rancherwriterpoet

Poetry, musings, reflections, life

Archive for the category “Poems”

IS THERE ANY…GOOD NEWS?

In the humdrum of everyday life, we often wonder about the circumstances of living and dying. As I spoke yesterday of the loss of a beloved pet in our midst, I am largely at a loss for words. Some have lost loved ones this past year. It is difficult to overcome the effects of death, whether a pet, a friend or a family member. Yet, life does go on. And for humankind, there is hope. I’m no expert on theology, however, I am confident that God is in control of our situations. He gives us peace and even joy to guide us through those challenging times.  Watching the evening news we often ask ourselves a question. This article tries to answer that question.

Malicious tyrants terrorize their people.
The news bears witness everyday,
Their cronies torment unwilling victims,
taking their freedoms away.
Lives are inflicted with shocking brutality.
Authority has blurred their vision.
Even good leaders turn from morality.

Mayhem fills the hearts of men…
Time… and time again.

From the ancient of days to modern day times
From Saul to Ahab to Herod of old
Nations and people have lived in fear
of kings and emperors and others so bold.

But God sent us His Son, Jesus, our King.
Who stepped down from His golden throne.
Good Tidings, Great Joy,
Oh, how the angels did sing.

And there were skeptics all around…
Because a Savior had been found.

And the authorities question;

“Can you not see the irony of this?
This child… a king…? Born in Bethlehem…?
Can anything good come from Bethlehem?
Is this some form of mockery?

I… am Herod the Great,
I will not step down.
I… am the ruler of this land.
Seek him out if you must
But know that I am king, not Him!”

And from more skeptics we hear…
Misguided… mostly from fear…

“From a lowly peasant girl…
You ask us to receive…
This babe— as our King,
This is what we should believe?

Surely, Yahweh God is more than able.
Our foes cannot be trembling at this sight!
Perhaps He could have come another way.
In kingly robes and a gleaming crown
Perhaps a chariot with eight white horses,”

Yet in this manger, a King is found.

for it is written:

“And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.”
Luke 2:12

“He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High; and the Lord God will give Him the throne of His father David; and He will reign over the house of Jacob forever; and His kingdom will have no end.”
Luke 1:32-33…

How many Kings stepped down from their thrones?
For you…? For me…?

Only One!

The King of Kings and the Lord of Lords!

“Shout for joy to the Lord, ALL the earth,
burst into jubilant song with music;
make music to the Lord with the harp,
with the harp and the sound of singing,
with trumpets and the blast of the ram’s horn—
shout for joy before the Lord, the King”.
Ps.98:4:6

There IS Good News! JOY… to the World!

Advertisements

From the Highest of Heavens

Some say we are in the Christmas season, but I say, God is never out of season. People sometimes take Him out of their box in December, put Him back in the box in January and leave Him there until Easter.
This is the reminder… as we celebrate the birth of Christ with family and friends; let us also take the time to reflect on our worship of Him throughout the year.

“From The Highest of Heavens”

“The one who comes from above is above all; the one who is from the earth belongs to the earth, and speaks as one from the earth. The one who comes from heaven is above all”.  John 3:31
“And the Lord God Almighty said, “But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, though you are too small to be among the army groups from Judah, from you will come one who will rule Israel for me. He comes from very old times, from days long ago.” Micah 5:2

In the highest of heavens,
Even, the heavens above the heavens,
The Most High sits on the glorious throne of the
Lord God Almighty.
In the beginning and from your splendid throne,
You Were…
Before the equation of time became measurable,
You were God…
Before the flawless design of endless space
You existed…
Before cosmic matter came into being
You were present…
Before God-breathed humanity was fashioned
You were…
Even before nothing …
You were…

And even before all of this, my name…,
MY NAME…! was on your lips,
And my soul… MY SOUL! was on your mind.
Love for me… was in your heart, because,
You Were…

And in that highest of heavens,
at your right hand sat your Son, Jesus,
with the Plan for my soul.
—You whispered my name, He said, “I’ll go!”

