Listen to the poetic whispers

The Migration of the Peoples

larryspoemshed — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 10:00:01 +0000

The Migration of the Peoples

From forested hills in North America

and the outback of Australia,

from the shores of New Zealand

the rainforests of South America,

and from distant islands across the vast oceans,

they journeyed.

Travelers from the war-torn deserts of the Middle East,

the tundra of Alaska,

and the remote regions of Russia,

mingled with those from Mexico

and Central America.

From the European states,

the seaports of the Far East,

and the African nations they came,

the inhabitants of cities, villages, and

rural areas, rich and poor alike.

People of many languages gathered in peace,

laying their weapons down,

and casting hatred aside.

The centuries of turmoil had ceased,

and the racial bigotries which long

plagued the God-created Earth

were no more.

Men, women, and children,

black, brown, red, yellow, and white alike, gathered

from Earth’s four corners.

Locks of blond hair, black hair, and brown hair,

silver and bright auburn hair,

some adorned in ribbons,

waved in the gentle breezes, like flags

of the nations.

They had been separated by

race, color, class, and creed,

with little hope of reconciliation.

A place of violence, anger, bigotry, and

death, the Earth seemed doomed to perish—

but the Anchor held.

Now they came to celebrate,

gathered in one place, united

as one, to dance, sing, and bow in worship

before the Son of Man.

The Migration of the Peoples

By Larry Powers

Oct. 2008

Poems for Family Promise

larryspoemshed — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 19:22:50 +0000

Family Promise is an organization of volunteers committed to helping low-income families nationwide to achieve lasting independence. We do this by helping communities mobilize to provide safe shelter, meals, and support services for homeless families and through programs designed to redress the underlying causes of homelessness. Many of the poems on this page are poems reflecting my beliefs that we only receive from life what we put into it.

The Lulling

They failed that day to take a stance,
leaving their offspring cast to chance -
allowed the world’s whims to dictate.
But lies build up and suffocate,
deception comes in lullabies and has its way.
They wake, only to realize, they failed that day.

Truth is obscure, gray, void of light
and who can say what’s wrong or right,
so they turned their heads, hoped the best.
Without mentors, their children guessed
and searched for meaning elsewhere, something to endure.
In confusion, they wondered why truth is obscure.

The Lulling,

~~a Wrapped Refrain poem
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

three alone

two young children
sleep snugly beneath
blankets, cuddling
on a cool spring’s morn
in the back seat of
a rusted, old car with expired tags
and less than a quarter tank of gas

afraid and weeping,
a young woman
keeps vigilance like
a mother bear over her cubs
and prays for better days -
a break, a job, a home,
money for gas,
food for her kids

three victims – innocent -
tossed aside

Welfare, we think

walking away with
a backward glance,
thankful those aren’t
our children or grandchildren
sleeping in the back
seat of an old car

three alone

~~ a poem of homelessness
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

Passageway

If the eyes of men neglect to look back,
attentive to young boys trailing behind,
trying to walk in step, seeking guidance,
then a generation will travel through
life, stopping at every crossroad, searching
elsewhere for someone who will take notice.

Another voice will beckon, “Come this way.”
If men won’t mentor, an adversary,
unconcerned for their welfare, will swoop in,
with his snares in place and drool seeping from
his lips, hungry to devour – leading boys
off the ancient passageway to manhood.

Passageway

~~a poem of mentoring
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

Homeless with Children

They’re a family, broken and alone,
isolated, without a place to call their own.
Loss of self-esteem, loss of job and home,
parents, fearing for the safety of their children,
cuddle them, sleeping in the car to avoid the danger
lurking in shelters for the homeless.

Embarrassed, labeled as ‘the homeless,’
facing overwhelming odds, all alone,
they’re cast upon a perilous path of danger.
Three duffel bags bear the essentials they own.
They pray for food for their children
and a safe haven in a place called home.

