My Favorite Christmas Storoem of Mine

The Garden Statue

The garden statue catches his eye.
It is ordinary – gray plaster, two feet tall,
but it is something he feels compelled to buy;
although for doing so, he has no explanation at all.

The statue is an angel, standing, head lowered,
a solemn look upon her face, cradling some object
lovingly to her chest. At first he puts her with stored
items, but later displays her in the yard – the subject

of complaint from his wife. “Sitting at the kitchen table,
that thing will be prominently in view. I don’t like it much.”
“It seems to belong there. I don’t know if I will ever be able
to explain. It intrigues me. The angel herself is cast with such

exquisite details – the feathers in her wings, the curls of hair,
her facial features, the flow of her garment -- all these are so
sharply defined. Yet the object she clutches is not. There
is no way to tell what it is…but I sense that I should know.”

The statue stands for weeks out in the December cold.
He studies her daily as he drinks his morning coffee.
It seems to speak to him, but the message remains untold.
There is something there…what he simply cannot see.

The house is filled with family staying for the holiday.
On Christmas morning, he gets out of bed at 6 a.m.
Enjoying his coffee, the first rays of dawn in a strange way
illuminate the garden statue. That is when he sees them.

The angel has her head held high, with a smile beaming.
She holds in outstretched arms a boy child plain to see.
Coffee spilling, he runs to the window, and stands looking
with wonder when he hears the others clamoring for it to be

time to see what Santa brought and to open presents for all.
He calls, but no one is interested. He goes to tell them
of the statue. Presents, presents, lavish ones, large and small,
consume their interest. Chances of interesting them are slim.

He returns to the kitchen to gaze upon the statue once more.
The angel stands head bowed, sad, appearing now as before.


Please stop by: http://www.gillelands.com/poetry/,

Holiday Cheers!

Harry

A Wandering Warrior V

This is the fifth installment in the seven-storoem saga.

A Wandering Warrior V

Aldric and Gwendolyn ride throughout the morning
until they come to the Great Forest. Herein lies their
safety, for they can hide with a moment’s warning
and remain undetected despite how many search there.

They travel for days, now at a more leisurely pace,
and get to know one another as only two traveling
companions can. Gwendolyn’s beauty and grace
remind Aldric of happier times before the unraveling

of his world of honor and chivalry by betrayal of his
beloved king. “ If only we had met back then…” fills
his thoughts. Traveling in Gwendolyn’s company is
a tonic for his wounded soul, and his heart soon reveals

itself not to be cold and dead but to beat with renewed
feelings of love and passion. After several more days
of riding, Lady Gwendolyn insists on bathing, to include
Aldric as well. She will bathe here, he downstream aways.

Aldric unclothes and wades waist-deep into the river
to wash. Suddenly, Gwendolyn’s scream reaches his ears.
He runs ashore, grabs his sword, and charges upriver.
Gwendolyn stands near shore, fighting back her tears.

“I saw a bear on the other bank. It scared me,” she explains.
She stands soaking wet, with her chemise clinging tightly
to her body, displaying her womanly charms. She remains
composed, even as she sees Aldric is dressed most unknightly.

She wades ashore and into his arms. Aldric drops the sword
and kisses her with a passion unlike any he has ever known.
Gwendolyn melts against him. “I do love you so, my lord,”
she breathes into his ear. Aldric responds with a low moan.

Then, he stiffens and pushes her away. “This must not be.
There is no possible future for us, and, just as long as I draw
a breath, no man shall besmirch your honor, not even me.”
He walks away…but his frozen heart has completed its thaw.

The rest of the day is spent in silence. That night by the fire
Gwendolyn asks, “What plans do you have for us?” Aldric
answers, “In this black world we cannot do as we might desire.
I know what our future must be…and it isn’t what I would pick,

“but the world has made our choices for us. You can live
in safety and comfort at the nunnery nearby, where the nuns
will grant you asylum and protection only the Church can give.
I shall continue my wanderings and see where my luck runs.

“I will try to make my way to France. The king there shares
royal blood with our slain King Edmund and should have no
satisfaction at having seen his throne usurped. If he cares
to have me, I will join in service to his court, for they know

“of me there. I once accompanied King Edmund on a royal
visit and bested all their champions in a tournament. My sword
should provide my future. My lady, to you I shall remain loyal.
I swear not to touch another woman from this day forward.”

