Nature Echo Series Book 2 26565b

THELMA BARLOW BLAXALL

Copyright © 2013 by Thelma Barlow Blaxall.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013906123 ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4836-1978-1 Softcover 978-1-4836-1977-4 Ebook 978-1-4836-1979-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 06/28/2013

Xlibris Corporation 1-888-795-4274 www.Xlibris.com 120110

Contents

Blue Ribbon

Streets of Time

Spark of Love

The Suitcase

Granmom’s Quilt

Childhood Innocence

A Walk in the Trees

The Corn Shock

Do I Hear a Sigh

Is This the Front or the Back of the Tree?

Maiden Voyage

Maple Tree

No Place to Dream

Plea

Red Leaf in a Fir Tree

Release

Remembrance

Shane

Shoulda Done and Oughta Dos

Summer’s Remains

Tall Trees

The Broom of God

The Coach

Honeysuckle Fall

The Dancing Trees

The Sadness of Seasons

The Tractor Boy— Come Back, Shane

The “Word”

Truth

When the WBOC Crew Came

When

Goodbye Questions

Appalachian Woman

God’s Nature

Golden Girl

Blue Ribbon

A blue ribbon Lying on the ground Brings memories of a season gone Families searching for a Christmas tree. Child shouting, “This one’s for me.” This ribbon from my hair tied to a limb Will hold the tree until we come again! The merry echoes reverberates With a child’s voice who was marked by fate For an early death before her Christmas tree date. We’ll put aside these thoughts for now. Until the season again occurs.

Streets of Time

Walk with me through the streets of time: In the date of my birth I felt sublime, At the age of ten I pondered my life, Caring for others, this would be my strife. At fifteen, my first love became The person to whom I would return again and again I walked the streets of learning From six to twenty-one, And then began in earnest The work many had done. Marriage at age twenty-three; children were not to be Divorce beckoned and again I was free. At forty, a chance meeting with one from afar He then becomes my final star. Through the years the books ruled, ‘Til, at last, at age sixty-six I was through school

Looking forward I wonder when I will walk the streets of time again. I watch, I wait and feel the weight of ing time.

Spark of Love

The spark of Love Is quick to light, With promises of Forever burning bright.

But promises Are soon broken When the flame Burns out, human Nature is unable To comprehend That lovers would Rather be friends

The Suitcase

Deciding to go was the easy part Though I knew I’d be traveling With a broken heart

The suitcase held our memories The sadness, the joy, the promises made And through the years we might as well say, We called a spade a spade

The first time we went, we had too much to pack on our return. So we borrowed a suitcase all tattered and worn. As the years went by, each trip we took We promised to return the suitcase, but of course we did not.

This final time to go was only by one. To bring a final goodbye to family and friends made abroad. One traveling alone because of loss due to death

She arrived at the airport and was greeted by family Who knew when they saw the old tattered suitcase That the memories it held were made by one Who would not return—because she stood alone.

Granmom’s Quilt

Patiently the needle weaves in and out Held by the hands so gnarled. Creating the beauty that will be cherished without doubt By the family spread out across the world.

The children both grand and great Have received the quilts Granmom has made. First there was Fran, in the first year at a Philadelphia college dorm The quilt became his reassurance from home. Then there was Ritchie so far away at a New York State dorm, Who in the cold winter reached for Granmom’s quilt to keep warm. Then Robbie, who loved the reds in Granmom’s quilt And Dennis, who when lonely wrapped himself in his Granmom’s quilt. Lisa was next, the first girl to be born. She hugged and hugged her quilt until it became worn. Sharon was the next, Granmom babysat her.

Great-grandson Robbie received two of Great-granmom’s quilts this fall As he departed for college and Greg, Lex, Christine, Barbara Ann, Daniella, Dennis, Michael, Jacob, baby Ryan, Trent, and Matthew Also have quilts. This woman from Appalachia, the Blue Ridge Valley of Virginia Is still sewing quilts For the great-grandchildren who continue To cherish their own Granmom’s quilt. And memories of war and quilts sent overseas To cover the bodies who had no other warmth. We will all have memories such as these, Such as the one of The Granmom who sits quilting.

