than the
cat!

I saw the font read 'normal'

but then I could choose 'times' - or

'new Roman' (they had given up)

Now centered and leaning to the right

was the italic

(the ever-noisy new-born pup)

Off went the Christmas lights

they'd been on all through the night

dangling from the umbrella

tiny snowmen in

plain sight...

Red feet in the breeze

flexing from ribbons so very red

I heard the cat - the mistress of this house

'sneeze'

Then a chipping; clipping - snipping

chirp

a humming bird had started to burp

from the sweetened sugar - a wise disguise

flitting - not noticing

that

silent bird

of Paradise

It ignored the Bluebird of Happiness - a critter

quite elusive

and the Sweet Bird of Youth

(something that is conducive)

Sweet Bird of Youth

my father never knew

with pen in his hand

he wrote of things so true

Scraps of paper by his side

The Old Crow of bourbon - his lover; then

his bride

The Old Crow was always dad's

life-long friend

with his quivering hand he'd labor

until both their lives would end

Things kept dad thinking

ever awake and blinking

like those modern

Christmas lights

He poured out his heart and his liquor

as he wrote of bugs

and blights

So many a night - a precious rhyme and then

...scratching his head in frustration,

he'd try to start

again

Dad never was a 'General Memo' - but he did

letters and filed his taxes

Dad wasn't rich at all

no computer; modem...

never 'faxes'....

Dad didn't have a keyboard and mouse

he didn't use ten fingers

to do his typing

Dad used his fountain pen...

..it leaked, and took a lot of

wiping

No, this Old Crow had nothing soft

not even his favorite chair

Life was hard for papa

and most of it was never fair

Mom - a maiden

laden

burdened

with hunger; responsibility

and poverty

Not only was this my mom & dad;

it was my entire

family!

Sitting back among the trees

was our tiny farm

dad worked so hard

then one day

an arm

blown away by his own gun

now his 'speaking hand'

was paralyzed; frozen

as it laid

idly in that

summer sun

The Old Crow never again did land

because it stood constantly staring

by dad's right hand

Staring - grumbling - now the gray is

covering my dad's aging head

Cancer joined the Crow

and now my dad is

dead

Dad, you left your imprint

like Hansel and Gretel, I've found

those crumbs of bread; I feed

them to my wireless mouse

and this is what they've said...

The mouse did click - General Memo led the way

I found it quite so easy

to write this poem

today

Now the times are new

and a stylish Roman font

set up this form and let me 'say'

...it moved about because my clicking rodent

was working right (finally) this

August summer day...

I found the 'center' - set this style for me

and the Noisy Bird of Happiness

will forever set us

free!

And I promise, my dear father - I'll always relish

another breaking-day

I'll never indulge in 'Old Crow'

and throw my life away!

Dad, I'll make you the Phoenix bird

now that your ashes are in that tiny box

Like you dear father, I've done my share of battles

and graduated from that school they often call

'Hard Knocks'

But when someone knocks it will open

and when someone seeks

one will find

No doubt there will be some type of answer

that will pop into my mind

Thoughts for now - those things you asked me

so many years ago

"Why do you play the Moonlight Sonata so quiet

and so very slow?"

"Why do you race to catch that grounding ball?"

"Why do you climb to the roof-top; I don't want to see you fall!"

Dad, I'm glad I saw your pride as you stood proudly by your

jeep

Dad, I'm glad I was born 'Rambow' even if I had to

dress up like 'Bo-Peep'

In great grandma Grace's costume; I was only 6

I held my rod with confidence

..that fancy bow - the ram that

sticks...

I got to be that straight-A student

then later chosen Bible-School Queen

Only grandpa and mom came to this 'coronation'

you refused; you were drunk - this celebration

...it went (by you)

'unseen'

As did the concerts I played - certainly 3; even four

But dad, you stayed with

Old Crow

and lay drunk upon the floor

You drank your Ancient Age; Old Crow

and Seagrams 7 too

but you didn't live to that ripe old age

No lucky 7's did you

do

So now I've written again - I've talked to you

in this early morn'

Many times I've talked to you with my heart

since the day that I was born

But when I look at my tired eyes

'tearful and green' like yours were

I can not see the blue of skies

when crying creates such a blur

And now I see the humming bird - its always attracted to red

I hear you singing in your wooden box

but, dad - I'll make you rise up (again)

..the Phoenix-bird -from the dead

So, 'pop' - you are the General Memo, letters and faxes too

You are the words I spill on these pages

..I'm just the early-morning typist

who's telling (again) what you always

knew

Now that another document is finished

and it's ready to go to print

I see the tiny sparrow in the tree; it's

stolen another piece of

lint

Soon she'll go to her nest - make fluffy bedding

for tonight

And dad - thanks for helping me do the

'talking'

...in this poem - the truth, we both

did write!

Love, Diane

'CINCINNATI GHETTO' - JULY 4, 1976 - Diane Stirling-Stevens

I titled this "With Little Encouragement From the Wind"

(note: All poems on this 'blog', have been put under copyright April, 2002 - you're welcome to copy or print; I can always write another...Diane)

A rusty pole

...stuffed...

in an

amber beer bottle;

a ragged flag - 2 foot high

the

faded flag

the 'do or die'

50 yellowed stars - on this field of blue

in reality - it was in a nearby field

and what grew

were thistles; weeds - no freedom seeds

and the red; splotched, botched and patched

flag - hatched

from this listless tree

blowing not with any encouragement from a wind

so mighty and free

This ghetto; crumbling homes - struggling roses

buckhorn stalked the frail children

who played with twigs and sticks

as they dug for

lost coins - they loosened the concrete - looking for treasures

'in the mix'...

Yes, on

this 4th of July -

and I asked...'why'...

Frail; dirty - aged faces framed windows

with eyes scorched from poverty's touch

yet they proudly displayed this frail cloth

in a land they loved; that had

promised them much!

These tenements; owned by slum-lords (recently in the news)

as the headlines told how they were counting

their 'stocks and bonds'

(and their colors were in the chips of blues)

as they mingled their good-fortune

with the Governmet 'sound' which was

that of a

subsidy

paid for - not 'idle'

were

their yachts - they are the 'haves'

and they prosper off the

'have-nots'....