With no income, they lost their home -
never dreamed they would be homeless.
They worry, fearful of losing their children.
With no other family close, they struggle, alone.
Penniless, hopeless; they’re left on their own,
exiled amid dark streets of danger.

Ever it looms, the sense of loss and danger,
the lack of money to buy food or rent a home,
the struggle of finding work to care for their own.
They didn’t deserve the plight of the homeless.
The loss of job through illness left them alone,
destitute, scavenging for food for their children.

Disheartened, they see the needs of their children
and live in dread of the future, the danger
of being lost in the system, trying to survive alone
in the city, a family without a home,
fearful of forever being caste among those called homeless.
Tenuous, with little hope, they try to hold their own.

With but a little help, they could make it on their own,
providing a loving home for their children,
who along with them are stigmatized as ‘homeless.’
With but a little help, they could avoid the danger
of being a family torn apart and live together in a home.
They’re desperate, fearful, a family in crisis, all alone.

Will they ever be exiled and alone, this family with children,
unable to stand on their own, amid the danger
of the streets, without a home, numbered among the homeless?

Homeless with Children
~~a sestina poem
Larry Powers
‘kansaspoet’

Woman of Gentle Grace

larryspoemshed — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 19:17:04 +0000

Woman of Gentle Grace
~~poems to and about my wife

A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.
~Mignon McLaughlin

The Mist of Morning Dew

Sardonic eyes, reclusive, clouded, veiled
by shadows – trust was gone and here it shone.
Attempts at love, like scattered seeds unsown,
were swept away when violent winds assailed.
In love, as in all things, it seemed he failed;
his heart grew calloused, black as granite stone,
and destiny appeared a life alone.
His fears, like dark foreboding spirits, haled.

And when he thought his heart beyond repair,
by love eluded, gentle breezes blew.
And, softly, whispers came from tender lips.
She whirled into his life on wings of prayer
and graced him with the mist of morning dew.
Now, oft, of love’s endearing cup, he sips.

The Mist of Morning Dew
~~a Petrarchan Sonnet
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

Time and Again

The calming coo of a dove -
a stream gently rolling,
whispering across the rocks –
an echo in the canyon
finding its way to my heart
~~time and again,
grace gifted from God above
cascading like the ancient falls –
fresh dew glimmering
on a newly budded rose,
rain pitter-pattering on parched soil,
refreshing, quenching thirst –
a cool breeze on a summer’s eve,
in winter’s freeze, a warming fire –
your love for me is all of these,
~~time and again.

Time and Again
~~a poem for my wife
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

A Princess Warrior She

A powerful love song
to the King of Kings,
praiseful lyrics flowing
in every word she sings.

Woman of gentle grace,
a princess warrior she,
a tender heart, fragile,
and full of humility.

A lady of the kingdom,
courageous, full of life,
seeker of God’s wisdom –
His daughter, my wife.

Together we journey,
on a pathway well-trod,
by travelers before us,
who were led by God.

In battle, side by side,
covered with prayer,
warrior and bride,
inseparable, this pair.

A Princess Warrior She
~~a poem for my wife
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

Of Native Americans

larryspoemshed — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 19:12:12 +0000

Though I am not Native American, I enjoy writing poetry about the people of the First Nations.

Speaking of the ways of his native people, Luther Standing bear wrote, “Conversation was never begun at once, nor in a hurried manner. No one was quick with a question, no matter how important, and no one was pressed for an answer. A pause, giving time for thought was the truly courteous way of beginning and conducting a conversation. Silence was meaningful with the Lakota, and his granting a space of silence to the speechmaker and his own moment of silence before talking was done in the practice of true politeness and regard for the rule that thought comes before speech.”
~~Luther Standing Bear

Weeping at Bear River

Screams of children sliced through
the icy morning winds—
they could find no place to hide.
One after another, young bodies
crumpled to ground…
the light of morning taken from their eyes.
Black smoke billowed
from the barrels of guns.

