CORN DAY! My wife Linda talked to her sister Sheila early this morning, and Sheila told her she had been putting up corn in the freezer this week. As soon as Linda got off the phone, she decided we needed to put up corn TODAY. So, we hopped in the Jeep and headed to Lester's Produce 45 miles south of Shreveport in Coushatta. We bought 200+ ears (4 bushel baskets full) of sweet corn. From 10:30 this morning to about 3:30 this afternoon, we shucked the ears. The corn is quite good -- only about 5 worms in all the ears total and very well filled out ears. Now Linda is blanching, cutting kernels off the cobs, and bagging all that corn. It was miserable out on the back porch while shucking -- 97 F this afternoon on the porch. I am...sweaty and sticky...but we will be eating good all the next year.
Cheers!
Harry
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Where I Get Ideas for New Poems
Whenever people ask me, since I am rather prolific in the poetry I write, where do I get all my ideas for new poems, I usually answer with, "From the world all around me -- what I observe, conversations I hear, what I read/see in the newspaper, TV, magazines, Internet, or movies, and from my imagination after thinking about some issue or question. Many of my storoems/poems reflect my core values and thoughts regarding current events."
My latest poem is entitled "The Roar of the Lion". It may be read here:
http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1682063-The-Roar-of-the-Lion
Where did the idea for the poem originate? From several sources actually. I saw a movie on cable TV the other night about a lion preserve in Africa in which the owner had raised lion cubs and released them into the wild for over thirty years. Richard Harris played that character's role. The man would walk with his lions out to sit on a rock overlooking the plains below and encourage them to roar. He'd 'roar' the words "I am!", meaning "I am king of the beasts; I am a lion." The lions would then roar in response.
This reminded me of a TV documentary I had watched several years back that followed a pride of lions in Africa for a year. The male who was master of this pride successfully drove off various attempts from nomadic single males to displace him. Finally, a pair of nomadic siblings challenged him and together defeated him, breaking one of his front legs and blooding him gravely. He wander off to die, while the brothers immediately killed all of the old lion's offspring so that the pride's females would become receptive in a few months to producing their offspring. The dominant males usually rule a pride for only 1 or 2 years, sometimes up to three years, before being displaced. This gives them time to produce offspring to carry on their genes, but then introduces new genes into the pride when the new male lion(s) take over.
I then went to Internet and Googled "lions roaring" and read several articles about their roar(s) and what they are believed by scientists to mean.
Taking all these sources, I thought for several days about what I wanted my poem to accomplish and then wrote the first draft, followed by several edits. I am pretty pleased with the result. Please let me know what you think after you read my poem.
Cheers!
Harry
My latest poem is entitled "The Roar of the Lion". It may be read here:
http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1682063-The-Roar-of-the-Lion
Where did the idea for the poem originate? From several sources actually. I saw a movie on cable TV the other night about a lion preserve in Africa in which the owner had raised lion cubs and released them into the wild for over thirty years. Richard Harris played that character's role. The man would walk with his lions out to sit on a rock overlooking the plains below and encourage them to roar. He'd 'roar' the words "I am!", meaning "I am king of the beasts; I am a lion." The lions would then roar in response.
This reminded me of a TV documentary I had watched several years back that followed a pride of lions in Africa for a year. The male who was master of this pride successfully drove off various attempts from nomadic single males to displace him. Finally, a pair of nomadic siblings challenged him and together defeated him, breaking one of his front legs and blooding him gravely. He wander off to die, while the brothers immediately killed all of the old lion's offspring so that the pride's females would become receptive in a few months to producing their offspring. The dominant males usually rule a pride for only 1 or 2 years, sometimes up to three years, before being displaced. This gives them time to produce offspring to carry on their genes, but then introduces new genes into the pride when the new male lion(s) take over.
I then went to Internet and Googled "lions roaring" and read several articles about their roar(s) and what they are believed by scientists to mean.
Taking all these sources, I thought for several days about what I wanted my poem to accomplish and then wrote the first draft, followed by several edits. I am pretty pleased with the result. Please let me know what you think after you read my poem.
Cheers!
