Dad, Mentor and Friend

Dad, Mentor and Best Friend
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To God be the glory for my father’s love;
I celebrate Father’s Day with this in mind.
I offer all honor and praise to You above
For the rich treasures in my dad that I find.
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First and foremost I see his deep Love for You
That You placed within his spirit a long time ago.
His faithful Obedience follows this love so true
Reflecting the fruit of Your Word here below.
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His Reverence for life is so dear to his heart
For You have so blessed him with Your reality.
His endless Devotion to You plays a major part
In his constant practices of impartiality.
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It’s impossible to put into words what I truly feel
Towards my dad, my mentor, that You did send.
So I leave this with You, Lord, as at Your feet I kneel,
Thanking You for this precious dad. . . my best friend!
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© 1998 Jeanne E Webster. All rights reserved and observed
Written for Dad, Virgil S. Webster
Father’s Day, June 21, 1998
(Dad went home to be with the Lord, 2008)

Hoary Scritches

 

© Jeanne E Webster. All rights reserved
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A poem-a-day in the month of April?
Is a tad bit silly; goes better in May.
But an order here I will fulfill
About what or who I just can’t say.
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The reader will have to wait in line
As the poet scritches the hoary head
Crossing the Ts and the words align
Wafting at play the slatey threads.
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I whoof off those stringy cobwebs
Sit up straight and take a breath
Thoughts pop in, then out they ebb
Some alive, others scrubbed in death.
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Cheerio! I say to anyone present
Read these lines and in between
We shall have daily times spent
A’ scribbling in this blogging scene.

The Seasons and I

© Jeanne E Webster All rights reserved

 

Gentle rains sprinkled their drops
Upon your seeds of infancy;
You burst forth in innocent rapture
Richly adorned with velvet greens.

Warm rays of sunshine soothed your bosom;
You sparkled with bright colorful displays.
Mature and strong were your gestures,
Fulfilling your designated plan.

Rustling in with cool, dry breezes
Autumn interrupted your attempt at glory,
Fading away your majestic beauty,
Leaving you stooped, wrinkled and grey.

Abruptly entered cold, harsh winter,
Drawing to a close the role you played,
Blanketing you in pure, white finery

For
Services
Rendered…
Such are the seasons and I.

A Rainy Fling

© Jeanne E Webster – All Rights Reserved
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A little drop of rain, quite a dainty thing,

Can be a harbinger of a grand stormy fling.

Itty dribs of rain, combined a million times,

Slush themselves into a cloud-bursting chime.

Tiny raindrops tap, a pitty-patter prance,

Tinkling out a soft-shoe clicky-clacky dance.

Ploppy rain drops clomp, a splatty-slitty smash,

Thunking like men in a five hundred yard dash.

Rain is thirsted after like dry-on-dusty dirt

Showering the earth in teeny tiny squirts.

Eager eyes anticipate the end of the day

When that glorious rainbow films its display.

Hallelujah!

A Long Ago Story

 

© Jeanne E Webster. All Rights Reserved

“Jesus loves me this I know…”

Curled up in bed, she finds no escape from Mommy’s piercing cries. Softly tiptoeing to the window sill, she  longingly looks up to the heavens, as if searching for an old friend. She believes her home is out there and a heavenly, loving Papa awaits her return. Since learning the “Jesus Loves Me” song at Vacation Bible School one summer, she drew much comfort and hope. Peering impatiently into the dark, starry expanse, she pleads with her Papa. “I don’t like it here anymore, Papa. Please send an angel to take me back home.”

Only five years old, she knows fear… fear of her stepfather. He’s hurting Mommy now, and she’s afraid she’ll soon be the next victim of his drunken rages. Trembling with dread and hatred, she hears him bellowing her name. The routine is humiliating. He forces her to remove her clothes and stand before him naked, then proceeds to beat her with his army belt. Glaring into his eyes with intense rage, she is most afraid of crying in front of him, not the pain he inflicts. He mustn’t know he has hurt her; she must remain strong. “Please, Papa. I’m so afraid. I want to come home.”

“For the Bible tells me so…”

Stumbling through school with average grades and many sick days, she grew slowly into an angry, stubborn, withdrawn young girl. Teachers comment on her report card, “She will not act like a young lady. She’s always fighting with the boys.”

Home life is chaotic. Constantly on guard when her depraved stepfather is present, she keeps mainly to her bedroom or stays outside until nightfall. His lack of morals is evident as he prowls the house, naked except for a newspaper shielding his privates. “Thank you, Papa, for making me strong and protecting me. I wish Mommy would be strong enough to leave this nasty person.  I asked her once why she puts up with the beatings. She said, ‘Because I love him.’”

“Watch over me, Lord.  I still want to come home but I don’t know how to make that happen.”

“Little ones to Him belong…”

Many years passed.   The young girl mellowed into a happily married mother of four. Life was good for the first few years, but overshadowing this semblance of normalcy was the Viet Nam war. “Papa, watch over my husband and protect him from harm and send him home to us soon. The kids really miss their daddy. Thank you.”