Moans of dying mothers withered
into the fresh-fallen snow.
Their cries muffled,
watching the children die—
one by one.
The breath of the mothers of the Shoshone
disappeared into gray vapors
amid the blackness.

And whispering spirits tarry,
weeping at Bear River.

Fear gripped the daughters of the Shoshone—
violated, bloody, and
spittle-covered, they stared into
the eyes of vile,
vehement men.

In winter’s past,
the daughters played here,
close to warm tepees,
creating figures in the snow.
Now, they lay naked, exposed,
lingering near death,
trembling,
far from warmth,
awaiting the hatchet’s blow.

Unborn infants,
once comfortable in the womb
of nurturing mothers,
lay scattered about,
tossed upon crimson-stained snow,
ripped from the belly,
the life-blood flowing from
their unformed bodies—
wretched,
wanton acts of wickedness.

And whispering spirits tarry,
weeping at Bear River.

The warriors, young and old,
fought bravely
to defend the homes of the
the Valley People,
as the guns of the militia
exploded across the river.

But soon, the Shoshone rifles
were silent. The rounds had all been fired.
But the cold, angry soldiers
rode rampant through the village,
firing bullet after bullet after bullet after bullet
into the bodies of the unarmed Shoshone.

Two hundred and fifty Shoshone People,
creations of the Great Spirit -
men, women, boys, and girls -
lay dead, their tortured bodies
left for the wolves and crows to
feast upon—frozen in crimson snow.
“Lice and nits,” the white Colonel called them.

The survivors wept and their tears tasted like salt;
their hearts felt heavy; their souls grieved;
the blood of their wounds ran red
and they prayed to the Great Spirit—
the Shoshone People.

And whispering spirits tarry,
weeping at Bear River.

Weeping at Bear River
~~Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

And We Danced

Head held high,
in the traditional dance,
a mother smiled at her child,
as if she were dancing
for him alone—the pride
of many generations shone
in her eyes.

Like an elegant butterfly
on painted wings,
in a celebration of life,
a young woman danced the
dance of the Fancy Shawl –
the hope of many generations
beamed on her face.

Moving, with grace,
to the beat of the drum
and of their hearts,
as the chanters sang,
the Jingle Dress Dancers swayed—
the blood of many generations
pulsed through their veins.

Like a warrior,
swift, skilled, and agile,
he danced the dance of the
hoops, moving in the
circle of life—
carrying the strength
of the generations.

The prairie chicken dancers and
the grass dancers
thanked the Creator for life,
and danced as though they danced
for him… and all the generations.

We came together in a circle.
Slowly and reverently,
we teemed within the circle of life, dancing.
Among us an ambiance existed –
one words cannot
sufficiently describe.

The drums and singers stopped.
A man spoke.
I didn’t know the words.
Maybe he was praying.
I heard his heart and
the passion of his native tongue,
as I listened,
glad that he speaks his language,
though once some tried
to take it from his ancestors.

On a Saturday afternoon,
with our hearts as one,
within the circle of life,
we danced.

And We Danced
~~Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

Lost Voice

Wave upon wave the herds wandered
across vast plains, endless prairies,
stretching out, reaching to the horizon.
The earth trembled beneath hooves;
the noise of their bellowing echoed,
thousands of voices blended as one.

Tromping through valleys, o’er hilltops,
en masse, moving slowly, methodically,
single bodies crowding, indistinguishable,
into the huddled legions of rolling fur.
Clouds of dust and swarms of flies
followed them into ancestral grounds.

They roamed freely, proud and unfettered,
preyed upon by the skillful Plains Indians,
who sought only a source of sustenance:
meals to appease their hungry bellies
and furs for warmth against winter freeze,
thankful hunters, taking only for need.

Then the intruders came, pleasure hunters,
torturing, slaughtering wave upon wave
for the mere joy of sport, the thrill kill.
Skinners, for pay, ripped away precious fur
leaving pile upon pile of bleached bones
and decaying flesh, the smell of death.