Childhood Innocence

Childhood innocence is still there And other memories held by prayer. Common lives and common thoughts Are the stuff which life has brought

If God’s grace would be a part of his intent, Take, receive what he has sent.

A Walk in the Trees

A walk in the trees to savor the breeze That will shake all the problems away Then return to the world And say what a beautiful day.

The Corn Shock

You sit there, a corn shock With a pumpkin nesting in your parts. Is it only I who can see the beckoning door To your internal space?

ing the quick scramble of a child To enter your secret place. Immune and safe from an angry voice Where stars could be seen and safety felt by choice.

ing still a mother’s voice Shouting, “Run, child, run” To escape the raised hand she felt Whenever the man would come.

She still re the safety Amidst the shock of corn in the tepee home

Even though the ground was cold And she thought she never would again be warm.

Do I Hear a Sigh

Nobody asked, what will you be? It was all decided for me I became a puppet And did what I was to do Until along came you.

Was it the middle years Or was it fate that a writer’s life came Knocking at the gate?

The book became an obsession I’d regret. To everyone’s questions, I’d answer It’s not finished yet.

In the wee hours of night I’d hear the ideas bounce Up I’d get and write

And a poem would emerge Maybe not worth an ounce.

I still feel the stir Of an idea or two At age sixty-nine and the book Is a whir, but the poems are still there.

Is This the Front or the Back of the Tree?

And finally, in the true spirit of Christmas, I must pay homage to the tree, which is where this all began: Many times we would hear this question:

Is this the front of the tree or the back of the tree?

Dear, oh, dear, oh, gee, oh gee! Is this the front or the back of the tree?

It looks to be the same all around But it measures differently in the front and back from the ground! Dear, oh, dear, oh, gee, oh gee! Is this the front or the back of the tree?

I want a tree that’s not too full, but, Still it must hold a stockingful! And the birds must eat it day after day After it’s been thrown away!

So it must be full, you see, but Dear, oh, dear, oh, gee, oh gee! Is this the front or the back of the tree?

Maiden Voyage

She still re the shock Discovering the meaning of love It happened soon after she met The man she thought was to be her future.

The double date she thought Would be full of fun and freedom Until she noted the bruises on the hands and arms of her friend.

She wondered aloud at the End of the evening. At the injustice of that hurt she had seen And said that no one had the right to hurt another.

It was then that the man She was with exploded

Full of drink, his arms flailed Attempting to jab her eyes With his fingers.

Escaping she ran to the nearest policeman With fear so evident She was still shaking

It was then she matured And vowed to be careful And years later ed The maiden voyage she had taken. When a man showed her The true meaning of love.

Maple Tree

The maple tree beckons on a hot summer’s day She went and stood under it Wondering what it had to say The soft summer breeze blowing Cooled a parched brow

As she looked in to the future wondering how To cope with the pain She knew would come again and again Knowing there would still be more

A chair right here and she knew Would solve the problem for now However, the time would come When every movement Would be a chore.

And so she enjoyed the day And said, please God, no more. Oh, Maple Tree, please shadow me And from the pain please set me free!

No Place to Dream

Life sometimes gives sorrow So unexpectedly. When sunshine is all , Gloom creeps in and rules over our souls How can we change the circumstance And control our destiny? As life goes on We sadly learn These events were meant to be.

Plea

Come read my poem and share my soul, An author to be, so I’ve been told Sleepless nights creating thoughts That speak of life and what was brought

Never as yet to earn a dime Yet to create and say it is sublime The future for me is full of hope Yet with rejection I’ve had to cope.

Another time, another place A life filling a different space The joy of saying what I feel. Is the payment received for my spiel.

Red Leaf in a Fir Tree

Bright red leaf in a fir tree In early October. Traces of Season to be In Late December.

Visions of Christmas With colors of red and green. This could be the earliest Christmas I’ve ever seen.

Packages wrapped and hidden Here and there with care. Amongst the branches of Spruce A red leaf tied with a ribbon so loose.

And memories to spare Of joys we’ve known

Before the red leaf Into the fir tree was blown.

Release

I cried because I lost a love. I cried because I was alone. But when I spread my wings and flew I knew that I had grown. The love I lost was free to roam And found somebody new. And when I turned my head to weep Standing there was you.