“They are weak but He is strong…”

Daddy returned from war a stranger, dishing out physical and mental abuse on a daily basis to the young wife. Physical battles ensued with resulting scratches and bruises. Before long Mommy had become the villain, according to Daddy. He encouraged the kids to hit her, declaring her an unfit mommy. The Sears & Roebuck catalog was searched routinely for a new mommy. Divorce ensued after Mommy got on a greyhound bus headed for nowhere, leaving her whole world behind and calling it quits to the abuse.

Due to the fierceness and severity of the divorce dynamics, the young mother had only one viable option regarding her children. She had to leave them in the care of their father. There were no safe houses, no support for abused families in those days, and she had no family support or a job. Her husband promised to shoot her if she applied for a divorce, removing the children out of state would result in a kidnapping charge, and both options were not in the best interest of the kids. A dead mom and a lifer-in-prison dad were not good alternatives. So she walked. And inside…died…for a long while.

“Please take care of my children, Papa, and protect them from harm. I know You are stronger than anything life can throw at them, and they are good kids. They are my life. I give them back into Your hands. I know I will see them again someday; that’s all that matters. I love you, Papa!”

Epilogue:
Long ago Anna B. Warner penned the song, “Jesus Loves Me.” A young woman took those words to heart and believed them and staked her life on them. Why? The Bible told her so! The Word of God is far mightier than abuse, fear, threats and even death itself.

The Song of the Lark

 

© 2013 Jeanne E Webster. All rights reserved

A dazzling orange sphere emerging in the eastern sky
[Or is it slowly setting in the west? Any comments?]
Roof ridges atop a teetering, shadowy farmhouse and barns
Cutting into a golden idyllic horizon.
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Acres of lush verdant weeds/crops lie in a blurry expanse
Fast forwarding to the large brown cultivated plot of dry rows
As the viewer closes in on the central figure with amazement
A peasant woman standing in the front of the field.
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She is the foremost and largest object tiered in the painting
A dark blue bandana wrapping most of her dark brown hair
A faded blue weather-worn short-sleeved blouse
Tops her denim work apron tied across her mid-section.
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Muscular arms and hands accustomed to farm labors
Dark cotton-looking full length skirt stops at mid-calf
Soil smeared stout feet walking forward in mid-stride
Along a well-worn compressed field path.
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Thick black eyebrows outline her bright blue eyes
Her lips part in wonderment as her cheeks flush
Standing erect, her eyes seem transfixed and glassy
She waits–gripping a scythe in her right hand.
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Lo, she is suddenly mesmerized by the song of a lark
Her entire being appears to hold in pause mode
Beautifully enraptured facial features,
Almost religiously painted, one can sense the passion
Of the young peasant woman abruptly taken aback
By the sacred sound of the lark.
Beautifully done.

 

[Ekphrastic poem describing a painting by Jules Breton: The Song of the Lark]

The reproduction seen here does not do justice to the painting, as it is dulled in brilliance and the colors are quite subdued. This is offered merely to give the reader a small semblance of the real painting.

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Friday Morning Coming Down

 

© Jeanne E Webster—All Rights Reserved

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Enjoying a swing on the patio

Sitting in our little “Rose Garden”

Looking at that pale blue sky

Rain’s gone now, I’ll pardon

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Blurred with white chalky scrapes

Overhead is a see-through image

Last night’s leftover half-moon

Must ‘a lost the rest in scrimmage

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Hummingbirds all a’ squeak

A winged rush hour traffic jam

Zooming like mad robotic bees

Deftly loving the ambrosial jamb

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Gum trees shake off their sleep

Casting shade all over the hills

Cicada males not yet awake

Dreaming of their mating shrills

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Melodious call of an oriole male

Not yet sipping of my nectar

Crepe myrtle in fuchsia regalia

Rose petals, the sun rays detector

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A blue jay is squaring off afar

Probably out protecting his mate

Neighborhood roosters a’ crowing

Pleased that the showers did vacate

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A dull thumping of railroad cars

Mulishly moving down the tracks

Loaded with sooty coal, I guess

Heading up north, a’ clickity-clack

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A hummer just flew past my nose

Stopped on a dime then returned

Saw my bright red shirt, I reckon

Inching closer, drooled and yearned

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Ready to propel even closer now

Till I uttered, “I don’t think so!”

Off it flew with a squeak and snip,

In a blaze of its slinky chapeau

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Bathed my two Cavalier Spaniels

Got my front end as wet as they

But I can’t run around the yard

And shake off and loudly bray

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Certainly I knew I had better not

What would the neighbors think?

An old lady romping with dogs

Surely needs to visit a shrink

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But when those baths are done

Oh, to become a little girl again

I’d chase my tail and play dog

Bark and run after the mailmen

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I’d dance the day away… maybe

But I’m afraid this tired ole body

Would give out fast and furious

Put me to bed with a hot toddy

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My knees would grate and grit

My hips would start to grumble

The hard ground would beckon

And I’d surely take a tumble

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But jes’ for the tiniest moment

I would be all tickled and pink

For I’d soon be soaring home

In just about forty odd winks!