The next day they arrive at the nunnery, where Gwendolyn
is granted asylum. Aldric prepares to leave. “I would rather
live one month with you hiding in the woods than spend
a lifetime without you here in safety. We love one another.

“That is all that counts to me. Take me with you,” she sobs.
“No, I’ll not see you dead like everything else good in my world.”
Aldric knows he must leave quickly as each of her tears robs
him of his conviction. He rides away to meet whatever Fate unfurls…


I have received zero comments on any of the previous installments, which leads me to believe no one is reading these storoems. Any need for me to post the remaining two to complete the series?

A Wandering Warrior IV

A Wandering Warrior IV

The lady and her rescuer sit staring into the fire
in silence. Finally, she speaks, “You are most truly
a great warrior and a noble man. Many men aspire
to attain your reputation. You blame yourself unduly

“for what has transpired. Throughout all the land, none
other was known to love the late king more…and he
loved and trusted no man over his champion. You’ve won
the hearts of all loyal to the king. The man that I see

“before me is well renown for his bravery and goodness.
So, why does the king’s champion, Sir Aldric Chadwyk,
now pretend to be some cold-hearted brute that bitterness
has consumed, devouring his chivalry, leaving him heartsick?

“I am Gwendolyn of the house of Bainbrydge. My father
and my brothers spoke of you in reverent terms as the finest
man in all the land. You may fool yourself, but don’t bother
trying to convince me that you are uncaring, lacking kindness.”

“Bainbrydge? Ah, I knew your father and brothers quite well.
They died a hero’s death close to their king. A death denied
to me! Heaven has cursed me to wander in earthbound Hell.
I should have died a courageous champion’s death. My pride

“has been stripped away – a champion alive while his king lies
rotting in his grave. In the climax of battle I was struck a wound,
knocking me from my horse and my senses. Before my very eyes,
the king and all I held dear was lost, as I lay helpless in a swoon.

“Unconscious I was carried away to safety by our retreating troops
to live in a world turned black and empty. I care not for life nor the
living. I am a hunted man. I must wander, avoiding public groups,
not tarrying long in any place, lest I be recognized. Can’t you see

“there is no future, no happiness left in this new world for me?
Death is my only friend. I shall wander, destroying evil as I go
until evil destroys me.” Gwendolyn says, “ Henceforth, you’ll be
my champion. I entrust my life, my safety to the noblest man I know.”

“My lady, all these many months I have wandered without purpose.
I shall not abandon you to your fate. Delivering you to safety I shall
do to honor to the debt owed your family. Pursuers will hunt us,
but I will defend you with my life until I carry you to a safe locale.

“Now best to sleep. We must be away with the dawn. We have far
to travel before our journey is done.” Gwendolyn lies down beside
the fire and smiles as she falls asleep. Aldric sees a shooting star
blaze across the sky. “A good omen! We’ll need Heaven on our side

before this is done,” he thinks. Yet, inside he feels a warmth he’s not
felt for many, many months, as though a tiny fire’s been rekindled.
A small smile crosses his face. He thinks, “Gwendolyn has rather a lot
of spunk! Too bad we didn’t meet when my passion could go unbridled.”

Awake at dawn, they are finishing packing the horses when the sound
of distant hoof beats from a large contingent of riders reaches their ears.
“Ride! They must have ridden throughout the night. We cannot be found
on open ground.” They gallop off…to a future where he’ll bring her tears.

The Story Continues: A Wandering Warrior III

This is the third installment of this saga told in seven storoems. Please go back to the first posted storoem of the series to begin your reading.

This saga of A Wandering Warrior (I - VII) was published in:



A Wandering Warrior III

They – the wandering warrior and the wench –
rode hard all throughout the day to put distance
between themselves and the village. “It’s a cinch
men will be sent after us. I fear their persistence,

“for I am a prized possession of the innkeeper,”
spoke the girl, when once they stopped for the night.
The warrior replies, “They shall find the Grim Reaper
should they find us. My sole purpose now is to fight.

“But, pray tell, how did a lady of your noble demeanor
and grace become an indentured servant?” “My family
fought for the late king in the recent lost war. A meaner
fate could not have befallen us, no worse calamity…

“My father and brothers all killed; our lands and home
seized; my mother, sisters, and I sold into servitude
for unfair taxes newly levied – I could fill quite a tome
listing all the local injustices of such great magnitude,

“for the conquering lords sought plunder with their revenge.
But, what of you, kind sir? You showed yourself to be noble
in helping me escape last night. My presence might infringe
upon your ability to elude pursuers. Alone you’re more mobile,

“and they will be searching for a man and woman together.
You put yourself in danger in my behalf.” The warrior replies,
“You risked your life in warning me last night. So, whether
your presence adds risk to my travels, I know where my duty lies.”