Then from that highest of heavens,
Down through the endless space,
in His measured time,
Brushing aside celestial spaces to
save humanity as the True Light…
In flesh…,through a virgin birth, He came…

And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, and we saw His glory, glory as of the only begotten from the Father, full of grace and truth John 1:14

Here in the month of December, we celebrate the physical birth of the Lord Jesus Christ. But today isn’t His birthday, and neither is December the 25th. For we celebrate not the day He came, but that He Came. Some ask, was it real? I say, my friends, yes, His Birth was indeed real. He is real.
Can you imagine God whispering to Jesus, the names of everyone ever created in His image? Even before the world existed?…

God whispered your name…
Then He came…

Christmas wasn’t going to be like all our Christmases before

For seventy-eight years, I have been celebrating Christmas. At my age, don’t expect me to remember all of them, but one I especially remember is Christmas, 1948. I was nine years old and we were living in tough times, not that I knew anything about that. It was said that Santa Claus was not likely to visit our house that year. Because of the divorce of my adoptive parents and the illness of my grandfather, my mother and I lived with my grandparents.
My grandfather, Papa, was suffering with cancer and many believed would not live until Christmas. My mother told me he had a disease that was infectious. That was to keep me from bothering him. I wasn’t allowed to go in his room; but I did stand at the door and talk to him. I remember Papa smiling at me between his coughing and wheezing. I always thought he would get well. Once, during that Christmas time, I sneaked into his bedroom, even though it was off-limits to me, and I told him Merry Christmas. He motioned for me to lean over closely, so I could hear him better. He told me that better times were coming, both for him and for me. I wasn’t sure what he meant, after all, I was only nine.

Now, in hindsight, I know that Christmas 1948 was a memorable one for me. I’m sure you have an unforgettable Christmas in your memory. Christmases are supposed to be a joyous time, a time for family to come together and share the joys, to celebrate the birth of Christ, and to remember the good things. Sometimes it doesn’t quite turn out that way, but then again…

You See… I Remember…

My folks didn’t want to celebrate Christmas… in nineteen forty-eight.
We had no money and my grandpa Papa, was so sick… he didn’t even know the date.
My Granny Mama wasn’t feeling well…, seems like Christmas might have to wait.
And if old Santa even came at all…, he’d probably show up late.

No…, Christmas wasn’t going to be like all our Christmases before.

No one much wanted … to decorate that year
Wasn’t going be like Christmas… wasn’t much Christmas cheer.
Then my Mama set about… to proudly trim a little tree
Thankful for the neighbor who cut and gave it to us free.

Mama wrapped her little tree… with gold and silver rope.
placed her special angel on the top!… she said, “to give us hope”,
like the angel from the Bible announcing Jesus’ birth
telling all the shepherds of Good News that’s come to earth.

I remember helping Mama… decorate our little Christmas tree.
And I remember especially…, all those joys it brought to me.
It had loads of shiny lights… that glimmered all around.
And Papa’s homemade ornaments… that almost touched the ground.

Our decorated Christmas tree… stood in its usual place.
Over by the window…‘cause we didn’t have much space
We had no chimney in our home… that Santa could come down
So I hung my cotton stocking by the door… just in case he came around.

But Christmas wasn’t going to be like all our Christmases before

I remember Mama… made her breakfast Mac and cheese
It was her specialty… we all were very pleased
I remember Papa peeking out his bedroom door
And saying maybe… Maybe Christmas might be like before

But, No, this Christmas wasn’t meant to be… like all our Christmases before

I remember Mickey Mouse… and the watch I got that year
And my cotton stocking… packed with Christmas cheer,
crammed with apples and oranges and walnuts and stuff
And good hard ribbon candy, plenty sticky… sure enough.

It must have been old Santa… who left those gifts for me,
‘cause no one had no money… and stuff like that’s not free.
But sometimes… like at Christmas… miracles do take place
And seems like miracles always put a smile on a little boy’s face.

But Christmas ‘forty-eight wasn’t like all our Christmases before.