This slender thread of destitution; somewhere a line in our

Constitution - twisted round with the

knot and the 'have' knot

is tightly

'knotted'

in these ties, lies,

...it defies

the balance of what is not

natural,

but confusing and filled

with educated nomenclature

..be they words..

or pictures that

are painted;

oiled,

and foiled

framed - lame

as the pig-hocks that are 'boiled'...

My heart ached on that so-called 'Freedom Day'

and I dragged one foot as I went upon my way

a tiny blister I'd developed

from wearing my new and expensive shoes

I took them off - both, so I could truly feel what it is to

'abuse'

my feet on this broken pathway; with splintered glass

painfully aware of that lower-income

'mass'

Prayers; chanting - haunting me as I left

Yes, I would leave - but speak (now) with

words quite deft:

"It's long past due - yes, this tragedy must end;

...yet there's still no encouragement from the wind!"***

***as of July 4, 2007 - "The Song Remains The Same"

(Yes, that's the title of a Led Zeppelin song/album)

'WHEN I PLAY ALIEN' - written August 10, 1997 - Diane Stirling-Stevens

I saw the face on Mars
wondered about all the stars
I see four faces of
the human races
and wondered if they'd ben sent
sort of
'lent'
to this earth
and their birth
was a remnant of a face
we'd find in
space
Some land-mark on a planet
cast in concrete
eternal granite
Once burned in
nose and chin
traveling for years
some type of galatical
mirrors
of the basic four
the four doors - opening
and chose to land
on desert sand
recreating faces in eternity
seeking; finding - new
serenity!

This would result in
'inbred bigotry'
not because they do it
with concious choice
but because it's a
subconcious voice
So the sister planets who launched their travel
would easily find 'them'
and not have to unravel
why the faces had changed
by marriages and procreation
hap-hazardly
..now arranged'
resulting in new features of face
integrated by
mixing 'race'

Imagine that the retrieval spaceships
trying to bring the
'pure' race home
would have to determine as they
would
roam
..scanning; befuddled
faces muddled
Could not retrieve
not pertinent to
'believe'
or in 'faith'
to rely
merely by technology
the 'eye'
programmed to scan and pan
across this globe
this orb
must obey and return
to their beginning
not concerned with mistakes
or someone
'sinning'
No heaven or hell
not required to
pray or yell
So in the quiet of the night or dawn
this evolution and growth
new and continued
generations
..yes, they would
'spawn' and grow
preserve the lineage
no goal or pilfer
no need to pillage
merely a quiet
village
native - pure; refined, not 'divine'
With the need to recreate what they've learned
in the event their earlier planet burned
destroying all history
creating this 'big bang' mystery!
Allowing some type of economy
that required enslavement
paid with coin
but holding a
monopoly
Held by a few
grown wealthy
ignoring the weak
80% of society
truly unhealthy!
The device
by sacrifice
burdened to the slaves of experiment
torment
shack and tent
the abode of bricks
or sticks
dotting a garden
Eden forbidden
hidden - distorted - aborted
and only the chosen upon the ark
would be allowed to leave their mark
this tiring search and generations confused
commercialism - capitalizing
quality of life
so abused
data mis-used
I only wonder and speculate
What makes some love; others hate
I believe this universe is doing just fine
I believe that all that lives
is truly
divine
I can never live to see this white-haired God
I have to die - 6 feet under the sod
I can't reach from that grave
except by imparting
my thoughts; my notes
that I'm starting
and finishing as I type
and certainly with no goal
to hype
or stir emotion or notion
Just by devotion
to my brain - my fingers - I did train
as my mouth; these little letters
release me from ponder
freedom - no fetters
no burdens - no ties that bind
I read my thinking
I'm glad I can see - I'm not blind
I put down on paper - it becomes external
it's added to my journal
my thoughts - eternal
I do not sell it - I don't need a purse
I enjoy writing in meter and verse
To me each is a divine conception
life - itself - in all its forms
life - it's always in season
surviving as it conforms
confirms and advocates
through instinct
with no selection
Trees are never asked to advocate
or participate
in a presidential election;
flowers don't know if they're
weeds or 'deeded'
they remain in tidy rows so carefully tilled
animals - some chosen as beloved pets;
others eaten as food - their bleating or
cackling stilled
by the slaughter and some priority or
purpose
that determined what made
it right or wrong
I'm still puzzled by so many things
so this is my simple-minded effort
and song
but I like myself and so glad am I
to have lived
and learned
and when I die
I'll be glad I lived - asked, and tried;
I'll be glad I loved, laughed and cried
I'll be glad I cherished each day that came
I'll be glad I was true to me
and for the seasons that
remained the same
and even if I did come from the sky
if I'm not supposed to be on earth
I'll remember what made me happy;
what assigned me 'worth'
It was my mother's words (like food)
when mom said the other day:
"Oh my daughter - you are so good."

'JUST WALKING DOWN THE RAILROAD TRACKS' - May, 1990

Just walking down the railroad tracks
still observing
but never searching
still watching
and when I say:

"Who's calling please", the lines of
the telephone company
reach - the lines range
and run
across our country
and the trains still take our
loved ones
across those miles
to Fort Hood
where mother rode
to Florida
where great grandmother
traveled - 1906

dirt-road

not graveled
and
the many years of railroad service
ran across those ties
the 'ties that bind'

yet the ties that were 'broke'
were the backs
of the many immigrants
who from 5/16/1846
had to struggle
to fix
those miles of routes
so we could ride
those broken and gnarled hands
and their weathered skin
could never hide
and no one was there
as the rain was falling
No phones answered their call
No one said:

"Whom shall I say is calling?"

WHEN BILL DIED, I WROTE THIS - I'D NICK-NAMED HIM 'BILLY-BOB-PETE' IN 2001

Billybobpete

sweet

neat

I tap my feet

thinking about

the duck

trying to catch

the fish

having another wish

But if I were a duck

that had a bill

and I could bob

for a delectable treat

maybe I'd catch

that fish

then share this

succulent

dish

after it was grilled on

some charcoal

heat

but for this

I rely on

Billy-Bob-Pete

and I can only do

'bill'

when I can muster up the bob

but now that he's gone,

my meal won't be complete

I can't do do this

without

Billy-Bob-Pete!

WRITTEN BY BILL SWANZY WHO DIED MAY, 2004 - IN HIS MEMORY

Oh what a story that house might tell
for every house has ears
it absorbs
what families leave
in their wake

Good times; bad - births and deaths
to be had
and always a singular presence
a house alive
sometimes happy
often too sad

We take it for granted
when we're living there
We gaze distantly after we're gone
wistfully thinking back
and wondering
if we ever lived
there......

