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The following is a list of the poems in this section, with their author's name.
This is the sequence in which they appear.
MY GOLF STORY - Herb Kravitz
MY OLD AGE - Herb Kravitz
BRIDGE AT ANN'S CHOICE - Rhoda Simon
A HARRIED HOUSEWIFE'S PROMISE - Tootsie Drucker
THE TIE - David Jones
WEATHERING LIFE - Eleanor Mueller
SKY DANCE - Eleanor Mueller
THE MOURNING DOVE - Eleanor Mueller
REMEMBERING - Eleanor Mueller
THE LONG ROAD - Eleanor Mueller
HOME - Doris McCullough
THE CAPE - Eleanor Mueller
A FRIEND - Stan Schwartzman
A SNOWY MEMORY - Stan Schwartzman
APRIL FOOL - Stan Schwartzman
TO SCHOOL - Doris McCullough
A MOTHER'S SOLACE - Doris McCullough
A LEAF - Stan Schwartzman
My Golf Story
In my hand I hold a ball.
White & dimpled kind of small.
Oh how bland it does appear.
This harmless looking little sphere
But since I’m possessed by this great spell.
I’m going through the fires of Hell.
It made me curse & made me cry.
I hate myself & want to die.
But with my wants the ball refuses.
It does exactly what it chooses.
Often it chooses to take a whim.
It hits a tree or tries to swim.
Then has me offering with my soul.
If only it would find a hole.
It made me whimper like a pup.
I’ll swear to heaven, I’ll give it up.
I’ll take to drink to ease my sorrow>
But this ball knows, I’ll be back tomorrow.
My Old Age
Today I’m still living.
I’m not among the dead.
Though I’m getting more forgetful.
And mixed up in my head.
Old age is golden, that is what is said.
But that is what I wonder when I get in bed.
I feel young & full of pep.
Rushing here & there.
Enjoying every passing day.
But really I don’t know where.
I got used to my diabetes.
Taking insulin I don’t mind.
But keeping my sweetness from too much sugar.
That’s to what I’m resigned.
So I wake in the morning, & dust off my wits.
Pick up the paper & read the obits.
My name is missing so I know I’m not dead.
So I have a healthy breakfast & go back to bed.
by Herb Kravitz
BRIDGE AT ANN’S CHOICE
In Warminster PA
Day after day
Seniors gather to play
They happily say
Their favorite game
Is Bridge they exclaim
No canasta for them
A game for the weak
Maj Jong the same
So many tiles to seek
Puzzles are boring
Too many pieces to find
And scrabble requires an inquisitive mind
So it’s Bridge for more fun
Back to the tables they come
By Rhoda Simon 7/27/2016
A HARRIED HOUSEWIFE’S PROMISE
My interests are so very varied
That’s why I often seem so hurried
Rushing here, rushing there
Busy, busy everywhere.
While my first choice is to dance
I’m often busy with garden and plants,
Or with sewing or my knitting
Not much time for quiet sitting.
Laundry, cleaning, cooking, baking
No wonder my poor back is aching
Need time for telephone conversations
That cover so many situations
Also time for volunteering
Days so quickly disappearing
“You have to slow down,” many have said.
I promise I will when I am dead.
By Tootsie Drucker
He bought a tie that he saved for best,
Which he hung on his tie rack away from the rest.
He treasured that tie and awaited the day
When he would treat his friends to a resplendent display.
He oft wore his suit but never his tie,
Which stayed in the closet as the years sped by.
It hung in his closet unused and unsung,
Astride his tie rack on the highest rung.
He would save that tie for his retirement day,
An event that would happen the following May.
He could see himself standing tall and proud,
Wearing that tie before an adoring crowd.
Alas, that wonderful day never came,
For he suffered a fall that made him lame.
The following week he passed away,
He was never feted on his retirement day.
That beautiful tie he was so reluctant to wear,
Which would cause some to smile and others to stare,
Would have only one use that he wouldn’t have guessed,
It adorned his shirt when they laid him to rest.
David D. Jones copyright 2014
I watched a flock of Starlings
One cold January day,
As they flew in unison with
A graceful swing and sway.