Harry
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The Gulf Oil Spill -- 2010
I wrote an opinionated prose poem about the current BP oil spill currently befouling the Gulf. If interested, you may read it here:
http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1678968-The-Gulf-Oil-Spill--2010
Feel free to offer any comments. :-)
Cheers!
Harry
http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1678968-The-Gulf-Oil-Spill--2010
Feel free to offer any comments. :-)
Cheers!
Harry
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial
In honor of the upcoming anniversary of D-day on June 6, 1944, I wrote a storoem (see below) about the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial in France where the American soldiers who were killed or missing in action on the beaches at Normandy and shortly thereafter in the push inland are buried or memorialized. If you are unfamiliar with this cemetery, check out this link and be sure to look at the pictures there, especially the aerial overview:
http://www.abmc.gov/cemeteries/cemeteries/no.php
We owe these gallant soldiers homage forever for their actions back then.
Now, my new storoem:
The Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial
The son has brought his ninety-three-year-old
father to Colleville-Sur-Mer in France.
Overlooking Omaha Beach is told
the terrible price of freedom. Winds dance
through a field of cold, white marble crosses
marking graves of Americans who died
freeing France from her cruel Nazi bosses.
As they traverse the colonnade, his pride
causes the father to stand taller, straighter
than normal. “Here, my generation saved
the world from tyranny. There’s no greater
sacrifice for country then these men paid.”
They pass “Spirit of American Youth”,
a bronze statue near the center, before
reaching rows of white crosses, where the truth
is shown recounting death on this French shore.
More than nine thousand American graves
hold the unfulfilled dreams of the young men
who died upon Normandy Beach, its waves
red with their blood. They did their duty then!
Names inscribed on the memorial’s walls
pay silent tribute to another fifteen-
hundred missing soldiers, their country’s calls
to battle answered with a fate so mean.
Father and son join other tourists’ search
among the rows of crosses to find friends’
or family’s graves. There’s a feel of church,
since many pray, as tribute each extends.
The father is himself a veteran
of the D-day invasion, wounded twice.
He, who never spoke of war, has begun
to recall details, brutal and precise.
As they stand before graves, he says, “This man
once saved my life…I watched this soldier die.
He was just a teenager; still I can
see his face as he died, the look of ‘Why?'.”
On and on they walk pass graves, so many
holding his past fallen comrades in arms.
“I saved this friend’s life more than once; plenty
of times he cheated death. He died in my arms.”
On this day the son learns for the first time
details of what his father once endured.
He hears of war’s horror; nothing’s sublime
or glorious in combat, Dad assured.
Father and son sit for hours as the dad
tells of anguish he saw as a man dies.
As he relates what he did, he grows sad.
The son tries to comfort him as he cries.
As his body shakes with sobs, the dad says,
“Each soldier buried here in French soil has earned
the everlasting gratitude of his
country. Honor those who never returned.”
NOTE: The Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial
is near the site for the American St. Laurent Cemetery, which
was established on June 8, 1944, as the first American cemetery
on European soil in World War II. The current cemetery is located
on a bluff overlooking Omaha Beach and the English Channel.
It is 170 miles west of Paris. The 172.5-acre site has the graves
of 9,387 Americans who died coming ashore on D-day on June 6,
1944, or shortly thereafter in the push inland. Another 1,557 missing
soldiers have their names inscribed on the memorial’s walls.
Millions of visitors have come to visit this cemetery.
Cheers!
Harry
http://www.abmc.gov/cemeteries/cemeteries/no.php
We owe these gallant soldiers homage forever for their actions back then.
Now, my new storoem:
The Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial
The son has brought his ninety-three-year-old
father to Colleville-Sur-Mer in France.
Overlooking Omaha Beach is told
the terrible price of freedom. Winds dance
through a field of cold, white marble crosses
marking graves of Americans who died
freeing France from her cruel Nazi bosses.
As they traverse the colonnade, his pride
causes the father to stand taller, straighter
than normal. “Here, my generation saved
the world from tyranny. There’s no greater
sacrifice for country then these men paid.”
They pass “Spirit of American Youth”,
a bronze statue near the center, before
reaching rows of white crosses, where the truth
is shown recounting death on this French shore.