Bill sent this poem as a gift to me - he was a very special man!

I CALL THIS 'BUMPER-TO-BUMPER' FOR ALL THOSE WOMEN WHO'VE HAD TO MAKE A 'CHOICE' - ON ABORTION...

It's not a choice

and it's not a child

unwanted - potentially

destined to be

possibly

abused

misused

neglected

hungry

dying a more painful death

when do we take away

a breath

Born into a world of drugs

possibly sent to war

shot by a 'drive-by' shooter

racing in that speeding

car

The warm choice

a mother's voice

not termination

but determination

to render this

angel's release

surrendered now

to heavenly

peace!

By Diane Stirling-Stevens - May, 1993

'STRETCHED FOR LIFE' - MY TRIBUTE TO RUBBER BANDS - 2/3/03

Every day brings a new sheet

with stories told anew

a poem here; a message there

the scroll just grew

and grew...

Yet still the band wraps it tight

and holds its pages bound

to keep them all from breaking loose

and scattering on the ground!

How many times will it stretch

before the stretching's done

and all that it holds securely

will be left for a

newer one?

How far will life pull it

how many pulls will it take

how far can it be taxed

before it will finally

break?

I like to fondly imagine

that if it snaps one day

the little band will somehow

confidently find

a way

to splice itself together

then tightly knot the ends

and bind the pages of its book

so its story

never

ends!

REMARKS ABOUT THE PHOTOGRAPH: The frame was made by a friend of mine who was injured in the 911 attack - she made this during the course of her rehabilitation.

The rubber bands were sent to me by a friend (Jim) after my 4/29/02 automobile accident that nearly killed me.

The picture is of my great grandmother Grace; my great grandfather Charles, and my grandpa Reese (his first birthday). Great grandmother took a flat-bed wagon to Florida in 1906 - it took her 4 months to make the trip.

Great Grandpa Charles looked after the children and the farm while his wife took 2 hired hands who drove the flat-bed looking for land in Orlando.

Years and years later, that land was sold to Disney - it is now Epcot Center (or part of it is).

I think the poem fits not only my own 'trials and recovery'; Norma's beautiful recovery, but my great grandmother's strong will to become a millionaire at a time when few women were.

I guess it's all about rubber bands......

TWO PINES WHISPER - JULY 16, 1996

Two pines whisper
two birds nest
two eggs (or more)
mama-Robin will rest

Spring - what's on my window sill?
A few Crocus
and a

yellow

Daffodil

Then comes August...

locust

a rainy

September

then a wintry

gust

Life is short - so enjoy

rejoice...

cherish the sounds

of your

loved-ones

who give you

'eternal spirit'

they are your

legacy...

your

voice!

MY DAD PLAYED THE TRUMPET LIKE CHRIS BOTI - 'A HEAVENLY TRUMPET'...

He never heard the voice

of a political puppet

He only heard the sound

of a heavenly trumpet

What a golden voice

that he fought for

in this land of choice

Dad - in the army

under the red, white and blue

Dad, blew his trumpet; and fought bravely

for me

and you

The taps - later, at so many funerals

he played

On that cold windy hill - he quivered

yet brave

he buried his sister

and brother-in-law too

that same day - dad never skipped a note

and that sweet sound of his music

resounded; echoed

over the caskets

remembered and cherished

through

and

through

Then dad's turn came -

he left mom; my sisters

my brother

and me -

May;

in the spring

of 1993

Now I hear my dad when I see

that early morning sky

I know he's making music

when that horizon is bright and blue.

Blew, blew - the wind and his

breath...

Dad, how I miss

you in this

form

we call

'death'.....

FOR OGDEN NASH - I CALL IT: 'NASH-BASH' - 7/23/1998

Ogden bogged in

Nash Bash

Slash gash

sleeve leave

margin chargin'

wider sider

error slippin'

coffee sippin'

loppin' droppin'

crumbs bums

him out

blow snout

glasses lashes

nose pose

prose goes

thin when

man stand

tall all

slop mop

brow now

bag sag

pant slant

lean+bean

wrinkle crinkle

paper caper

limerick sick

slave save

ribbon glib on

rhyme time

for more

later cater

to reader

creed or

pun fun

none done

better sweater

ravel gravel

pile smile

dig rig

dump slump

slouch couch

choose snooze

snore more

best test

read seed

thought wrought

naught fought

lot bought

smile while

write right

snappy happy

rend' end

*********************

I THINK I CAN - I KNOW I SHOULD - 4/20/1997

I walked behind 4 carpenters

1 mason; 1 roofer - this tired troop

from Arizona

work - very little

out of money

I had to feed this

group

I thought about the earth-preserve

saving our planet

whales

birds and horses

Special-interest funding; government grants

..other studies

and college courses

If I feed a starving stranger

could that person one day succeed

and be a

forest ranger

Would it take just a caring heart

a few dollars

and a fresh

new start

Heart-to-heart; ashes-to-ashes

dust-covered-dust

$10 for gas - take a bus,

or go bust

Ears hear better as you walk behind

hearing the needs of human-kind

in a bind

relative, my dear

ears truly deaf

cannot hear

Walking with no legs

would be an acrobatic stunt

finding nonsense tax-sheltered 'puppies'

I'd call them simply 'glorified runts'

Given this blessing to be this near

fortunate to hear the command so

clear

No one begged; I freely 'gave'

no contingencies - or

'how to behave'...

I gave all I had; didn't feel bad

but realized I had no food, you see...

then upon returning to my waiting car

there was a 'note' waiting for me...

There was a flyer - on my wind-shield

..power in that coupon; what did I wield?

A coupon for a 'dog' - free, and what's more...

A large 'soda-pop'...

...I called it a 'score'!

THIGS-BEAR WONDERS....

The Jesus hung upon the tree

a sacrifice for you & me

Yet, if Jesus played as a child in the tree

wouldn't his laugh be more of a delightful

sight to see?

If Jesus has no hands to nail;

no feet

no sandals - no blood

would his love or wisdom

fail?

I think hands or feet

crippling not his purpose

or his heart

I'm wondering what is showing

in all that 'age-old' art....

Hanging head not in agony or shame

but instead - head held up

and no one taking blame

I don't need someone to die for me

I don't want anyone hung upon a tree!