Putrid landfills, naked corpses rotting,
bones scattered across ancestral lands,
until they returned back to the dust.
Gone, the once great herds are no more,
the sound of the bellowing, the trembling
diminished and fragmented, a lost voice.

Now, but a few of these great buffalo remain
of what once formed the huddled legions,
a remnant, protected on reserves, fettered.
Hired mercenaries, ruthless marauders,
leaving bones of ancestors piled in heaps,
brought the herd to the edge of extinction.

Lost Voice
~~Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”
In the late 1800′s, mercenaries were hired to kill off the buffalo in an attempt to starve out the Plains Indians.

Children’s Eyes

The breath of morning’s gentle breeze
aflutter, lingered, whispering
amid the leaves of linden trees.

The timid light of dawn awoke
where mating doves of mourning cooed.
The genesis awakening spoke,
alluring, lodged in solitude.

Along the banks of splashing streams,
he heard the voice of ancients sing,
reminding him – preserve the dreams.

As side to side his body swayed;
in native words of old he prayed.
He saw his people’s children’s eyes
and raised his hands toward the skies.

Children’s Eyes
~~a Saraband Sonnet
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

Wounded Healers

larryspoemshed — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 18:17:26 +0000

Emotional trauma causes one to reflect upon who he is. In this reflection, many of us find our chosen pathway for life. As some have stated, we find ourselves, somewhere among the twisted vines of emotions, discovering a road to recovery and healing. Once on this road, we become ‘wounded healers,’ using our experiences to help those who are searching through clusters of emotions, seeking healing. Etchings in Stone is a poem of a long road to my personal recovery and forgiveness. It is a poem of fathers and sons.

Etchings in Stone

I stared at the letters etched in stone,
as the little flag atop the grave swirled,
and I shivered, not from the chill
of morning winds, but the stinging pain
of remembering years wasted in strife.
What was it that made us so angry?

The black storm clouds sounded angry,
as I recalled when my heart, like this stone,
was hard and rumbled with strife.
The winds picked up; my thoughts swirled
back to a time when I embraced pain.
Gloomy memories cause the soul to chill.

Bracing against the autumn chill,
grateful I was no longer angry,
I sensed a different kind of pain.
As I traced the etchings in the stone
with my finger, the leaves swirled
at my feet, their clamor akin to our past strife.

Seems it was always there, the strife;
even in times of silence, there was a chill,
a cold awkwardness, as emotions swirled.
In fear of your anger, I too became angry,
withdrawing inside, behind walls of stone;
there I chose to conceal all traces of pain.

It once pierced like a dagger, this pain,
and I dwelt in a dungeon, dark with strife,
writing hateful graffiti on moss-covered stone.
No sunshine entered. The desolate chill
engrossed my soul; and like an angry,
violent twister, my bitterness swirled.

As the little Veterans Day flag swirled
in the fresh-falling rain, the years of pain
eroded away. I saw you no longer as angry,
but a man hurt by a life consumed with strife.
I watched the raindrops, in the morning’s chill,
trickle through your name etched in stone.

Our lives were swirled apart by strife upon strife,
but it was time to release pain and memories that chill,
to stop being angry, to weep at your name in stone.

Etchings in Stone

a sestina poem
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

Swing High, My Son

He takes a child’s hand,
leads him to the city park,
swings him high upon the swing.
He takes a child’s heart,
holds it gently in his hand,
this daddy, molder of dreams.

Swing High, My Son,
a Sedoka poem
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

Front Porch Swing

He lived alone, all but forgotten and unheard.
Some days he seldom spoke a single word.
The quiet and loneliness almost wore him out,
he had so many things to talk about.
Since the dreary winter day his wife passed away,
so few cared to hear what he had to say.

Early of a morning, he could still hear her sing,
like she was out there on the front porch swing.
Once or twice, he ventured outside to have a look,
hoping to find her reading the Good Book.
He wondered how many times he saw her out there,
with the wind blowing through her silver hair.