More than nine thousand American graves
hold the unfulfilled dreams of the young men
who died upon Normandy Beach, its waves
red with their blood. They did their duty then!
Names inscribed on the memorial’s walls
pay silent tribute to another fifteen-
hundred missing soldiers, their country’s calls
to battle answered with a fate so mean.
Father and son join other tourists’ search
among the rows of crosses to find friends’
or family’s graves. There’s a feel of church,
since many pray, as tribute each extends.
The father is himself a veteran
of the D-day invasion, wounded twice.
He, who never spoke of war, has begun
to recall details, brutal and precise.
As they stand before graves, he says, “This man
once saved my life…I watched this soldier die.
He was just a teenager; still I can
see his face as he died, the look of ‘Why?'.”
On and on they walk pass graves, so many
holding his past fallen comrades in arms.
“I saved this friend’s life more than once; plenty
of times he cheated death. He died in my arms.”
On this day the son learns for the first time
details of what his father once endured.
He hears of war’s horror; nothing’s sublime
or glorious in combat, Dad assured.
Father and son sit for hours as the dad
tells of anguish he saw as a man dies.
As he relates what he did, he grows sad.
The son tries to comfort him as he cries.
As his body shakes with sobs, the dad says,
“Each soldier buried here in French soil has earned
the everlasting gratitude of his
country. Honor those who never returned.”
NOTE: The Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial
is near the site for the American St. Laurent Cemetery, which
was established on June 8, 1944, as the first American cemetery
on European soil in World War II. The current cemetery is located
on a bluff overlooking Omaha Beach and the English Channel.
It is 170 miles west of Paris. The 172.5-acre site has the graves
of 9,387 Americans who died coming ashore on D-day on June 6,
1944, or shortly thereafter in the push inland. Another 1,557 missing
soldiers have their names inscribed on the memorial’s walls.
Millions of visitors have come to visit this cemetery.
Cheers!
Harry
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
My Latest Storoem: Dis-Ash-ter
We have..er, had..an ash tree in our backyard. When Linda and I got married nearly 25 years ago and bought our house, the back yard had too many trees so that some were crowding out others. Chinese tallow trees had this ash crowded out so that the ash was stunted. We had the tallow trees removed, hoping the ash would thrive. At first it appeared to work. However, after a few years, the ash started having leaves wilting in the latter, hottest part of summer each year and some of the highest branches died. Thrice we had an arborist remove the uppermost dead and sickly branches. I wrote a poem about "My Sickly Ash" back then. We nursed the tree along as long as we were able, but this spring it was obviously dead. No major branches at all leafed out. Last week we had an arborist come and cut it down and grind away the stump, leaving only a pile of wood chips where the tree once stood. We had a family of red-headed woodpeckers that made a nest in the dead branches each year for the past ten years. Every summer we have enjoyed four or five woodpeckers at our bird feeders. I hope cutting the tree down won't mean we will lose our woodpeckers. Anyway, I wrote a poem about cutting down the ash. The arborist told me he thought the problem with the ash was that in its early years it failed to develop an adequate root system to support the rapid growth spurt that followed removal of all its competition for nutrients so that the uppermost branches were not supplied with enough nutrition to survive the hottest part of each summer. This made the tree sickly and more vulnerable to disease. Now the poem:
A Dis-Ash-ter
A great tragedy occurred today.
I lost a friend of twenty-five years.
Slowly ‘he’ had just withered away,
death by amputation it appears.
My friend suffered from a misspent youth.
Older peers’ actions stunted his growth,
causing him to lack good roots; in truth,
he was sick as youth and adult both.
I did what I could to promote health
and improved life over the past years,
but all vigor was taken by stealth
this winter; spring confirmed my worst fears.
I contracted a professional man
to handle my friend’s untimely demise.
This arborist in a two-hour span
dismembered him without compromise.
With ropes and chainsaws, branch after branch
came crashing down to cover the ground.
I thought I saw two woodpeckers blanch
as their nest in a dead limb wasn’t found.
Soon the ash tree’s stump was ground away.
All that remained was a pile of wood chips.
Cutting down my ash made it a sad day.
(I’m glad I couldn’t read those woodpeckers’ lips!)
If you are wondering about the title, it comes from an old joke. What happened when grandma backed into the fan? Dis-assed-her.
