Just a Rumor

Youth whispered in my ear one day;
"Ah Ha, youth lasts forever,
So run and shout,
And dance about
In all the seasons' weather."

And so I ran and I did shout,
"Ho, Ho, I'll last forever,"
And I did sing
Through early spring,
And we were wed together.

Oh foolish youth, today I say,
Hoarfrost lies upon my head,
I've had my say
Throughout the day
And believed not what you said.

For early in this game of life
I stored so much of humor
And, as time went
I was content
To think that old was rumor!

Sometimes I Ache

Sometimes I ache for a child to hold
Within the circle of my heart,
To feel the sweet, fresh breath
Upon my face
And a wet kiss upon my cheek.

Sometimes I ache
For that which was mine
So many years ago.
I ache for a lover's youthful voice
And a circle of arms
To hold me in the cold of winter.

Sometimes I ache for that little girl
Who died, her laughter echoes down
The corridors of time.
I ache for a time in life
When happiness and joy was...
It just was.

But today, yes, today;
I just ache.

Shadow of Self

Time was...

They raced the wind,
Laughed at life, and echoes of youth
Filled the valley of time.
They ran
Along the river as it quietly snaked
It's way to the open sea.

Birds whistled in the shadows
Of the river valley, and wild flowers
Sprinkled the under-growth with color.

She knew...

Deep within a mother's heart,
She knew that time would
Halt this race, and he would be a man.
She would be old - but please,
Not so soon.

The river, one day, became angry.
It left its bed, snatched trees
From their river home and, together
With a young man, hurriedly swept,
In turbulent fury toward the sea.

Now alas...

A solitary figure, a shadow of self,
May be seen, strolling the banks
Of a deceptively calm river.
Birds whistle in the woods,
A sprinkling of flowers bloom but
The young woman is deaf to all
But the pain of loss.

The Old Man and the Boy

They sat side by side,
The old man and the boy.
One fingered a cane,
The other a toy.

"I wet my pants,"
Said the boy with a grin,

"I do that myself, time and again,"
said the little old man
whose back was bent.
What a picture they made, the tyke
and old gent.

"I spill my food, and sometimes I cry."

Answered the old man, "So do I."

The tyke looked up and saw the tears
Course down the wrinkles
Etched by the years,

And his hand reached out,
And he lay his toy
In the lap of the man to bring him joy.

"My son," said the man, and his eyes
Gazed down, bleary blue eyes
Into youthful brown,

"I've been your age, you will be mine,
But now I revert, sometimes I whine.
Things I do, I don't mean to do,
like wetting my pants the way you do."

Although the little boy knew not why,
He kissed the old man
And started to cry.

Thus they sat, an unlikely pair,
Two orphan fellows with tears
to share.

 See The Silence

You need to see a multitude of things:
A beaded spider web, shimmering
With morning dew on a sun-splashed
Day; woven with the precision
Of a spinning wheel.

An arrow-shaped flock of geese,
Winging south in dawn's
Golden break.
A color-smeared sunset,
Viewed through breeze-blown
Palms on Waikiki.

A flash of vermilion contrasted
To hoary hills of winter.
The ocean
With tiny murmurs escaping
The waltzing waves of calmness
Or belching the sea-green
Tides at midnight.

You need to witness New England
In all her shimmering autumn finery
And catch her melodies, played
By unseen, angelic choirs.
You should see the speckled eggs
Of a cardinal, nestled in the arms
Of a nest.

And you must view the soft,
Hairy nest of a rabbit, cradling
Hairless, red and blind babies.

But alas, there are none so blind
As those who WILL NOT see.

April Cried Last Night

Blades of grass
are laden
with glistening tear-drops
that fell
from April's eyes last night.

Brown and green bearded
faces of meadow lanes
are smiling.

Gardens are strewn
with lavender petals
fresh-fallen
from lilac's out-stretched arms.

And I,
remembering April's past,
feel a turbulence
within my heart
and weep.

A Perfect Picture

Blackbirds wheel
above the plots
of autumn grain.

Field mice scamper---
dining to their heart's content
O'er the vast terrain.

Golden pumpkins snooze
in tempid sunshine.....

Squirrels scurry
in feverish quest
to fill winter larders.

Bouquets of red sugar maple
shimmer against
a background of evergreens.

The farmer pauses
in his doorway
and gazes to the western sky.

There, in the cleft
of blazing hills,
the last rays
of a disappearing sun
catch silver streaks
emitted by a giant jet liner.

He is thankful
for his harvest.

Hazel Bell Nicholas, the only daughter of a farmer-blacksmith, credits any talent she has for poetry to a poor, but loving family and her own love of the country and nature.
      She started her career by writing poetry for advertising contests. Then, in 1951, she sold a poem called "Summer's Lass" to Radio Mirror Magazine for the impressive, at the time, sum of five dollars.
       Her other published work includes articles for travel, nostalgia, treasure hunting (with metal detectors), and horse magazines -- more than fifty articles before she turned fifty.
      God gave her the talent and strength to travel through a long, dark valley of sadness with the death of a loving husband and son.
      And now, at the age of eighty-five, Nicholas is preparing to publish her sixth book of poetry, "Come Walk With Me." You can find information about Hazel Bell Nicholas's poetry and order her book "Whispers of Autumn" here.

Images:
"An Autumn Day in Skolniki Park," brush on canvas, Isaac Levitan, 1879
"Rain in an Oak Forest", brush on canvas, Ivan Shiskin, 1891