'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