Cheers!
Harry
A Dis-Ash-ter
A great tragedy occurred today.
I lost a friend of twenty-five years.
Slowly ‘he’ had just withered away,
death by amputation it appears.
My friend suffered from a misspent youth.
Older peers’ actions stunted his growth,
causing him to lack good roots; in truth,
he was sick as youth and adult both.
I did what I could to promote health
and improved life over the past years,
but all vigor was taken by stealth
this winter; spring confirmed my worst fears.
I contracted a professional man
to handle my friend’s untimely demise.
This arborist in a two-hour span
dismembered him without compromise.
With ropes and chainsaws, branch after branch
came crashing down to cover the ground.
I thought I saw two woodpeckers blanch
as their nest in a dead limb wasn’t found.
Soon the ash tree’s stump was ground away.
All that remained was a pile of wood chips.
Cutting down my ash made it a sad day.
(I’m glad I couldn’t read those woodpeckers’ lips!)
If you are wondering about the title, it comes from an old joke. What happened when grandma backed into the fan? Dis-assed-her.
Cheers!
Harry
Saturday, March 13, 2010
We are having glorious spring-like weather.
The past few days have seen simply gorgeous weather here in Shreveport. Spring has sprung! Temperatures in the mid-70s with blue, blue skies. The grass is starting to green - which also meant yard work to get rid of all the leaves, mow down the weeds, and spread weed killer & grass feed. Fortunately for me, my wife does the yard work. (Hey, I'm terribly allergic to all kinds of weeds and grass or I would be doing it.) The yard looks much nicer after we got through. Yes, we...I spread the weed & feed.
The Bradford pear trees are all in full bloom with their springtime-only white blossoms, while the tulip trees are displaying their tulips in full force by the hundreds. The squirrels are chasing each other around wanting sex. Birds are building their nest for their soon-to-be-here eggs. Yes, spring has definitely sprung!
Being a poet, the past few days of wonderful weather naturally inspired me to pen a new poem for the occasion. Here it is:
Springtime Renewal
Winter’s cold grip is broken
finally by the sunny warmth
of spring’s earliest days.
The earth rejoices!
Brown lawns become tinted
with green – mostly weeds,
to be sure, but new grass will
come close behind.
The Bradford pear trees shed
their winter-bareness with a
sudden outburst of delicate,
white blossoms…such beauty.
The tulip trees are ablaze with
hundreds of pink blossoms,
creating a tree-borne field of
gorgeous tulips in the air.
Everywhere plants of every
description are displaying
new growth in celebration
of the end of winter’s reign.
Squirrels chase one another
in amorous foreplay, while
birds gather the makings of
a nest, soon to be egg-filled.
Oh, how primitive Man must
have been gladdened by early
spring days, for they meant he’d
survived the meanness of winter.
Spring signals the renewal of
nature’s bounty, a return of
comfort and plenty. As spring
brightens Man’s outside world,
it makes his spirit soar above
winter’s depression. Springtime
strikes a chord of hope within Man,
hope born of eons of life’s renewals.
I hope you all are experiencing springtime weather as well. If not, hang on because it won't be too much longer.
Cheers!
Harry
The Bradford pear trees are all in full bloom with their springtime-only white blossoms, while the tulip trees are displaying their tulips in full force by the hundreds. The squirrels are chasing each other around wanting sex. Birds are building their nest for their soon-to-be-here eggs. Yes, spring has definitely sprung!
Being a poet, the past few days of wonderful weather naturally inspired me to pen a new poem for the occasion. Here it is:
Springtime Renewal
Winter’s cold grip is broken
finally by the sunny warmth
of spring’s earliest days.
The earth rejoices!
Brown lawns become tinted
with green – mostly weeds,
to be sure, but new grass will
come close behind.
The Bradford pear trees shed
their winter-bareness with a
sudden outburst of delicate,
white blossoms…such beauty.
The tulip trees are ablaze with
hundreds of pink blossoms,
creating a tree-borne field of
gorgeous tulips in the air.
Everywhere plants of every
description are displaying
new growth in celebration
of the end of winter’s reign.