So many years have passed since that Christmas ‘forty eight
But Miracles still happen…and that’s cause to celebrate
I remember Mama… telling… the wonder of Jesus’ birth
And Papa listening closely, his last few days on earth.

Ahhh.. Christmas ‘Forty-Eight…it came and went so quick
And Papa kept us laughing just like he wasn’t sick
Then February nineteen forty-nine, his cancer staked its claim
Christmases… ever after… would never be the same.

No…, Christmas wasn’t going to be like all our Christmases before.

Just a side note, one Christmas when our family celebrated together, I bought some cotton stockings like my Granny Mama used to wear, and I fixed each grandchild a stocking with the same fruits and nuts and stuff I got when I was a child. They thought it was funny… I smiled at the memory.
You see… I Remember… Christmas ‘forty-eight…

I’m pretty sure I know what my Papa meant when he said better times are coming.

Thank you for allowing me to share some of my thoughts with you.
From me and all my family,
I hope you have a very miraculously, and memorable Christmas.

 

LETTER FROM THE GOVERNMENT

This is not intended to be any type of political statement. I merely compiled all my tax information to send to my accountant for the preparation of my income taxes. I had this idea to write about it and it is meant to be a humorous article. Perhaps at this time of year, you may also get a chuckle from it. I hope you take it that way. Of course, if you have to pay any additional amounts, then you probably are not laughing. Sorry about that.

To the agencies listed in this poem, don’t bug my phone, don’t track my tweets, don’t publish my private information across FB or Instagram or the local newspaper. Don’t mention it to any television station and by all means do not send this viral on YouTube. Keep my name out of it. Thank you and I appreciate it.

Letter from the Government

I got this disgusting letter from the IRS today
Said I owed them money and soon I better pay
First of all, I ain’t so sure I owe them folks a dime
and what they took from me must surely be a crime.

I called The GAO about stuff their Office buys,
using all my money which ain’t no big surprise.
They offered no excuse and sent me on my way
They said that maybe it’s just time for me to pay.

The DHS is famous for the safety of the land
But they declined to help me with my simple payment plan.
They said that maybe I should call the DOC
But the DOC said not to bother, unless I pay a fee.

So I called upon the FBI to check for DNA
They mentioned I should maybe call up the CIA
The CIA then told me that my stuff is classified
Then they asked me what it was that I was trying to hide.

I hung up my telephone in case I’m being bugged
If I’m thinking otherwise, it’s possible I’ve been drugged.
It was suggested that I could call the DEA
But they’re known to share their files with the CIA.

I could keep this up all day and for many days to come
But all these folks in government, they all think I’m dumb
Like EPA AND FEMA or maybe FANNIE MAE
Then there’s POTUS and FLOTUS and of course the FAA.

And don’t forget the BEP, the most important one I know
They’re the ones responsible for printing all the dough.
Sirs, I need a little more to pay my past due tax amount.
That way the IRS can settle up my account.

ist2_5855720-income-taxes

Pete Robertson
Feb 2017

If you are so inclined you may check out this link to see where the government spends your money. It is a list of ALL (hopefully) government agencies that have a budget.I think you may be surprised at the length of this list.

http://ucsd.libguides.com/c.php?g=90902&p=584912

The Peculiarities of Nature

I sometimes feel the need to explain myself. No matter what course of action I take, it does not always seem illuminating. I wonder if you ever feel that way.
In writing this poem I was influenced by the weather of late. Temperatures hovering in the teens and a smattering of white fluffy stuff drifting about the surface of a frozen earth. Living here in North Texas, we occasionally experience varying degrees of weather. Snow, ice, cold temps, makes one want to stay in bed. Well at least when one gets to be my age. Maybe I should not generalize.

Let me put it this way, I, at times, want to stay in bed and can’t. I find the circumstances to be exasperating. The occasions that come to mind are those in which I find myself with a serious motive for rising early. On these occasions, my desire is to stay there however, the circumstances prevent that desire.

