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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Walking The Stones A Memorial Day Tribute By Stephen Craig Rowe

WALKING THE STONES

Spring sweet blooms

Blossoms

buds and

twittering

Birdsong

Sun warmed face.

Breaking my stride

To a slow march

as

Row and row of

White Stones

Row after row of

White Stones

Stark upon

Dark green

Late

Afternoon lawn.

Alone

I walked the Stones

Reading inscriptions

Name, Rank,

Branch of Service,

Date of

Birth

and

With reverance

softly touched

some

Stones with

Hand and

In the center of the

Cemetary stands a

Stark white Stones

Cast

Late afternoon

Shadows

As

I

Unseen

Formaly marched around

the statue.

At each compass point

North, South, East and West

Stopped and faced the Stones.

Came to Attention

And saluted

The Silence

In Honor and

Respect

Then went

Walking the stones.

 

As ever be well.  With love,  Stephen Craig Rowe

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Spring Rapture On The Ridge And Roses

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Spring rain folds leaves on the ridge and winds cause some branches to bow, then snap back to wave in a thunder clap
and flash of light.
Roses twist and turn in winds, gain strength as new buds grow to form blooms.
Though I have been away
I am still here and there.
As ever be well
Stephen Craig Rowe

Rain on the ridge again by Stephen Craig Rowe

January 14, 2013 3 comments

Free And Alone. Painting Studio Poem by Stephen Craig Rowe

February 4, 2012 3 comments

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This afternoon a rather large cat was walking on the internationally famous ridge behind my house.  Twice as large as a house cat and had stealth in each silent step.  Local feral cats keep to the yards and must be fed by neighbors.  They could not catch a bird or mouse, though they try.  The birds seem to lure the cat and flee just in time.  Then perch nearby and sing a chirp.  As though they had won.

Free and alone on a road going nowhere,
Head in the sky
Hands in the garden
Dreams wrap around

Reflections  in the wine. 
As ever be well,  Stephen Craig Rowe

Mothers Day Weekend Thoughts by Stephen Craig Rowe

Family

     For many years Mothers Day was just another very busy time at the restaurant and when I found a pause in the madness of the rush would call and wish Mom a Happy Mothers Day.  Am most fortunate that my Mother is still about, in good health, with bright mind, fine humor and is an avid reader.  A book a day at least and of course a daily walk.  When I was ill she would call every evening to see how I was fairing.  Sometimes the conversation would be brief and other times we would go on about this or that, chat about family matters, history and such.  The most important thing for me was the sound of her voice, the caring and ever abiding love.

     Now we have a weekly call on Sunday evenings unless something urgent arises that must be discussed or acted upon and in the meantime my sister Carrie keeps Mom up to date on my posts and blogs.  

     During my walk this afternoon thoughts were of what I was about to write this Mothers Day Weekend and am still not sure.  I am sure that my Mother loves me and I love her more than words can tell. 

     I recently searched the Bob Dylan song IF NOT FOR YOU and will try and leave the lyrics here. 

“If Not For You”
If not for you, babe, I couldn’t find the door
Couldn’t even see the floor
I’d be sad and blue if not for you.
If not for you, baby, I’d lay awake all night
Wait for the morning light
To shine in through
But it will not be new if not for you.
If not for you, my sky would fall, rain would gather too
Without your love I’d be nowhere at all
I’d be lost if not for you
And you know it’s true.
If not for you, my sky would fall, rain would gather too
Without your love I’d be nowhere at all
Oh what would I do if not for you ?
If not for you, winter would have no spring
I couldn’t hear the robins sing
I just wouldn’t have a clue
Anyway it wouldn’t ring true if not for you
If not for you, if not for you.

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     “If not for you”,  This weekend let us think, remember, share, honor and love our Mother, here or there.  Love you Mommy.  As ever be well

 

   

Thoughts About Holy Week And Easter By Stephen Craig Rowe

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   Good Friday rains kept some indoors until an afternoon pause allowed one to walk damp streets strewn with storm debris, gaze in wonder at the greening of lawns, trees, the morning mad sky gone quiet now, for a bit, with ominous clouds still swirling a promise of more rain while sad-glad wildflowers shook and shimmered rain drops as their colors drew the eye to nature’s silent poetry.

   There was no other as I walked, though my prayers are for those near, dear, in dreams and so very far away.  Near and dear as Saints and the ghosts that dwell in my blood, bone, mind, heart and soul ever eternal.  Everlasting from before time began, shall go on forever for time shall never end.  That which is, is forever.  Or so it is written.  Or so they say.  I for one ever fear to follow, yet never fear to follow myself through burning run for there is the stuff of life given as a sacred gift and trust.

   To me, the trust is for humanity to assume stewardship for the planet Earth that we are gifted to dwell on.  Ignore it and it will go away.  Cosmic dust is also eternal.   See all the stars in the sky,  See all the nails on the Cross.  See all the seas gone dry, see all the lands gone stark.  Never see the stars for some have closed their eyes. 

  Not me on my watch this Good Friday, or ever, Earth Day is every day and you are stewards of the Earth in Heaven and here.

  In my wildest dreams, I pray.  Some keep me awake all night long because I talk to the Host, the Ghosts, the Saints, Spirits, trees, sprites and the old ones.   Sometimes they talk to me.

    Just some thoughts about Holy Week, Good Friday and Easter.  As ever be well, with love,  Stephen Craig Rowe

Seven Roses Rain On The Ridge by Stephen Craig Rowe

Seven roses slept the the winter, quiet or not, one does not know what goes on under the snow.   Or what to expect when the thaw brings back signs of spring.  Perhaps deep roots speak and twine deep in the earth or perhaps they sleep through the cold dark nights. 

That they are about with small nibs and tiny leaves is a joy to behold.  As is the kind warm breath of spring and the rains that cleanse old streets, cause winds through open windows to refresh the house.  Oh yes those windows sparkle open or closed in this glass house.   For there one can see within and without.

Seven roses.  Can they sing and will they flower?  They sing to the eyes without a voice and cause pause that is most poetic.  In the heart of the rose poetry is and ever shall be romantic as sweet as the most tender words ever spoken.   There those words remain ever held holy in reflections of wine, glass beads and tears.  For the seven roses are again in the garden.

As ever be well,  Stephen Craig Rowe

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