Spring

I awoke this morning to that wonderous thrill

of a robin singing there upon my windowsill

Out on the lawn in the grasses dewy green

the Gackles were strutting their shimmering sheen

The Jays sharply scolding, for no apparent reason

other than joy for the changing of season

A cardinal sat preening his feathers so red

there on the roof of my old fishing shed

The chipmunks were scampering with their tails held high

keeping close watch of the hawk in the sky

With spring now here, warmer weather will soon follow

along with Jenny Wren and the slick Barn Swallow

I guess I will mend my fishing gear

I just might be around to use it next year.

The Old Fisherman

The Birds

The winter has been rough

on we humans I know

But please let's not forget

the birds and this snow.

Their food has been covered

or frozen in ice

While we have ours

inside where it's nice.

The fuel that is needed

for their body heat

Comes just from everything

that they find to eat.

The scraps from your table

can mean songs in the spring

So kind people

Do the right thing!

Merry Christmas

I search through all the Christmas cards
In drug and department stores
Gazed on Santa's picture
Read verses by the scores

There were none to meet my fancy
Somehow they were incomplete
So with these yule time poets
I find I must compete

If all the million verses
Of all greeting cards were true
Had by me been written
and dedicated to you.

They would not be sufficient
My wishes to unfold
For you there is no limit
As to what my heart will hold -
Merry Christmas!

The Old Fisherman

An Ode to Autumn

I stand again
on old Linn Pier
As I have in many
a yester year

A forgotten rod
and reel in hand
Living once more
in a fairy land

My gaze across
that azure blue
To a skyline etched
in a vivid hue

The artist brush
and pallet of paint
Could only have been held
in the hands of a Saint

With these words
I somehow fumble
My thanks to God
for he makes me humble.

The Old Fisherman
(This was the first poem sent to the Lake Geneva paper in the early 1960's)

Just Out Not Fishing

Out on the flats in Old Button's Bay
early in the morn of a late spring day
Waiting for the sun, the chill to take
from off the waters of a cold,cold lake

I lay back in my scow to ponder a time
should or should not I wet a line
A northern breaks water to look around
a pretty big fellow I reckon ten pound

The boats move in, the chubs cast out
for an hour or more many a happy shout
But I stay put in that warming sun
fully content just to watch the fun

For I have landed my share and maybe more
from out of deep water and along the shore
I pull up anchor kinda hungry by now
Heck, Ma never liked northern no how.

The Old Fisherman

That there lightning bug

I walked out through the garden
on a dark and moonless night
A thousand golden candles
flickered there within my sight.

With a graceful flowing motion
they were dancing all around
Ever silently, softly, glowing
from the tree tops to the ground

Like embers from a fire
they shot into the air
No pattern to their movement
just darting here to there

As falling stars that travel
through the darkness of the night
Nothing seems to bother
the capers of their flight.

When the show was over
and the candles ceased to glow
It surely made me wonder
how it could be so.

The magnitude of energy
that each little body must hold
Is a story that's written in Heaven
and by humans cannot be told.

It is here I sit in solitude
content to gaze in space
Thankful of the privilege
for this hour of grace.

The katydids kept singing
and the crickets held their beat
As I walked from out of the garden
on slow and dragging feet.

The Old Fisherman
(My Favorite)

Think Before You Speak

A seed is planted
A vine grows there
Shall it be flowers
or ever be bare?
As a word is spoken
A thought grows there
Shall it be one of kindness
Or cause some one to despair?

Choose well your seed
When your vine grows there
It shall ever have flowers
It shall never be bare
Choose well your words
ANd as thoughts grow there
Let there always be kindness
And cause no one to despair.

The Old Fisherman