With families of their own, his children moved on,
sounds once pervading the home were long gone.
The old dog kept him company, close at his heels,
under the table begging during meals.
Too worn out and slow to go chasing jackrabbit,
sleeping on the couch was his new habit.

The porch swing creaked, swaying gently upon a breeze,
as he sat on the steps rubbing sore knees.
He decided to walk downtown to the drugstore –
the most exercise he got anymore –
where old timers met to discuss current events,
the one place coffee was still thirty cents.

They talked about the weather, the days of the past,
and how everything today moved so fast.
Each man at the table had lived long and worked hard,
each hoped he hadn’t played his last hold card.
For this morning, they held each other in esteem,
a few of them knew they lived their life dream.

After hearing their stories of wisdom and wit,
he walked back home, each step full of spirit.
Up until supper, he worked in the flowerbed,
digging up all the rosebushes that were dead.
He spent the evening resting on the front porch swing,
alone, listening to the robins sing.

Front Porch Swing
Larry Powers
‘kansaspoet’
a traditiona rhyming poem
written in 2006

“Words can hurt,” (my grandfather) said, “but only if you let them. They called you bad names. Were you changed into the things they called you? You cannot forget what they said anymore than you cannot feel the wind when it blows. But if you learn to let the wind blow through you, you will take away its power to blow you down. If you let the words pass through you, without letting them catch on your anger or pride, you will not feel them.”
~~Joseph M. Marshall III, from his book, The Lakota Way

Let us not underestimate how hard it is to be compassionate. Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to the place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken.
~~Henri Nouwen

Two Visions

larryspoemshed — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 18:10:09 +0000

I didn’t begin writing poetry until my spirit eyes were opened. In the Bible, it’s called seeing through the eyes of your heart; I like to refer to it as spirit eyes. With our spirit eyes, we see beyond the physical. It is like having two sources of vision. One sees the natural beauty and our surroundings; the other gives us a deeper understanding - a spiritual recognition.Eugene H. Peterson, who translated the Message paraphrase of the Bible, wrote:

Poets tell us what our eyes, blurred with to much gawking, and our ears, dulled with too much chatter, miss around us. Poets use words to drag us into the depths of reality itself, not by reporting on how life is, but by pushing-pulling us into the middle of it.
Stimulus

In peace and silence, breathe your final breath,
For long you suffered, grasped in torment’s bane,
While feebly edging near the gates of death.
Your zeal to live, once strong, began to wane.

Escape the place your ailing body’s lain.
Awake, to view the realms your dreams relayed,
To sail the river like the boys of Twain,
And find adventure where your spirit’s bade.

Depart this dreary room where visions fade,
To ride your painted pony past the rills
And rest beneath the maple’s spreading shade,
Where swallows whistle songs beyond the hills.

Undaunted, journey past the great divide;
Pervade the land where dreams untold abide.

Stimulus,

a Spenserian Sonnet
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”
Dedicated to Lloyd Wisdom who passed away on April 3, 2008 Gathering Clouds

Where the whispering wind speaks
And courageous eagles soar,
Almost touching heaven’s door,
Past open holes in the sky
Where stars are no longer high.
Such places are found, it seems,
Only in a young child’s dreams -
Where floating clouds smile and say,
“Follow me, I know the way.”
And you go because you can;
You’ve not yet become a man.
Among the gathering clouds,
Far from noisy, bustling crowds,
Beyond the mountaintop peaks.

Gathering Clouds
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

Healing Rain

The monsoon

strikes, leaving debris strewn,
weaving a path of grim destruction.
Winds, down-pouring rainfall; vicious depredation—
like lies of a gossip spreading devastation.
Kind, gentle words offer sweet refrain –

spring showers bringing gain—
healing rain.

Healing Rain,
a Trois-par-Huit poem
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”

Beside Waters of Many Rivers

larryspoemshed — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 17:51:06 +0000

Beside Waters of Many Rivers

He stood at the river’s edge,
reminiscing broken boundaries,
abandoned treaties,
lies from the white eyes,
and starvation of the little ones.