On the other hand, some mornings I am not obligated for any particular project and have the freedom to stay a bit longer. However, I awake at an early hour and find myself unable to go back to sleep. Such is the revolving degrees of slumber and I have no solution.
So here are The Peculiarities of Nature. Perhaps you may see the motivation in this poem.

The Peculiarities of Nature

The early morning sun rises daringly
through the slits in the venetian blind.
Peering timidly from within, I resist approval.

I battle its domain;
He, not willing to retreat,
Me, not ready to abandon my comfort.

His actions imperil my sense of slumber.
As the darkness retreats, I stare helplessly,
Even as my vision flounders in the shadows,

Events of pretend still fresh
Of faraway places in my mind
I struggle with consciousness.

I feel bewildered.

I seek authority; there is none
I seek motivation; there is none.
I seek insight; there is none.

The whims of nature are tenacious.
The glimmer of his powerful rays
overcome my illusions of self-possession.

His persistence is overwhelming.
The venetian blind, raised to the limit,
my eyes are focused distinctly.

The morning ritual is bright and cheery
and I reap the reward of full satisfaction.
Good morning, Morning!

                                                                                                                                       Pete Robertson
© January 2017

Stay warm, wherever you are.

 

When I was Young

 

In the past few months, I have experienced the effects of an autoimmune disease known as RA. It certainly has been on my mind lately. It is a nasty ailment, affecting many people. It is incurable, however, with modern medicines it usually can be controlled. It is said that women are more likely to come down with RA than men. I remember my grandmother suffering from the effects of arthritis. Statistics show that a descendant of one with this disease is at an increased risk of developing RA. The statistics also show that most that do have this disease are usually between the ages of 40 and 60. When I was young, I considered these people to be old. Now, I am much older than that. However, age does not factor into whether or not one acquires RA, although,  we tend to associate it with the older generation.  I will not discriminate on the basis of age as I have great empathy for all  who suffer with this syndrome as I do.

This consequence brought to my mind, the evolution of age. This poem is a reminder of that process.

When I was Young

When I was young,
I reached out
To be picked up.
and cried until I was.
I crawled
until I could stand.
Then I stood… and fell…
and stood again
and crawled and stood again,
until I could walk.
I walked
and fell and got up
and fell again and stood
until I walked again,

When I was young
I mumbled and muttered
and tried to speak
And tried again
and cried again
when I could not…,
until I could speak.
and when my words
were misunderstood,
I cried again.
until I could be understood.
and the world around me
was so small
when I was young.

Now I am old
and the world around me
has magnified
and is no longer the same.
yet I do not see clearly
and I stand carefully,
and I fall and get up
and stumble again
and cry and try to speak
and mumble and cannot hear
and my words are misunderstood.
Maybe the world around me
Is not so big after all
just like when I was young.

Pete Robertson
©November 2012

I hope you have a wonderful (and pain-free) day.

The Day of the Storm

This winter of 2015/2016 has been one for the record books. I do not believe I have ever experienced the ups and downs, twists and turns and such variable temperatures as the season has brought us so far this year. I believe that you, the reader, no matter where you live, may have gone through much of the same.

I felt a little poem coming on to support my assumption. This week, in Texas, and especially North Texas where I live, has been very wet and stormy, with high winds, tornadoes and flash flooding. Thus far, it has been as described.                                         My poem illustrates only one day. I simply called it,

The Day of the Storm

The morning breaks silently
with a formidable mist in the air.
Still, the forthcoming day
will bring unenviable clamor.
lightning will flaunt the heavens
Thunder will roar across the sky.

As the morning comes to a close
the orderliness of routine
will inconveniently cease to exist.
marauding winds will subdue the calm.
Unforgiving and intolerant
The rage in the air will angrily erupt.

Midday illustrates fearfulness
Yet it is serene calmness that
Placates a few, alarms several,
Even concerns many, for
the disarray will have its day
And the rains will stalk the stillness.