She asks, “What is the nature of your travels? You seem battered
by fate and angry inside.” He stares into her eyes for a long while,
as though deciding whether to reveal his heart – cold and shattered
by past events. “I knew how to be happy, how to laugh and smile,

“but no more. Now I see the world as it is – filled with treachery
and ruled by evil men. The life I led of nobility and chivalrous acts
was a foolish dream. Evil has conquered good. My talent is butchery.
I served the late king as his champion. With sword and with axe,

“I fought on his right hand in many a battle. He was a goodly man
who sought peace and happiness for all peoples in this country.
He had a united kingdom with justice for all right in his hand…
one last battle against the northern warlords to win their fidelity.

“The king had such great plans for a lifetime of harmony and peace
for all -- a wondrous world of nobility and charity never before seen.
But in that battle, treachery carried the day! Where we would have least
expected betrayal – the king’s undoing was his own wife, the queen.

“The vile woman had made a secret deal to win her brother the throne.
Troops loyal to the brother turned upon our army mid-battle and sealed
our fate – the king was slain before my eyes, and our troops were thrown
back in chaos and defeat. That day the true nature of Man was revealed.

“Darkness and despair descended over the kingdom and over my heart
that fateful day. I am dead inside, unfeeling and uncaring for my fellow
man. I travel the earth alone until Fate chooses the place for me to depart
this wicked world. My time is done. Let other men prance and bellow.”

As they speak, they sit around a fire. The dancing flames throw shards
of light across her face, and he notices the great sadness overflowing her
eyes. She gently lays her hand upon his forearm. At first he disregards
her tenderness, but within him long-forgotten feelings begin to stir…


The next installment will follow in a couple of days.

Cheers!

Harry

An Old Copper Bell

Sometimes I am asked how do I come up with ideas for my poetry. Here is one example:
My wife Linda and I enjoy going to estate sales, both to tour the houses and to shop for interesting items. Linda collects salts and their silver spoons. I collect old bottles, old small tins, and metal bells. I must own 150 bells now of all sizes and shapes. I have them divided into groups, such as animal bells topped with various animals, lady bells (ladies in full skirts and bonnets), bells of differing heights, etc. I have become more selective in deciding to buy a bell when I see one nowadays. Friday we hit three estate sales. At one sale, I found an old bell that didn't look like much. The handle had been replaced long ago with a wooden barrel with a metal bolt and nut to hold it in place. The top nut was exposed and quite rusty. The wooden barrel handle had a big crack down one side of it. The clapper was missing, with only an old, dirty piece of cord left behind, having the end that had held the clapper showing left-over rust. The top (handle part) wasn't much to look at, for sure. The bottom part appeared very old and was dark green in color. The bell was heavy. The handle was 4 and 3/4th inches tall, with the bell being 3 and 1/4 inches tall with a diameter of the bell opening being 4 and 1/2 inches across. A heavy, eight-inch tall bell! Closer examination revealed the bell to be made of copper, quite heavy and thick-walled & quite well-made. I decided to buy the bell. It cost all of $3.50. The lady at checkout said that it was copper and should shine up nicely. However, I prefer to leave the decades old green patina untouched. I can just imagine that this bell was once a grand bell and was probably quite expensive when new. I, of course, wondered about its history -- who bought it new, who all had owned it, how/where it was used, who repaired it, how it came to be sitting on a den shelf in Shreveport. The result of my imagination answering such questions is the following storoem.

An Old Copper Bell

The elderly metallurgist poured all his skill
into making this bell something extraordinary.
The bottom used the finest copper from Brazil,
and the handle couldn’t be anything ordinary.

No, this bell required something quite unique.
So, he added a handle of exquisite carved ivory
that had been brought to Boston from Mozambique.
Now this was a bell fit for even Mr. Caleb Ivery.

Caleb was among the richest merchants in town.
His only daughter, Petunia, was headed out west
to become a school teacher. She had worn down
Caleb’s resistance, convinced him she knew best.

The Old West of 1880 was still wild and untamed.
Petunia secured a teaching job out in Kansas territory.
Caleb warned her she’d be killed or maybe maimed,
but she was determined to help write America’s story.