No tree wants to be doused with martyred blood

or become the post for a blessed life, lost

No, let's not write this man was betrayed

Let us join with him - that's why THIGS-BEAR prayed...

THIGS-BEAR thought he heard his name; 'bearing' down - the burden

was it his at birth?

Did he have to 'bear up'; smile - be 'bare' - be cold..

'bear' the truth

...and for what it's worth?

THIGS-BEAR wore his sandals so he could walk

where no 'bear-feet' were allowed;

where shirt and shoes are required

..among the 'people' crowd...

THIGS-BEAR came into 'compliance' - he adhered

to people laws

THIGS-BEAR even learned how to write and type

(difficult with his furry paws)

THIGS-BEAR took to making rhyme

- and a little reason too

THIGS-BEAR often wonders; pondering

all the things that people do.

My story of THIGS-BEAR: I wanted to write, and not use my name - so I 'created' a bear (had a real stuffed bear hand-made in 1989). I had no idea what to name him - but I knew his eyes had to be crossed so he could see more clearly.

I knew he had to wear sandals - like Jesus. I knew he had to have a tree (not a cross) - so I had Bruce Sanborn finish my drawing because Bruce is a talented pen-and-ink artist.

I knew 'all these things'....waiting for an idea for the bear's name, I got a letter from my young nephew (Danny). I'd sent Danny some gifts; he'd had a very tough beginning - but what a darling boy he was (and now is a wonderful man). I got the mail that afternoon -

about 6 days after my bear arrived via UPS from Cincinnati where Gary Kramig had
made the bear according to my design.

The letter from Danny read: "Dear Aunt Diane: Thank you for the thigs you sent me." Then a p.s.: "I'm sorry I spelled 'things' wrong, but I only have my dad's pen and I can't change it'.

I thought: "Everything is fixed, and you can't change it......"

I didn't want Danny to feel bad - I wondered what I could do...........

My new bear looked across the room from 'his chair' that I'd given him - he seemed to 'talk' (and still does by the way).........

"You can call me thigs", he said. I did!

About one week after I wrote Danny that I'd named my new bear 'thigs', my bear spoke again: "Do you know what thigs means?"
THIGS-BEAR did not wait for a reply....THIGS stands for TRUTH, HONOR, INTEGRITY, GOOD-SPIRIT......So it did - and in 1989, I did a
copy-right on all my poetry, and a short-story - it's called: 'IN THE SPIRIT OF SELF'. I re-named my promotion's
business (very small), THIGS, TWIGS, AND CHALK-TALK.

THIGS then told me that TWIGS (which I loved to pick up and save from the trees after a storm), meant: THIS WORLD IS GOD'S SON.....

Chalk-talk was for the children; we handed out pieces of large colored chalk - had the kids draw on the sidewalks and drive-ways; I'd take the photos, and save their drawings 'forever'. I got this idea when I lived in Seattle; a poor little girl (only poor because her parents were) loved to draw with chalk on our sea-wall. She'd cry each day when the tide rose, and washed her drawings away. One day I saw her crying; I talked to her and said the next day we'd save all that she drew. She drew; I took photos - I developed them, and framed them. They were by her bed-side when I left Seattle in 1983.

Now THIGS-BEAR and I are retired; we just make 'blogs' and enjoy our simple ways.

THIGS-BEAR says that blogs sounds like someone spilled 'blogs of milk' on the floor - and what is that 'blog' on the rug??? I say a 'blog' is a 'biographical-log' - the story of our lives unfolding, and we have the chance to 'spill it' not on the rug, but on the I-net where we become just 'another candle' for others to see, and get to know better.

Diane Stirling-Stevens -
Nevada

POETRY - TO ME; WHAT MY CHILD-HOOD GAVE ME!

My mother who would sort her canned goods - wash them; line them up in the basement - noting the colors, so they were 'beautiful' when one came down to pick out a canned jar of:

Tomatoes (red)

Peaches (peach-colored)

Pears - pale white

Green Beans - (green)

Corn - a lovely yellow

The stored vegetables were some type of artistic display as well as a collection of good foods for the winter.

How do I love the way my mother stuffed the toes of the shoes so she and I could BOTH wear them - we were so poor, but her feet were bigger........

How do I love the yellow dress my mother wore at her wedding, and years later, made into an 8th grade graduation dress for me....

How do I love the way my mother pulled 3 old coats together; stripped off the better parts to make 'trim' for the worn parts, so I could stay warm.

How do I love the days and nights?

My mother and dad would tie a chain to an old tree or Lilac bush to uproot it so we could cut it up for wood to fuel the fire to keep us warm.

How do I love the way my parents would stack the baled straw against the house that was so drafty to shield us from the cold winter weather.

How do I love the old rags that were shoved against the doors and windows - keeping the drafts out.

How do I love the way dad made the popped corn for a treat.

How do I love the way mom froze Kool-aid in ice-cube trays (complete with tooth-picks) to give us a treat that wasn't expensive (and our favorite flavor was Grape).

How do I love the old detergent boxes that were cut open; the 'plain side' made into Valentine hearts for our gifts - we each got

A pack of gum

A bar of chocolate...pasted to the heart forms with home-made paste made with flour and water..........

Why do I admire the long nights of mother and dad stacking the wood gleaned from the fence-rows...cut by dad; stacked and stored by mom.....

The soil tested by dad; vials of colors for us all to give our opinions as to the color and how much

Nitrogen

Phosphorus

Potash that should be spread on the new crops to increase the yield.

Why do I remember being the holder of the flash-light,

so dad could see to fix the car...The single light-bulb that was placed under the hood of the car.....so it would start in the morning.

The flower garden flourished because mom made it happen.................The crops grew because dad tilled and fertilized the soil. We picked the edge-rows of the field for pop-corn

From Mr. Nidy's plantings.

We scoured the dump for 'treasures'.

In the Spring, we gathered the wild violets to replant around the well-pit and house. We stacked the pumpkins around the power-pole so it would look pretty for Halloween.

We learned how to take a Willow twig; sprout it in water,

And stake it to make a sturdy tree.

We divided the strawberry plants to make new babies;

We saved seeds from the harvest

To make a bigger one the next year......

We watched dad turn a salvaged furnace into a

Working fire-house

That kept us warm.

We saw my father make a 'water-heater' from bits of steel and ingenuity.

My mother has never gone to a hair-dresser; my dad never played golf.

My mother doesn't know what an LBO is....

My father wouldn't have cared.

