Wednesday, December 9, 2009
I LOVE TREES OF ALL HEIGHTS AND COLORS - LOVE THIS ONE BECAUSE OF THE ABUNDANCE OF YELLOW FLOWERS!
Friday, September 11, 2009
One of my favorite authors - Henry David Thoreau.....
http://thoreau.eserver.org/walden00.html
Love, Mom
Friday, June 20, 2008
I remember hoping I'd live long enough to see my children all grown up.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
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!
I wrote this May 14, 1994 - TRASH-CANS APPEAL TO ME
I wrote this March 13, 1993 - 'FOR THE COMING SNOW'
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Friday, April 4, 2008
I WROTE THIS FEBRUARY 19, 1996 - IN MEMORY OF THOSE WHO DIED IN THE OKLAHOMA CITY BOMBING...
Thursday, April 3, 2008
FOR MY DAD: 'VERN, THE FULL-BIRD MEMO' - DAD DIED MAY 26, 1993
Faxes...
other documents entered formatwho was one step above the 'ruler'and had more authoritythan the
cat!
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
'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
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
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!