It was a wonder to behold
They all flew as one.
No command was given
The ballet had begun.
I watched a perfect Pirouette
The background was the sky.
Then, as in a duel,
Toward each other they did fly.
Then the ballet ended
Time and hunger did decide.
And all flew to the ground
Where so many goodies hide.
On the ground, they formed a blanket,
There were Starlings everywhere.
Oh, what a wonderful bird's life
With the air of the world to share.
Eleanor M. Mueller
Come with me.
We'll follow the trail through the fields up the hill
And let the view give our souls a thrill.
We need to give life a respite from strife.
Escape from the world, so to speak.
Here, for awhile, we relax and we smile,
And enjoy the freedom we seek.
The sight and the sound of nature abound.
We catch a whiff of new mown hay.
What a delight when a deer comes into sight
And gracefully leaps away.
The world is in hush and we really must
Remember this wonderful time.
Then, blessing of blessings, what comes to our ears---
The rapture of a church bell chime,.
These moments together, high on our hill,
Are a treasure we'll never forget.
As life has its way, maybe, some day,
We will return and remember.
Eleanor M. Mueller
The Long Road
Before I started on my journey, My Father said to me:
It is time for you to leave for awhile, For there is a form of life you must see.
I replied: But, Oh, my Father, Why must I from you go?
What other life can this surpass? And Oh, I love You so.
He but smiled and said: Now listen to what I'm going to say.
You will live as a mortal for awhile. But, you'll be back some day.
Remember as you travel, For however long it takes,
Only I am the giver of life and the forgiver of all mistakes.
And so, I began my sojourn In this distant, unknown place.
Not entirely willing, But, by my Father's grace.
Oh , how very difficult I found the way to be.
So many influencing my new life. Their mortal wills troubling me.
Then one day I met a man who sailed upon the sea.
He said: If only I could share a night watch with thee.
We would stand on the bridge together, and the sound of the sea we would hear.
And we would look at the starry heaven, and our Father's house would seem
Then our paths took a different direction. I had to find my own way home.
Oh, I walked along with others, but, still, quite alone.
Until one day I met a woman who acted on the stage.
She taught me how to read myself, as a book, and to relish every page.
Loosen all the shackles, she said. Plunge into your very own soul.
Study yourself and know you. Only then will you understand your goal.
How good were the hours with her. As we entered the depths of our
For she brought again to my memory, The wisdom our Father had taught.
I went again down my road. She, with a "God Bless", went on hers
Oh, wherever she is she is singing. What joy my recalling her stirs.
Then there was a man, a pilot, who flew planes high in the sky.
On day I asked him what he thought it was like to die.
Well, he said, I've thought of it. Oh yes, again and again.
It matters not how it happens or even where or when
Now remember, we must live this life for as long as we are meant
to survive. But, our goal is to be with our Father. And we can't leave
this would alive. For we are only mortals and must suffer the transition
Of death. Then, the Father will look upon us. And give us new life with
Oh, all the good, dear loved ones who have traveled a great distance
With me. Have listened and endured my rantings of where my journey
through life has brought me. And as we continue to travel together
And share our experiences of the road; May we never detour one another
But only help to lighten the load.
When we reach that final round-about where all paths and roads combine
Our dear Father will open His arms and offer us welcome sublime.
Eleanor M. Mueller
There is something in the word ‘Home’ that wakes the
Kindliest feelings of the heart and brings back to us the
scenes of our childhood.
There is the place where we have spent so many happy
hours with Father, Mother, Sister, and Brother.
But it is not merely friends that render this place so
dear but even the rocks and hills which surround the place
of our nativity seem to speak of other days that are now
past and gone. No songs so sweet as those shed around
a parent’s dwelling filling every heart with joy and gladness.
We may wander away and mingle with and form new friends
and associates and fancy we have almost forgotten the land
of our birth. Yet it will not be so, we shall not so soon forget
the friends we have left behind us, and memory will often
love to linger around those hallowed hours. And when leisure
moments at twilight leave, we shall think of those lost friends,
never to be forgotten by us.
By: Emily A Smith
February 10, 1855
A MOTHER'S SOLACE
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