My mother washes her car by herself; my dad polished the ones he adored.

My mother will shop at Good-will; she'll give it as well.

My dad would save old inner-tubes; a myriad of 'things' he'd make from these rubber scraps.

My dad would laugh at Red Skelton while my mother would be so tired, and fall asleep.........

My mother tried to learn more words; thanks to READERS' DIGEST...my father would gather financial information from US NEWS & WORLD REPORT.

My parents played softball; bowled, and enjoyed a 35 cent movie.

My mother sang; my father played trumpet - both could dance beautifully.

My dad painted all of the toy furniture he made for us the same green he painted his tractor....

My mother wrote the letters from Santa Claus

My dad made tiny blocks with his wood lathe - then he built a fort from those tiny blocks - glued them all together, and made us cry when we couldn't build anything else

From the blocks he made for "US".

But, not to 'fear'....Mother soaked all the blocks so the glue would 'yield', and we had

Blocks to build with again....

And these blocks

That we built with

Didn't build the

House that Jack Built, but what lived in the house

That my parent's built

Were young kids; pretty poor - pretty scared,

Yet pretty inspired

By the parents who lived in the house;

Who made do with what they had

Who showed us the way

Without "showing us the way'...

Because they took life in stride, and never said "Shit Happens" - they just said:"Life happens"...

We learned to deal with it

As mom and dad did

For so very many years.

Thank you mom - poor turned out to be the best child-hood we could have had.

With love to my mom and dad.

Diane

THIS POEM WON 1ST PLACE; WRITTEN BY JACOB WOELKEL, LAUGHLIN, NEVADA.

There was once a young boy

who became very sad

after he lost his best friend

his loving father

and

dad

He sat in his room

wondering what he was good for

he doesn't believe

that his father was lost

in a war

He didn't know what to do

he lost him in such a hurry

he felt like he was trapped

he was lost in a terrible

flurry

Setting out on his new life

he tried his best to live

But all the love in his heart

he simply couldn't easily

give

It's been a few years

his dad still hasn't come back

he doesn't want to believe

that his father died

in

Iraq

He didn't know what to do

he didn't know where to turn

but he wanted his dad

and his father's love - over and over

how he

yearned

Still living in depression

he keeps on with his life

but now he believes

it has only doubled his

strife

He waits for his father

who will never come back

and he still doesn't believe

that his dad was killed

in

Iraq

By Jacob Woelkel, Young Scholars Academy, Teacher: Mr. Martinez

Laughlin, Nevada - March, 2008.

'SHE CARRIED ME' - FOR SANDIE SMITH - ROLLINGS-RANCH...

I need you; Macee is hurt

hurt - my mind rhymes

this word

with Pert

..shampoo..

..who..

Oh yes, I think P&G

and I remember

"She carried me"

Night-air stings my face; cold - dark

I race

to see my injured soul-mate

I must hold her

the word is

embrace...

I'm choking; I take a short and

anxious breath

with pounding heart and

frightened mind...

"Will this mean Macee's death"?

How warm and sleek is her coat; yet wet

and

why is that left hind leg configured in this
way?

What has happened in these past few hours

..what happened on this January day..

Surreal - the still of time ever standing

while

Macee is not

A phone is shoved into my ear

..this life-line for my beloved

and I feel so weak;

my forehead's hot.

The bucket drops; the curtain falls

A stall - sweet hay; it feels like

prison walls....

We breathe - together; a rhythmic wave
as tears stream down my tired face,

I remember all the joy and love

Macee gave....

I hold her precious head; she lets it rest

so easily in my lap

I think about her earthly life; then
wondering

if she goes to heaven,

can she 'read that heavenly map'?

The hands of time have moved too fast

yet the memory of Macee will ever last

Medication injected;

the pain is lessened
peace

and calm in Macee - yes I see

and I'll always cherish

the memory .. 'my' memory,

...yes...

'she carried me'.

For Sandie Smith, and 'Macee' - Macee died
1/11/08.

Written by Sandie's friend:

Diane Stirling-Stevens

I THINK GALLAGHER REFERRED TO IT AS THE 'OUTHOUSEN 1000'

The last of the out-house generation
For Shirley Valentine***
***Shirley reminded me about how we all had out-houses, and what is was like in the winter (brrrrrrrrrr).
Inspired by Shirley's lovely e-mail
Tromp, tromp, tromp....
Not a tired soldier
A gray little shack looms in the distance,
And I walk slower as I near it
...wishing I were bolder
Opening that creaking door
Checking for snakes upon the floor
Are there spiders anywhere
...waiting to join my seated fanny; possibly my
Goose-bumps they'll want to share
Goose-bumps; little lumps - rise up
All over my body
All because it's winter; it's late at night,
And I had to go 'to potty'......
Oh yes, I looked under the bed; the cold
Enameled vessel bid me sit
I felt the icy edge touch my leg;
Yet since I wasn't doing #1 that I could easily toss
I didn't want to clean up my smelly sh..........t
I was so glad constipation hadn't gripped me
At least that wasn't part of my 'decision dilemma'
Because then Mom would come; syringe in hand,
And that nasty thing called 'an enema'
So, decision made; tromp, tromp, tromp....
The snow crunches as I walk
A flashlight is safely in my hand
I look around for ghosts; the moon is bright,
And I begin to talk........
I talk to myself; assure myself that there's
No one who lives in the city
Who faces this daily and nightly 'chore'
But, hey, they're 'sorely neglected' because
They don't get to do
Adversity!
Then one Sunday we go to visit; some friends who live
In Battle Creek
We enjoy their running water
We use their bathroom; love the toilet,
But we get puzzled by the roll of toilet paper
When it's a Sears' Catalog we seek.
Now we're running to the park - happy to see a swing
We climb the fence; glide down the slide
We're so happy with this outing
...yes, we all begin to sing.
Then a couple passing by tell us we're too loud
We quiet - go to the ice cream store; wait in line
(gee, there's such a crowd)!
We realize we're not prepared for this 'city war'
While we dodge the charging cars and trucks
(gad, what is all this turmoil and confusion)?
This city really 'ain't' so great;
in fact I'd say - IT SUCKS!
Tromp, Tromp, Tromp - but with a lighter step
Skip - jump a little; smile about this
'special trip' - no longer feeling those city folk have it 'better'
Tromp, skip; ask myself if I'm glad I'm 'country-folk',
and as I answer "Yes"...
old Bossy puts her head
Over the fence and moos...
I guess I'll stop and pet her.