They came from the rising of the sun
to the land of his ancestors;
wave upon wave they crossed sacred grounds.
Intruders, they killed buffalo for sport
and massacred the ancient ones
while they slept in their tepees
beside waters of many rivers.

His noble band, a people of the land -
once hunters and horsemen, warriors
and their families, the old and young -
walked across a barren wilderness,
against their will,
to a place of nothingness,
of broken promises -
a reservation of restless people.

Now, like a chameleon, he rode
on his painted pony, silently -
a ghost rider haunting the white eyes.

Darting in and out of nighttime camps,
he stole horses of the pony soldiers –
taking back the wealth of noble hunters.

He watched life flow from wounds
of his enemies, remembering rivers
that ran red with the blood of children.

A phantom of the hills,
a man of great sorrows,
he rode his painted pony of death
toward the setting of the sun,
ruefully recollecting
the broken boundaries,
the abandoned treaties,
and rivers that flowed crimson -
with the blood of his sons.

Larry Powers

‘kansaspoet’

2007

Painted in Streaks

larryspoemshed — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 17:45:05 +0000

Painted in Streaks

If I listen closely, I hear him
tapping gently with a wood mallet,
sawing rhythmic with his old crosscut,
whistling the tune of a timeless hymn.
Beneath his feet, the pine-planked floor creaks.
If I rest below this weeping willow
and wish upon the four-leaf clover
hidden behind a wild-eyed larkspur,
will I espy him through the window?

Cicadas serenade;
hummingbirds chirp and trill;
a voice in the wind speaks.
In the breeze, the door squeaks.
My dream begins to fade;
in the quell, time stands still.

And the days
my soul seeks
fade to haze…

memories painted in streaks.

Larry Powers

‘kansaspoet’

2008

Ambiguity

larryspoemshed — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 17:40:42 +0000

Ambiguity

Like a delicate fuchsia
her parasol flittered
in the sparkling breezes
of the crystalline fountains.

In her pristine chapel,
the echoes of trickling waterfalls
silenced the pandemonium
of passing traffic and
crowded sidewalks.

From a short distance,
I watched her briefly,
before hopping into the
waiting taxicab.

Like a statue,
she sat, unmoving
on the cold tile in the
early morning,
behind a pink rose petal…
ambiguous.

The taxi driver turned
on Coral Avenue and
I lost sight of her
but remembered her,
curiously,
the rest of the day.

~Larry Powers

‘kansaspoet’

2008

Where Papaws Grow – a Pathya Vat poem

larryspoemshed — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 20:01:20 +0000

Pathya Vat

The Pathya Vat poetry form has its origin in Cambodia. It belongs to the family of the Than Bauk poetry form. Pathya Vat contains four lines of four syllables with both middle lines rhyming.

xxxa
xxxb
xxxb
xxxc

If desired you may create a chain of Pathya Vat stanzas. You have to use the last word of the previous stanza, to rhyme with the second and third line of the ensuing stanza.

xxxa
xxxb
xxxb
xxxc

xxxd
xxxc
xxxc
xxxe and so on.

I was introduced to this form by my poet friend Bianca from Holland. Here is a Pathya Vat poem I recently wrote:

Where Papaws Grow

On fields of green

when healing comes,

honeyed balsams

awake the soul,

as hand in hand

two lovers stroll

on grassy knoll

where papaws grow.

Over the dell,

a skilled maestro,

the wind, echoes

melodious

through budding trees;

flirtatious,

a sly temptress,

she softly sighs.

Her blithe soughing

suddenly shies

when she espies

the lovers two,

wishing she could

find one to woo,

a lover true

to hold her dear.

But she wanders
from year to year

both far and near

a lone zephyr,

yet she wonders

if another

hears the murmur -

her cry of love,

as hand in hand

two lovers stroll

on grassy knoll

where papaws grow.

Where Papaws Grow

Larry Powers

‘kansaspoet’

August 16, 2008