Remembrance

I long for things I cannot say Perhaps it is for yesterday What is it I then? Who says to me please come again?

I stand there in the church door What is it I am looking for? Someone to say oh you’re so and so And I say yes; it was years ago We were children then And shared the things that children do No hurt or pain, we knew then that we would remain Eternal friends, The way friends do!

Shane

The knock came on the door One day about one. “Do you have any work? I need money to have fun!”

So Shane got on the tractor As he had done many times before And proceeded to mow the grass in the trees until about four.

I went down to see If the work was done And flashed a smile As bright as the sun.

He finished the work And headed out for the night All bright and sparkling

Confident everything was all right.

Earl called us in the morning And said Shane died at two.

I asked how—and he said on an ATV Was all that he knew We’ll all forever , this boy of the night And know he’ll forever be shining in heaven’s light.

Shoulda Done and Oughta Dos

An echo comes so loud and clear I hear the voice repeat the words As often she would say to me The shoulda done and oughta dos

Our voices often heard discussing Her memories of yesterday Combined with her wisdom Of life we live today

She spoke of things she’d never done Of a childhood and her search for gold The gold came as a result of giving And the wisdom learned When she sacrificed her self in living

The pain of living shows

In the face of ninety years I know the memories will never leave Of mother and her veil of tears.

Summer’s Remains

As winter approaches, and fall is warning There comes a vision of summer’s remains. A bird that refuses to stop singing A scampering squirrel among the fallen leaves.

The sky so blue it stuns the sight A moonlit sky with memories of a summer’s eve A leaf that refuses to change color And children’s merry voices in the night

The early dew that refuses to freeze The sun that never goes down at night An overhead sky of forever blue The feel of soft rain in the twilight

These things I see and wonder why.

The feeling I have in me That I have yet to discover. Waiting for that someone who Maybe yet another lover.

Tall Trees

Moon-shadowed, towering in the darkened night Animals dark and furry Lurking beneath their branches The trees stand quivering in the wind With lashing snow melting against their trunks.

They soon would no longer have a plan The one before gone awry by man. Their growth a missive to fill the need of man Would no one want them ever again?

Then a lonely sound is heard The whistling wind has now reappeared In need of a helping hand When the trees form a path To send the wind on its merry way The tall trees again have a friend.

The Broom of God

Every day I walk around the trees And look upward and ponder the breeze Some days a slow lazy wind will take forever to blow again. At other times a snapping sound Made me look up, and all around A movement like a broom would make Goes back and forth like a rippling lake At other times a frightening roar Will the wind uproot trees? Or is it only the broom of God That controls the breeze What is the mystery of the breeze?

The Coach

The shy little chicklet looked up at the voice Is she my mother, I have no choice She looks kind She gives me food and tells me about caring about others who are in dire need. The children of Nicaragua Who are her speed She ministered to them and spent tired night worrying about their future and their scurrying for food. Her mind never rested God was calling. Lassie adored her As did the sheep and Texas the cow Who saw her as a postulate Taking her vows

Honeysuckle Fall

The summer days are gone now The fall has finally arrived The warmth of the season Convinces the honeysuckle to survive

Trailing along the walkway With wafting fragrance and brilliant white Its blossoms so unbelievably pure It brings remembrance of the fleeting days of yore

We will this honeysuckle fall And the way it still curls upward Not wanting to let go Of the ion of the summer we knew.

The Dancing Trees

I envy you the freedom of blowing in the sky. I’ve often wondered if I could float, would I reach as high, as you, and if not why?

What is there that allows you freedom While I sit and hope That if there were another life Perhaps I could reach your scope.

You never have to talk or explain why The rain and sun keep you alive And the wind keeps you dancing While I sigh and sigh, At all the questions I am asked beginning with why? Is there a different road I could take

To escape these earthly woes? Who has the answer? . . . and the questions grow and grow.

The Sadness of Seasons

Each season comes when least expected Too busy with my life to notice Spring’s warmth in April Summer’s breezes in June Fall a quiet time in September Winter’s wisdom in December’s Moon.

All time merges in the rush of life And days are lost in the midst of strife If I could go back and begin again Each season would be ed as a friend.

