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Barbara Grace Lake

Poetry & Other Crimes

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INTO EACH LIFE, ETC. . . . .

Starting around the 22nd of November I have been very ill.  Too ill to write, most days even too ill to read.  I am getting better.  Give me a couple of weeks and I’ll be back to myself, whatever that is.  If not before Christmas, then I wish all of you the best that life can provide.

THE PURPOSE OF LIFE

© 2019 Barbara Grace Lake

 

Of all the questions asked by man
By far most frequently he asks
Of every life, why am I here?
Is there a reason for my being?
Or purpose I have yet to fill?

A mother young will seldom ask
Her children upmost in her mind
Its when the helpless ones are grown
And imprint of their youth declines
She wonders then, why am I here?

As fathers work to shelter them
To nourish both their bodies, minds
He grapples daily, then it’s gone
Retirement sees as waiting game
In which he asks why am I here?

What’s now the purpose of my life
He sees his children donning garb
He daily wore in working life
As they succumb to older years
They, too, then ask why am I here?

Our years begin creating life
In time, sustaining, keeping safe
Our children then to carry on
As life belongs to them we ask
Have I a purpose yet to fill

The answer sounds, resounds again
I gave to you a part of me
When born your value infinite
Your purpose is continued growth
For giving others wisdom, love

ILLE MILNUTIAE

The Tiny Finger
© 2019 Barbara Grace Lake

 

How possible to be so small
And smaller yet her fingers, toes
Proportioned like a tiny doll
Alive she is too soon to grow

 

Afraid to hold as she might break
But let one finger down to touch
So tightly held her tiny fist
Imprisoned digit as my heart

……………………………

The Tiny Leaf
© 2019 Barbara Grace Lake

 

In spring, a tiny budding leaf
Its texture smooth with lifelike veins
Bright sun so fragile, colorless
Throughout the day a varied green

……………………….

The Tree Branch
© 2019 Barbara Grace Lake

 

Incipient bud erupts to twig
The twig leafs out, arrayed in green
Matured to branch new buds erupt
As life is changing always on

A MOTHER’S PRIDE

© ca 1959 Barbara Grace Lake

 

The faith of a boy in his mom is a joy
When his plans for the day he will share
As she dutifully heeds every mutable need
Making sure that she truly does care

 

To his frog she’ll be kind and his dog duly mind
Though he knows she would rather not bother
The unfixable tear in his jeans she’ll repair
Without threatening a scolding from Father

 

She might muse on what next he will do in pretext
But is sure he will vex her in pleasure
Or if on his bike he’ll collide with a trike
Or a child that another might treasure

 

And how can the lad with that other kid, dad
Be so noisy and boisterous at night
Or inventively tease little sister to ease
His restive demand for a fight

 

Night finally comes round and his bedthings are found
From morning in some dusty cranny
He’ll bribe and implore for just five minutes more
And will argue with skill that’s uncanny

 

Snugged tightly in bed, with his prayers fitly said
He so softly then asks for his Mother
She’ll listen awhile through tear misted smile
To a marvelous tale or another

 

Of a race that he’s won or a brave thing he’s done
In the very young world that he knows
Then she tucks in the sheet and their lips briefly meet
In affection that too seldom shows

 

And she steps from his side with a feeling of pride
So intense that it seems hard to bear
For the faith of a boy in his Mom is a joy
When both day and his life he can share.

IN MEMORIUM

Of Beloved Aunt Winifred Wells

© August, 1959, Barbara Grace Lake

[My cousin found this among some papers
that my grandmother apparently saved.  I’m
happy she saved this one]

 

Don’t grieve for me –

 

Don’t look upon my stillness with despair
for I have gone –

 

And happiness that had so long eluded me
I now have found and it
embraces me –

 

Be joyful for me –

 

Because the cares and trials of
worldly life are merely shadows
of meaningless memories –

 

And these too will pass –

 

And so your grief will pass from you
to mingle with the ashes and dust
of that which sheltered me –

 

Until the time has come when you
shall cross from life
to greater life –

 

And I will greet you joyously –

 

Then you will say to those who mourn their loss –

 

Don’t grieve for me.

DREAMING

© Barbara Grace Lake

 

What do you dream, how do you dream
Vignettes of persons passing by?
Astride grey horses snorting fire?
Across the sun, behind the moon
They’re going on.  I want to go.

 

My mother riding docile white
Beside my cousins Brenda, Bets
How gracefully they sit their mounts
Dense fogs are rising, I can’t see
They’re going on.  They tell me no.

 

They visit only in my dreams
As faces riding ghostly steeds
Dissolving as I try to see
They left a gift, a fragrant breath
They have gone on.  Their time had come.

 

On other nights, events are played
Each actor melts into the clouds
But just as these have parts still here
My role’s to live and love and give
It isn’t time to fly away,

IF EVER ASKED

© 2019 Barbara Grace Lake

At five when asked what’s wanted most
She’d never answer knowing that
Adults who ask would simply laugh
For children never know their minds

 

But I could answer now for her
That lonely child who couldn’t say
She’d want her father home at night
Both parents snug her tightly in

 

When asked again the child was 10
She wouldn’t answer knowing that
If more than book t’was way too dear
Another year, another day

 

What would I answer for her now
That girl away in boarding school?
She wanted more than life could give
A home in which to live.  A home.

 

At sixteen when her mother asked
She wanted clothes, the latest styles.
Her gifts were seconds, last year’s rack
Not fitting quite her size or life

 

When an adult the questions stopped
All felt they knew her mind quite well
She had career, they could not guess
What she’d most want if they should ask

 

Someone to love, someone to stay
A home, a home in which to live.
So woman married, children came
A life ideal thought all she knew

 

His roaming feet made mockery
Of sanctity and marriage vows
Alone again, the questions rose
What will you, can you do alone

 

Near ninety now, a life endured
Through heartache, blessing even love
Though not again a sensual kind.
Her needs the same as when at 10

 

Someone to care, someone to stay
A home to share in which to live.
Now home she shares with caring child
Those final questions answered, done.

WOW, JUST WOW

I just received notification that I have 200 hundred followers!  Perhaps not all that much when so many have several to dozens of hundreds more, but it is a huge milestone to me.  Thank you so much, all of you who have read and even possibly like my poetry.  I am deeply grateful.

QUOTE #4

“If a free society cannot help the many who are poor, it cannot save the few who are rich.”

John F. Kennedy

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