Caleb presented her with the bell to use in her school.
So away Petunia went west, to the bustling Dodge City.
Her “school” was space in a barn with horses and a mule.
For two years she sought students with no success. A pity!

Broke, and too proud to let daddy know he’d been right,
poor Petunia became a bawdy house lady. She had talent!
When done, the cowboys would ring her bell with delight.
One day, along came this gambler, handsome and gallant.

They fell in love, married, moved to New Orleans’s Quarter,
where they became respectable, but poor. To make ends meet,
Petunia sold her precious bell to a prosperous cotton exporter.
He gave the bell to his daughter, making the circle complete.

For his daughter taught school; the bell called many a child
to attention over her career, fulfilling its original mission.
After many years, a careless boy, acting all crazy and wild,
knocked it from her desk, causing the handle’s demolition.

The teacher cried, tried repair, but she gave up in despair,
for the ivory handle, carved so magnificently, was ruined.
She threw the broken bell into the trash. She couldn’t bear
to keep it longer. Along came the janitor, Elmer McEuen.

Old Elmer knew the bell was still of use. He made
a handle out of wood, securing it with a threaded metal
bolt and nut, and used a string with a nut that weighed
enough to produce a loud clang. He deemed it had mettle.

Old Elmer had a granddaughter that taught school over
in the poorest part of town. She took the bell proudly
to her classroom. She used it well for years. Moreover,
she passed the bell down to her daughter, who loudly

rang the old bell to call her own classroom to order daily.
The bell was serving this family of teachers’ fifth generation
when Katrina flooded New Orleans. During the melee
of evacuation, the bell was left at its schoolroom location.

When the school was finally renovated, the bell was thrown
out as trash. From the rubbish heap, a tourist, a young boy,
retrieved the bell. It was dirty; its copper no longer shone;
its wooden handle was cracked; but to the lad it was a toy.

The bell was brought to Shreveport at their vacation’s end.
The boy gave it to his invalid grandmother to keep bedside.
After her death, at the estate sale, the large crowd did wend
its way throughout the house, picking up objects they spied.

The old bell was examined by quite a few and deemed lacking
in worth. Finally, a bell collector happened along, took the old
bell in his hands, saw beyond its dark green patina and cracking
wooden handle. He knew it had too much quality to go unsold.

The collector added the bell to his collection, placing it back
behind the newer, shinier bells. He bought it since it was old,
copper, and once must’ve been prized. Having no way to track
its history or where it’d been, to him its story stayed untold.

So it is with many things old. Tho’ they be rusty or battered,
a bit broken and worn, they had a worthy past that mattered.


Cheers!

Harry

Tom Howard Poetry Contest Winning Poems

Here are the two cash prize winning entries of mine in the 2008 Tom Howard Poetry Contest:

2nd Place ($1,000 prize) Winning Rhyming Storoem:

(The format is stanzas of four lines each. Due to line lengths, many lines are broken here. The rhymes are at the end of the lines read as though they were unbroken.)

--- The Old Salty Poems ---

The Old Seadog

In 1900, he is a stranger come to their town,
now renting, living in the old O’Grady place,
not to farm, not to fix up despite its being rundown,
just to live out his days, what with Death staring in his face.

The word around is he has no family, no friends,
that he has spent his whole life sailing the seas,
but, what to believe, since, when rumors fly, the truth bends.
Reports of disaster at sea…just leave him be, if you please.

As time does pass, the townspeople’s suspicion turns to fear.
The children are warned to keep away from him. “He’s not one of us!”
He ventures into town only for supplies, mostly liquor and beer.
Keeping to himself, he does nothing to allay their fear and distrust.

The children going to and from school walk quickly past his house,
until one day little Sarah happens along as he is at his mailbox…
and she smiles at him…”You don’t look like such a mean old souse.”
she says, repeating what she has heard him called. Her remark shocks,

surprises him, but then he laughs. “Neither do you! What’s your name?”
“I’m Sarah. What’s yours?” “Lately I’ve been known as Jonah mostly,
but since I’m an old seadog, call me Salty.” Every day, the same –
he’s at the mailbox as she passes his house. Then, comes finally

the day she tarries to visit, decides to converse, and his stories begin,
wondrous tales, tall and true, of far-off lands with fantastic sights,
of mysterious beasts, strange adventures, desperate battles to win,
bounty and riches galore, and fierce storms that rage for days and nights.