Squirrels chase one another
in amorous foreplay, while
birds gather the makings of
a nest, soon to be egg-filled.
Oh, how primitive Man must
have been gladdened by early
spring days, for they meant he’d
survived the meanness of winter.
Spring signals the renewal of
nature’s bounty, a return of
comfort and plenty. As spring
brightens Man’s outside world,
it makes his spirit soar above
winter’s depression. Springtime
strikes a chord of hope within Man,
hope born of eons of life’s renewals.
I hope you all are experiencing springtime weather as well. If not, hang on because it won't be too much longer.
Cheers!
Harry
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Reconnecting with an old friend from high school
I had a good experience this week. I reconnected with one of closest friends from high school. I attended Lanier Senior High School (appropriately named after the poet Sidney Lanier) in Macon, Ga, graduating in the Class of 1962. Five of us "brains" (or "nerds" or "bookworms" or whatever they called us straight A students) were a close group, maybe originally thrown together for protection but later being good friends throughout high school. After graduation, we all scattered to the winds. I went to the U of Ga-Athens and my closest friend went to U of Va. I majored in science (microbiology); he majored in philosophy. After getting his Ph.D. in Philosophy, he went to medical school a few years later. Then he published a book about "near-death experiences" (a phrase he coined) in 1975. I knew the book did well and made him into somewhat of a celebrity -- Oprah, speaking engagements, that sort of thing. Then I guess I got busy with my life events and lost track of him for years.
A few weeks ago I saw his name mentioned in a blog I was reading, and I got to wondering how he was doing today. At age 65, who knew what he might be capable of doing, if even alive. So, I Googled him. Wow! Is he ever successful! He has now published over a dozen books after "Life After Life" (his groundbreaking 1975 book) and has sold more than 20 million books. I emailed his website email address, not sure what response to expect. Happily, I received an email shortly from his wife saying I should call him. I tried and ended up talking stiffly into an answering machine. I left my number and waited. That same afternoon Raymond called, and we chatted a long time catching up on old times. We agreed to swap books. I mailed him copies of my latest two poetry books, and he is mailing me a copy of his newest book about to be released. All around, it was a great experience. So, I guess you CAN travel back home sometimes and reconnect with a distant past.
Check out Dr. Raymond Moody on Google and examine his books on Amazon.com. His "Life After Life" still sells well every year. Raymond is healthy, walks 3 to 6 miles daily, and travels the world as invited speaker. He is a busy man. And an extremely successful author!
Raymond has done a much better job than I did keeping informed about the careers of our Lanier group. (Curt McM had a career with the government in San Francisco; Walter P works with computers in SC; and John O is a psychiatrist in SC) Each of the group has done well in life. Each left Macon to pursue his career. Go nerds of the world! I tell you, ladies, if you want a successful man as your husband, marry a nerd. :-)
Cheers!
Harry
A few weeks ago I saw his name mentioned in a blog I was reading, and I got to wondering how he was doing today. At age 65, who knew what he might be capable of doing, if even alive. So, I Googled him. Wow! Is he ever successful! He has now published over a dozen books after "Life After Life" (his groundbreaking 1975 book) and has sold more than 20 million books. I emailed his website email address, not sure what response to expect. Happily, I received an email shortly from his wife saying I should call him. I tried and ended up talking stiffly into an answering machine. I left my number and waited. That same afternoon Raymond called, and we chatted a long time catching up on old times. We agreed to swap books. I mailed him copies of my latest two poetry books, and he is mailing me a copy of his newest book about to be released. All around, it was a great experience. So, I guess you CAN travel back home sometimes and reconnect with a distant past.
Check out Dr. Raymond Moody on Google and examine his books on Amazon.com. His "Life After Life" still sells well every year. Raymond is healthy, walks 3 to 6 miles daily, and travels the world as invited speaker. He is a busy man. And an extremely successful author!
Raymond has done a much better job than I did keeping informed about the careers of our Lanier group. (Curt McM had a career with the government in San Francisco; Walter P works with computers in SC; and John O is a psychiatrist in SC) Each of the group has done well in life. Each left Macon to pursue his career. Go nerds of the world! I tell you, ladies, if you want a successful man as your husband, marry a nerd. :-)
Cheers!
Harry
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