Love, Diane - for my life-long friend, Shirley (Valentine) Salisbury

Written: January 8, 2008

GEE, I JUST LOVE MOM-NATURE!!!

I heard the saplings spring forward
From the velvet
mountains who cuddle
their roots
The rain chose
To drench these babes
(they were in cahoots)
While the sun shown brightly
Over this sprawling land
And after

great great great grandma passed
I saw a forest
That was so grand
The Tetons were never blessed
Nature simply didn't toil
To make a deposit

of rich loam; so needed for large

trees

yet
It dumped rain so

snow-caps formed...
On solid rock yet

very little soil
Delicate flowers had need of a home;

no tree would
They ever be
Annualy, they took up residence

in the Tetons' craggy steps
How they blossom for all of

us to see!
But only those that will see
must challenge great heights;
Be 'not 'afraid' - trudge, walk
and
Hike
Joyfully, the bees fly from flower to flower
Never aware they should shouldn't be 'air-borne'
These chubby little insects - wings so paper-thin
Admired by humans

yet eagles would surely scorn

Penguins survive the Antartica
Worms burrow in the earth
Grumpy old people curse the day
Children laugh in the rain; we say they're
Filled with joy and mirth
What I find as I grow older
Beauty is definitely in the beholder
And anger might never really exist
Except because of what I perceive
In my own selfishness, I often blurt out
"I'm pissed!"
Pissed isn't a nice world - it shouldn't be
Placed in a poem;
Only words such as 'velvet' - 'soft'
'loving' - and other expressions
Like the 'joys and comforts of home!'
Home - in the ghetto
Home - in a war zone
Home - without food
Home - and I hear a moan
Home - for the aged
Home - for the sick
Home - for the mentally ill
Home - which one do I pick?
Do I pick my home; is it something I can control?
Home - at best I can see
Is what I find in my soul
I search my soul; I search my 'house'
I search for what I can find
At times the search ends up being
"Paradise Lost"
But then, it's possible "Paradise'
Is all in the mind
Mind - Soul - Heart -intertwined
And salvation might be
'one of a kind'.
That velvet grass folds upon itself; the wind
Rolls it into that fold
The trees grow slightly - and like you and me,
They're showing those signs
Of growing
Old
If I live in a land - barren...not a tree
If I think I'm a desert, I might
Desert me

I sigh; the English language can be fun

as I see

Desert - a climate

Desert - to abandon

...words - humans say them;

write them

(at times, relentlessly).

Sometimes I wish I were a tree
No brain; no speak - no pain - a gain
(quite plain)
If I were a tree, I'd stand

quietly...

while another nest is built in my hair
And I wouldn't question
'Who' put it there.

Copyright Protected (yup, I keep saying that cuz they tell me to) by:

Diane Stirling-Stevens. January 10, 2008

MY UNCLE WORKED FOR FORD; GRANDPA DID TOO...'PUSH-PIN' MEMORIES BY DIANE STIRLING-STEVENS.

"Push-Pin-Memories"
January 27, 2008

Where are my plastered walls;
What is this 'cardboard' stuff?
Oh how I hate this 'west-coast' construction
Ceilings finished with this 'flaky stuff!"
My, oh my - I miss those solid walls
How I miss the brick and pillars
Now I live in this condo' cube
Where holes (once drilled) are full of fillers!
So, what did I do when I set up the desk;
The computer and phone were in place
I used locking screws to hold up the shelves
...had my little office - my tiny 'home-base'
Not basing a business - no more in my home;
Retired (and tired) ...I sat down on my tush
Letters; photos - cards came flooding in
And each time they were saved, because I could 'push'...
...Into those cardboard walls; painted so fresh
A collage of memories have I collected
Now I look at this corner; feel calm and refreshed
...love in my life - now reflected.
Crinkled - wrinkled (yes, some of them are)
But I keep them all posted where they landed
When too many showed up; no space left to to display
I bought plastic boxes; kissed the cards - and with rubber loops
...they're now banded.
Today my mother said it was snowing so hard;
Too cold to get out in the snow
So mom went to the basement - sat on a crate
Went through all her memory boxes; saying
"Some of this stuff has to go!"
But when mom looked through the pile
Mom put back all that she'd sorted
Yes, mission was accomplished
When her mission was aborted!

Written and copyright protected by Diane Stirling-Stevens for herself, and her mother:

Marie Isabel Van Vranken Rambow - 2008.

OKAY, SO ONCE IN A WHILE I WRITE A POEM TO HELP A 'CHUBBY' FRIEND....

"Just Being"

I think I'm burning calories
I think I'm going to sneeze
I think I might have a cold
I know I might be a wee bit old
I think that if I'm 'just being'
A bit of weight-loss I'll be seeing
I think if I eat a bit
My clothes (soon) will fit
I think if I eat a lot
I might not like the 'bod' I've got
I think and therefore, I am
I think I'd like a chunk of ham
I noticed Emeril's gaining weight with 'bam'
He should spray his pans with Pam
Some use too much olive oil
Some fry while I steam and boil
I might sound like a scary witch
I might like a tomato sandwich
Boil, boil, toil and trouble
Watch my chicken soup do a bubble
See the pounds vanish this year
I'm so glad I've 'settled here'.......
Where others care about my goal
Where some even feel my loving soul.....
Where I can post my beautiful smile
Now it's time I walked that mile
..or two, and maybe three..
As I get more beautiful - myself,
I, and Me!

OKAY, SO I CAN ALSO WRITE 'NICE THINGS' & THINK 'NICE THOUGHTS'....

Now, when one writes such a 'bad' Christmas poem (only for fun) one must 'get serious'. So, this was my thought at Christmas, 2007.