Soon, Sarah’s friend or two is stopping to listen to Salty’s tales.
More friends, still more…until the parents learn of these sessions.
But, when they come to put an end to it, a story of ships with sails,
South Sea Island natives, and pearls draws them in, changes impressions.

Old Salty becomes the most popular storyteller in the region all around,
never too busy to oblige with a sea tale, always willing to visit awhile
with parent or child. At last, he knows happiness, as friendships abound.
Countless lives he enriches -- all because one little girl wasn’t afraid to smile.


The Legacy Of Friendship

Old Salty and young Sarah share a staunch friendship
until the day he dies. Then the doctor drops by.
“Salty had no relatives. He lived aboard a ship
for more than fifty years. He expected he would die

a lonely, old drunk, but he credited you with preventing that.
So, he wanted you to have all his worldly possessions of value.”
Sarah’s bequest is one battered, old, sea trunk that once had sat
in Salty’s bedroom. Sorting through it, Sarah thinks, it’s true,

that it was nice of Salty to think of her so fondly after all, but
what is a young girl to do with maps, charts, and diary
after diary recounting his travels. Then, at the bottom, what
is this – a leather pouch containing handfuls of small stones. Sorry,

but she was hoping for some of those pearls he had told tall tales
about. Still, these are a pleasing mixture of pretty greens and reds.
The trunk is stored for years, but all of Salty’s stories she tells
to her children over and over, then to her grandchildren, instead

of reading them fairy tales. At each retelling of Salty’s stories, she shows
them the pretty stones, letting each child hold some in their hand.
These stories create unique family memories, each generation knows
them by heart – enriching their dreams, keeping Salty a remembered man.

Decades come and go, changing their town from one of farming
into a mill town. Most townspeople merely switch from an
existence of share-cropping to mill working, their hardships alarming.
When Sarah donates Salty’s trunk to the university library, the man

goes beside himself with glee, calling the charts, diaries, and maps
a true treasure -- this was back in 1960. Now Sarah, nearing 100, thrives.
She has 4 children, 17 grandchildren, 31 great-grandchildren – and naps
twice a day. But, when awake, she’s still the greatest storyteller alive!

The mill is closing; their jobs going overseas. Times for the family become
grim. Still, to celebrate her centennial, all in the family contribute to pay
for having Sarah’s pretty story stones mounted into a necklace at some
big-city jewelry store. Money in hand, two of her daughters silently pray

that they’ll have enough to mount all her stones. At this fancy jewelry store
they are greeted with disapproving looks, as though in the wrong place.
Their explanation given, the jeweler examines a stone, then looks at more.
As stone after stone is examined, disbelief grows larger upon his face.

“Where did you get these?” “They’ve been in our family 90 years, I’d guess.”
“This amazing collection of rubies and emeralds is…absolutely…priceless!”


High Distinction Award ($200 Prize) Winning Free-verse Poem:

The Assembled Waiters

We all sit and wait.
We wait in a room designed for waiting.
We wait for our names to be called.
Some wait nervously, fidgeting
and checking their watches.
Some wait patiently, reading old magazines.
Some even doze off to sleep.
But we all wait.

We sit on chairs not quite comfortable enough,
chairs too close together so that our space
feels violated when someone sits down besides us.
We rarely speak to each other, filling the room
with mostly silence.
We seldom make eye contact with those
around us, preferring to remain anonymous.

We are a unique group assembled here.
We are both the young and the old,
both males and females,
the rich and the poor.
Here we are all equal…waiters.
Worry, fear, and dread sit on many faces,
for here we all need luck and mercy.
We sit here strangers all,
gathered together at this place
for this one moment in time,
sharing an experience never
to be shared again together.

We wait to give of our blood, our urine,
or to have our insides revealed.
We hope for good answers,
but for some it will be bad news.
For some, it will be routine.
For others, it will alter their life.
For the unfortunate, it will be a death sentence.

As an elderly lady turtles out with her cane,
a teenage boy takes her seat to begin his wait.
The old still outnumber the young.
The boy is wearing sweat pants and T-shirt.
Some wear business suits, some casual attire.
Dress here is of no help, of no importance,
For this room is a great equalizer.
We all wait to have the medical technologist
call our name to have our lab work done.
First arrived, first called…and finally
I am at the front of the queue, hearing
my name called to come give three tubes
of blood so that I can complete my visit
at the doctor’s office this morning.
My wait is finally over.


Cheers!

Harry