The night will bring more turmoil
Darkness and storms convey fear
Anxiety will increasingly intensify
As the hours, dwindle away
We search for reassurance
That will put our minds at ease.

and the annual seasonal events
will share the tranquility with
the turbulence and the tension.
Yet the serenity of composure
Will abide in the comfort of
knowing Who is in control.

Pete Robertson
March 2016

PHS Class of 57

“And the class of ’57 had its dreams,
But living life from day to day is never like it seems.
Things get complicated when you get past eighteen,
But the class of ’57 had its dreams”.

I attended my 55th high school class reunion this past Saturday evening in Palestine, Texas. I am very grateful to the Class of ’57 for always including me. I never actually graduated from PHS. I had a long-standing desire to enlist in the U.S. Navy. I could not contain myself; consequently, at the end of my junior year and on my 17th birthday, I did exactly that.
Many of my classmates were supportive of my decision and to this day, the class has always been gracious to include me in the reunion just as though I graduated. Therefore, I thank each of you.

There were forty-two classmates out of one hundred twenty-two present. Having attended many of these reunions, I can attest that our numbers are dwindling. The list of those who are missing is growing. Larry commented that in 1957, those who may have been celebrating their 55th reunion would have graduated in 1902. It rather puts life in perspective as we realize the class of 1902 no longer celebrates a reunion. I hope as long as there at least two members of the “Class of ‘57” still around, that you will drink a toast to all who have gone on to their rewards.

As we meet each time, we remember all of those who are no longer with us, from the first to the last. At this meeting, thirty individuals have passed on. That is 30 out of 122 classmates. Who among us will not be here in 2017 for the 60th reunion? It is a sobering thought.

As Larry read every name, I tried to recall any memory I had of that person. I, of course, knew them all, some more than others. I believe George Coleman was the first of the Class of ’57 to pass away. I knew George from outside the classroom.
After a hard fought football game Friday nights on Luckett-Kolstad Field, I would make my way to the Eilenberger’s Bakery, where I would box donuts for Mr. Hurley Coleman, George’s grandfather. We had a connection because of George. Some of you band members may also remember that George played the cornet (?). I tried to play the French horn in my freshman year; however, I could not master it well enough for Mr. Roy B. Karen was much better.

One of my memories of Class of ’57 was serving as the manager of the Wildcat’s basketball team. I was “the little guy” who picked up the towels and supplied the water. I still have my letter sweater. Still fits too, but then sweaters do stretch. I must confess, I have difficulty in remembering my coaches and do not have the benefit of researching through the Arc Light. My daughter has the books.

Other Memories!

Does anyone remember sitting in the classrooms on the south side of the building and smelling the cottonseed oil from across the street? (No AC and the windows were open.) I do not remember what class I was in, only that I was in there just before lunch and the smell made me so hungry. In those days, we had no cafeteria and either brought our lunch or as many did, go to Bratton’s Drug for a barbeque sandwich. A quarter would buy a sandwich and another dime would get you a Coke.
Wonder how many drinking straw covers were stuck to the ceiling? A piece of gum on the end of the cover was the challenge. I know had a few to stick.

How about the dodge ball games in P.E? Well, for the boys, anyway. There were no oversized balls for these games as they are today. We used the small balls that fit your hand, about the size of a softball. They could really sting when they hit you.

There was another graduate from the class of ’57, many will remember, “Maggie”, Mike Henderson’s constant canine companion in all of his classes. She was the ideal student. I do not remember her ever causing a problem and she received her diploma along with Mike. Do not recall her GPA; however, I am sure it was higher than mine was. Check your Arc Light. She is in there.

I certainly had an enjoyable evening visiting and reminiscing with the Class of ’57. I look forward to another one five years from now. We might begin to think about having it a little earlier in the day. One way we can relive the “good old days” is through our memories. Memories are brought to life through our dreams. The “Class of ’57” had its dreams.
I hope all your dreams are in color.

Postmortem of a Dream

Thoughts develop mysteriously.
I shudder, a ripple effect, I am certain,
I am baffled in my slumber.
Dreaming? Nay… Dreaming in color!
Dare I dream in color?