The picture of life is completely laid out.
The picture of life is like a landscape; all the elements are in the picture, but it seems humans must have 'holidays' so they can focus on the good things.
The camera pans back, and we see the big picture.
If we get 'lost' in the big picture; feel afraid, or lonely, we make up Gods and holidays so we can cling to something....we focus!
Humans 'zero in' on parts of the picture that make them feel warm; happy, and safe.
Christmas is ALWAYS part of the landscape; it can be celebrated at any time - all the time, not just in a 48-hour period.
On December 24, we wake up - something is supposed to be 'different' - this difference carries us until December 26 when we wake up and everything is back to the sameness we felt on December 23.
The spirit of Christmas is resident year-round; it is a thought process that makes us aware of the joy of life, and those we love.
We do NOT have to spend lots of money; travel great distances, and put our financial state into a disarray just to show others we 'love them'.
We do not have to make this 'trek' to 'love' and the feeling of warmth from others when we can do simple things throughout the year, to exchange and feel that CONSTANT love that should be for all - not just a selected few.
Possibly the reason for the Christ to be born, was because this individual would remind those around him, how important it was/is to keep that feeling of good-will towards others, a 'constant' - something that doesn't 'live or die' during the better part of any given year, or time-period.
We can BE Christmas - we can choose to exude kindness, and become aware of those in our lives...we can understand the human condition, and contribute positively to it.

There's probably more I could 'think about', but for now, this is the 'essence' of what my thoughts were - no doubt, some of this thinking has come to your mind as well. Happy 'thinking'....

FOR MY MOTHER, HER TWIN - AND HER COUSIN; MOM BEAT CANCER 1/20/08

Center text
Refinement
Alignment
Not of stars
Or a chest of service bars
For serving in a foreign
War
Nor a score
3 or more
And four score and many years ago
The poet
Had to write
Quite slow
With penmanship
A pen would skip
The ink
Could blot
And leak a lot
Upon a parchment page
And the 'sage'
Might lament
The loss of inspirational
Intent
Meant for those who'd read
And, indeed,
Identify
As did I
While lying in my queen-sized bed
Wondering what was
Going on
Inside my head
Not a queen - but something seen
In my memory's eye
I could spy
This photo of 3 girls
Bobbing heads of golden curls
One now lies with head so bare
Golden curls have gone somewhere
Silver has replaced the gold
Mother said her head
Is 'cold'
Treatments given for her cancer
Hoping for recovery...
Her 'answer'
Back after so many years
See in her eyes
Her joys; some fears
Shorty - her twin
Tiny; petite
...the sunlight
In
All their smiles
...it beguiles
Me to write of
What I see in
Three....
Solid; strong - Mary Isabel
Stands near my mother
And her sister
...she's swell...
M.I.H. Is so strong
And in this trinity, she does
Belong
As the sturdy root
Holds up a tree...
Mary is the strong-hold
Of that trinity
Marian - so sweet
Marie - casual and free
...I guess that's why they nick-named
Her
'Breezy'
Breezy - the wind;
Marian - tiny and short
Mary Isabel their strong-hold
Mary Isabel
...the fort...
All who see this photograph that I see,
Can see this power
Of
Marian
Mary Isabel, and the
Completed trinity
When you
Add
Marie
See beyond the barren head
See their spirit...
...never dead
Feel their joy that keeps them free...
Marian
Mary Isabel
And my mother called
Marie.

Love to all 3

Diane

IN MEMORY OF GEORGE J. RILEY, DIED 6/11/1977

Just thinking....
By Diane
June 11, 2007
(in memory of George W. Riley, who died this day - 1977)
Some think it to be a concession;
If they show compassion; with near-obsession,
They punish...neglect
(because their life is 'wrecked)
Or jealous - thinking they're being in some way abused....
Mis-used - oh many can conjure up
Nearly any reason
And with each season
The calendar turns
And their hatred earns
Them another month of self-pity;
Selfishness - hating the 'nitty-gritty'....
Holding to old arguments; complaints
...laments that soul who can't forgive
So on and and on they continue to live
And if they can 'buy' themselves enough
'joy'...toys and material possessions
They won't have to make
'concessions'!
I wonder if it should be called 'confessions'
And if we'd remember that old adage
That says to 'forgive and to forget'
...a compound request, some don't seem to see it quite yet...
I think the heart has to love
In order to forgive;
Then the part about forgetting
Comes only when you
REALLY DO FORGIVE!
To me, that thought makes sense to me
At this point-in-time...
Even tho' the words I just wrote, don't carry
The proper 'rhythm'
With my previous attempt to rhyme.
Still, if a poem rhymes but has no reason
And there are many reasons that aren't
Written in rhyme,
I wonder....
Hmmmm - I ponder,
And ask: "Will some of us
run out of time?"
Or will we continue just to 'run'
...simply focus on what we call
'fun'...
Fixate on what we deem success
and soothe our actions
by simply calling this world
'a mess'....?
What is a mess, but simply our opinion
...a conclusion - viewpoint; in our world
of 'one'
over which we have dominion...
But, if each world of one perceives itself as bearing no debt; no obligation - always right...correct
Correct me, I said to me - and stay as correct
as I can be....
Don't base how I live on the way others do; help
me to forgive....
...Let me learn that that's when I will 'forget'...
Let me remember each day, and not fret...
Yet....
Were it not for others whose kindness has shown me
That 'tolerance'; 'understanding' - common
courtesy....
All gifts from those who have this forgiving love
within their heart
and allowed me to remember if I've stopped.
And when and where, I again should start....
For 'GJR' - Mr. Riley....stern; honest - and
'very wily'....
intelligent; resourceful ...yet struck with
George's 'sharp tongue'...
....yes, many of us got 'hung'...
....but each time I dangled on my own mistake
each time Mr. Riley scolded me...I would take
...a second look - and I'd see
Mr. Riley only wanted to 'improve' on 'me'!
So with eyes wide awake - early morning; today,
For my own sake....
I remembered years ago - praying....
...."if I should die before I wake"...
When it hit me within the blink of an eye:
that: "I should wake before I die!"
Diane Stirling-Stevens.

AND WHEN I GET A BIT CYNICAL - OR FACE REALITY, I WRITE MORE PROSE.

Playing Dominoes

when you don't have any...

Diane Stirling-Stevens, January 30, 2008

I saw a film about a tiger
In the zoo
Who
Shared his cage with 6 piglets.

I see a lion
In the zoo
Who lays down with the lamb
Because the zoo feeds him dinner

I see the zoo
and wonder if it's like a Super-power
The government who provides
..some, but not all

When the zoo fails to feed that tiger;
When the zoo doesn't bring the lion
His dinner
I see 6 piglets as the main course
And the lamb turned into lamb-chops

When the zoo can't pay its workers
The zoo will lay the workers off
The workers will climb on each other
As one slave climbs on the back of another
To get out of the quarry
To quarrel..............

The lion and the tiger will fight
There will be blood; death, and their
Off-spring will be meat for the
Vultures
And what vulture

will be content

to lie down

with 6 piglets

and a few

lambs?

W. Diane Stirling-Stevens
January 30, 2008
Written while our I-net server was down over 5.5 hours, and could
give us no answers why.

Guess that was good, because I wanted to get this bit of prose done
someday when I had time - today, thanks to CMA, I had the time.

Smile.................................

THE BRILLIANCE OF LINDA HUBER'S ARTISTIC TALENT - ANOTHER FINAL SKETCH - PERFECTION!

Orange for my foot-man; you lazy old pup
Orange for my carrier to pick me up
Orange is not a word that can rhyme
Unless you orange for the Queen - with her accent - it's time
To orange for Linda (no word can I find)
A rhyme for Linda - but no poet shall bind
Me to such lingo - such restriction can I 'foller'
When I decide on what is proper; and what I'll allow her!

Linda - that lady - how she does inspire
Linda - that woman - in no single day does she tire
Linda - the inspiration to all who live
Linda - she does all; she is all that can give

Linda - the inspiration; late at night ... ever active
Linda - the lady - not only productive, but reactive
Linda - my precious - how you do labor...
Linda - my goodness, I do wish you were my neighbor!

I wrote this for LINDA HUBER - IMAGINEE - she is just about the most terrific sketch artist I've ever seen!

I'm using one of her beautiful pictures that she did, to head up this poem.

Diane Stirling-Stevens

I JUST HATE POLLSTERS....THIS IS MY POETIC 'JUST IS MINE' RANT....

Polemic Polecats and Pollsters
Contrary opinions - skunks, and Questionnaires
Combine all P's and you have 3
Oh pollster, do not question me.

I'm not anemic
I don't do Polemic
...if I get tired
I get sick

Sick of people picking my brain
Picked too clean - I could go insane
Oh Mary, Mary - how contrary
and did your profits grow
Mary, Molly, Many flowers
Of blabbing daffy-dills - all in a row

Row, after row - line 'em up
Up and down; pick their opinions - tell me

'what is hot'... then
'plant' them on a public spot
...tell the world

About what we got!

Ah, now that felt good - got that off my chest!
Diane

Copyright Protected (like, why??) Diane Stirling-Stevens

I LOVE THIS POEM BILL DODDS WROTE!

Big Mary
Mary had a little lamb,

A little toast,

A little jam,

A little pizza

And some cake,

Some French fries

And a chocolate shake,

A little burger

On a bun.

And that's why Mary

Weighs a ton.

Copyright Protected by: Bill Dodds

YES, THERE IS A SEASON FOR ALL THINGS - I JUST HAPPEN TO LIKE SPRING BEST!

And there really is a season for all things

while some seasons are less obvious than another

There is a time to sew; a time to reap

and sometime there is weeping done

by a grieving mother

We rarely see the tiny sprout - the tree that never was

But we hope that seedling that was given to the river

Found a new life....

'just because - just because'

We see that river - rippling ..sometimes calm

We hear the birds as they nest in the tree

We hear the music; we hear the psalm

Yet, if our ears are deafened at birth

Is there still a joy - a true delight

And if we're blind and can not see

Is there really a day

and a star-lit night

Five senses we're supposed to receive

But if shy a few of those

Can we still believe

And if we can't have a mind that comprehends

does that mean the river never bends

The river does, as rivers do

The universe is universal

So it really can see you

And if I was looking back to see

If you were looking back at me

To see if I was looking back at you

Then where 1 or more are gathered

There I shall also be

- yes, 'tis true.

But when there is only 1; this - too

Shall be called a gathering

When 1 is joined with spirt and self

it's definitely a 'smathering'

I don't know how to weigh a smathering

I do not have a chart

I do not need a scale

I only need a heart.

Diane Stirling-Stevens,

February 11, 2008 (from my book of poems)
(c) 2/11/08.

I WROTE THIS POEM FOR 'DANCES WITH FORKS' - MY BUDDY! DIANE STIRLING

OLD-FASHIONED GOODIES IN A MODERN WAY
For Dances with Forks - inspired by her words
(c) Diane Stirling - March 1, 2008

Sometimes we're hindered - we have so many words
We'd like to say
But those we'd like to share them with
Live so many miles away

Long ago, many lived next door to mom
A few miles from grandma - and to our
Home, they'd often come

A basket of 'goodies' - bread; a pint of cream
Old bossy had given up her gift of milk;
.while that coffee pot would perk
.and we all would dream

Dream - aloud - share our joys
Talk about the girls all growing up
.and the naughtiness of our thriving boys

Then a recipe we'd tried; each would write it down -
.maybe one would drive that pick-up; rattling
.loudly as we drove to town

A quick hello to the postal carrier; a wave
.to the man who ran the hardware store
.but now it's the I-net; a computer - a 'flight' of letters
.'sent quickly through at 12:34

They tell me it's called 'packet-switching'
A technology so bewitching
How nice to send our gifts of love
(and no one sees how my skivvies are itching).

I don't have to comb my hair; don't even have to
.wear my shoes
I can do my laundry; watch my soup
....still share my heart
- and the latest news!

BUDDAH-BEING BY ROBIN URTON; POEM BY DIANE STIRLING

For Robin's Father

Today I walked among the trees

Lulled by the music of the birds

Caressed by the soft,

Warm summer's breeze

Life and death - both join the moist morning air

I am 'linked' - ever so inter-twined

No life is without purpose

No death without some despair

The warm soft earth beckons my return

it's black; it's soft - comforting is the sod

It holds the roots of the Redwood;

It will hold me safe when I return to God

No one breaks the chain of life

The cycle that ends

With a new beginning

No one decides who loses the battle to breathe

No one declares (but God) who is

Winning

So, I beckon the morning; walk upon this humid sod

I'll pass through that portal - farther from my home-land

But closer to the hand of God.

Yes, this is the God that some define;

Others just accept

...some require no definition

But one thing they all have in common...

.......all of them, have wept.

Love, Diane

PAINTING BY SANDIE SMITH - HER FAVORITE POEM...

Inversnaid
This dark-some burn, horseback brown,

His roll-rock highroad roaring down,

In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam Flutes and low to the lake falls
home.

A wind-puff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth

Turns and twindles over the broth

Of a pool so pitch-black, féll-frówning,

It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew

Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,

Wiry heath-packs, flitches of fern,

And the bead-bonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereft

Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,

O let them be left, wildness and wet;

Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
-- Gerard Manley Hopkins