The Tractor Boy— Come Back, Shane

He looked so brave, and flashing a smile, so full of grace No one knew his life would change in such a little while The tractor chugged along the tree rows, precise and neat In no time his job would be complete. Many times we had seen that sunny mischievous look as he departed for an evening of fun. His adventurous ways became legend as he reached Out daringly to life and enjoyed the sun. Never fearful of trying all there was to try We knew that life would never him by. As we sat at the memorial service before going To the gravesite We wondered at the fate which had taken His life at seventeen the previous night He would never again be riding the tractor in the trees He would be flying with the angels sharing the heavenly breeze.

I walk to the trees ing the smiling boy At times, he’s there and I share his joy.

The “Word”

Happily to school she’d go with spirit of new-fallen snow: Until the day the bus was full, so she sat near the ones she knew. She heard one say, “Who’s that?” The other said, “Nobody,” And so in pain she sat.

The haunting word returned again, years later, when she agreed to help a friend. The child she helped was slow to learn, and needed a ride to school and home. One morning she heard him say, “You’re Somebody and I’m Nobody.”

She told him of his specialness, the warmth and love which he possessed. His sparkling eyes and joyous smile would create a special day for his mother and his friends at play. ing her childhood hurt, she wondered who had caused his pain, when she heard the word “nobody” again.

Truth

Oscar, don’t you know the sky’s not always blue? Nor is there truth In everything we say or do?

If there were ways to make sure The sun would always shine. Then there must be a way to know when we are telling lies.

To be untrue and be afraid Are things we’ll always feel. As somehow, life will , Our lies will be revealed.

When the WBOC Crew Came

It was a hot September day, When I had a call from Lisa, She said, “I hear you write poems.” I said, “Who told you that, yes, I do.”

The crew came and then set up their equipment. I sat and read while they leafed through books.

It was then I was asked to read And voice shaking I read poems about Nature, children, and people I had known.

When

Heart aching, soul searching In denial over time Is there an answer? It’s a mystery But sometimes it is sublime To begin again would be joy not known to him or me

Goodbye Questions

My heart is sad My spirit blue All I can do Is think of you. Are you at peace In heaven above Or do you miss me As I miss you, my love?

Appalachian Woman

Born of the mountain with no free will She overcame much, ill will and such Her smile became her path to glory Forever having a special touch With the sisters and brothers she helped raise While the mother worked out for little pay

She loved the smell of each day’s new dawn. And the special odor of the wood she’d burned, Never knowing the secret she’d learn From the use of herbs, which were used to heal burns

She listened and heard from the mouths of others Advice which was helpful for the rest of her life It was about the time of her thirteenth year That she was first molested and had secret tears No one believed her, and the shame she endured

It was to shape her life forever in sadness Erasing her joy and stealing her gladness.

She sits alone, a widow now And talks to the next generation of life Of the pain she endured, the time of strife

Her hands are busy with quilts, as she tells Of the days when her life began with glory Before her innocence was stolen and the dreams She had were still all golden.

God’s Nature

I saw the sun come out today, the wind has swept the clouds away. The changing sky gave hope to all; I saw the sun come out today. The trees were blowing, feeling free; I knew that soon the trees would be in all their glory swaying free. I saw the sun come out today.

The birds were singing loud and clear; their musical voices nice to hear. Tall and fresh the blowing grass was swaying in the breeze at last. I saw the sun come out today.

Rabbits, squirrels, mice, and men looked upward and began again to see the world with hope and cheer. I saw the sun come out today.

And in the world for one and all; finally, freedom came to call.

Golden Girl

I sat in the College of Nursing commencement looking on with pride at the students who had received all the graduation honors, ing the goldenhaired twelve-year-old girl and that summer of long ago.

She had been a tempestuous and independent preteen and was making unwise decisions. We invited her to spend the summer with us.

And so the metamorphosis began: she learned responsibility in caring for her horse, learned to cook, and realized an afternoon spent quietly reading or just thinking was time well spent on what her future held.

And she has given back in life. Parents of two boys, she and husband, Danny, were foster parents to a child with cystic fibrosis, from birth to death. Book 1 of the Nature Echo series is dedicated to this child. She now is a traveling nurse going to where she is needed when duty calls. The girl with golden dreams has found that life is what it seems.