I see red from a child’s crayon…
Then; …rubies… cherries… roses…wine…
What gauges these mysteries?
Their meaning escapes me
In my dream of color.

Not to be confused with memories
where are the answers?
Confusion is not premeditated,
Never synonymous with nostalgia
Even in dreams of color.

Hence those mysterious thoughts
are scattered into oblivion,
and I am left unfulfilled
Wondering not about the dream
Rather that I dreamt in color.

                                              Pete Robertson                                                                                   

Copper Pennies

As I was emptying my pockets before retiring for the night, I dropped a penny on the floor.
It brought a thought about how we treat the penny in this modern age. They do not mean much anymore. There was a time from 1793 to 1837, when the penny was made entirely of copper.
It had value. In 1837, they changed the composition to bronze. Pennies are not made of copper any longer. It became too expensive. Throughout the years, it has changed numerous times until 1982 they became 97.5 % zinc and 2.5% copper-plated zinc.
It remains so today. Except, it isn’t of much value. Did you know it costs almost .0125 cents to produce a coin that is valued at .01 cent? Could it be that people in general disregard a penny lying on the ground because it has no value? Who stoops to pick up a penny?
It crossed my mind that some people correlate that with persons who seem to fit a pattern of “worn out”, obsolete and perhaps “used up”. Who stoops to pick up a derelict?
I hope you can get the meaning of this poem. At my age, it certainly speaks to me. Just because the coin I see laying on the floor happens to be of no significant value does not mean it is no less importance in our society. An old, obsolete copper-clad penny not worth picking up? May it never be so!

Copper Penny

In my dreams, I touched reality.
Along the way, rested a penny by the wayside,
well-worn, discolored, begging to be picked up.
People passed by, disinclined to stoop over
for an obsolete, copper-clad penny.

In my dreams, I touched cynicism.
If I were, a frayed, tattered, antiquated soul,
like a penny, languishing by the wayside,
Would people pass by and refuse to bend over
for an obsolete, copper-clad penny?

In my dreams, I touched certainty
If I were a crisp, sliver of green currency,
Like a treasured icon of extravagance,
Selfish people would stumble over themselves.
But, not for an obsolete, copper-clad penny.

In my dreams, I touched optimism.
That this would not portray legitimacy
of a pompous, arrogant and disdainful society.
Stoop, bend down, won’t you pick up
this old obsolete copper-clad penny?

                                                                                              Pete Robertson
                                                                                              September 2012

Have a nice day.

Words

 

Burning Bridges: To do something which makes it impossible or at least very difficult to return to an earlier state. Often used in situations where you have to make a choice which cannot be undone.

Words

We’ve all been down this road before.

We spoke too soon, no doubt.

for when the brain is not engaged,

the words just pop right out.

 

Sometimes our faint and feeble minds

Can’t think that far ahead.

we don’t look before we leap  

and don’t remember what we said.

 

Those hapless thoughts we’re thinking?

they’re clogging up our mind.

We can’t escape, no place to hide

No haven can we find.

 

But, here’s a concept to consider:

The reckless words we often tattle,

Can lead us up a crooked creek

without a single paddle.

 

So, keep your mouth all tightly closed

Resist the urge to scream

And never, ever burn your bridge,

Before you cross the stream.

  Pete Robertson                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

                                                                                       

Post Navigation

Fun E Farm

One Family's Adventures in the Search for Sustainability

Shootin' the Breeze

and random targets

Morning Story and Dilbert

Inspiring, Encouraging, Healthy / Why waste the best stories of the World, pour a cup of your favorite beverage and let your worries drift away…

Storyshucker

A blog full of humorous and poignant observations.

Dodinsky

In The Garden Of Thoughts

Carlson Property Tax

A straight-forward blog about property taxes in North Texas, Dallas Ft. Worth and Surrounding Counties

Chris Martin Writes

Sowing seeds for the Kingdom

chester maynes

Poetry and Poems

The WordPress.com Blog

The latest news on WordPress.com and the WordPress community.

%d bloggers like this: