Grandpa Grumbles

GRANDPA GRUMBLES
 
Telephoning seemed so simple many years ago.
All you had to do was ask, “Please give me So-and-So.”
 
Dialing adds an extra step before you lift the hook:
Looking up the proper name and number in the book.
 
Cordless telephoning adds dimensions all its own.
This is progress? First you’ve got to go and find the phone.
 
Smart phones keep on getting smarter.
Makes me feel just like a martyr,
just a pot-hole or a byway
on the information highway!
 
Copyright © 2016 by Perry Thomas
 
 

Brown Spots on My Hand

(Some of these short poems see Creation as if through a child’s eyes. Some of them suggest a more mature view of the Creator. A few of them even reflect the long perspective of age. Most are not intended to be Scriptural, sometimes not even spiritual. Yet they may give your spirits a lift: By the middle of the week, who doesn’t need a chuckle or a changed outlook?)
 
BROWN  SPOTS  ON  MY  HAND
 
§  Brown spots on my hand,
wrinkles on my face,
help me understand
age comes on apace.
 
§  Age comes on apace;
death may call at noon.
But for God’s good grace,
life may end too soon.
 
§  Life may end too soon;
yet God’s plan is right:
Some called home at noon
might have strayed ere night. 
 
Copyright © 2016 by Perry Thomas

Fun in Fall

(Some of these short poems see Creation as if through a child’s eyes. Some of them suggest a more mature view of the Creator. A few of them even reflect the long perspective of age. Most are not intended to be Scriptural, sometimes not even spiritual. Yet they may give your spirits a lift: By the middle of the week, who doesn’t need a chuckle or a changed outlook?)

FUN  IN  FALL

(For Mary Frances)
 
Fallen leaves in days of fall
used to give us so much fun.
Raking them in piles was all
the work there was; then we were done.
 
Never did we fill a bag,
never blew leaves to the street.
(Pardon if I seem to brag:
I think our way was rather neat.)
 
One of us would lie down flat,
buried in a crackling tomb.
“Dead man, dead man!” we would chant,
marching round our outdoor room.
 
Then the dead would rise again.
Shrieking, we would run away.
Turn and turn about, and then
we’d burn those piles at end of day.
 
Burning leaves! I know the smell:
Nothing else smells quite the same.
Few of us are left to tell
how fallen leaves could be a game.
 
Copyright © 2016 by Perry Thomas
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Nearsighted Blessings

(Some of these short poems see Creation as if through a child’s eyes. Some of them suggest a more mature view of the Creator. A few of them even reflect the long perspective of age. Most are not intended to be Scriptural, sometimes not even spiritual. Yet they may give your spirits a lift: By the middle of the week, who doesn’t need a chuckle or a changed outlook?)
 
NEARSIGHTED  BLESSINGS
 
§  This world was made for those with eyes to see
the beauty of it. Peaks and plains and lakes
and forests – sketched by painters, sung by poets —
were made for those who see them sharp and clear,
who trace each light and shadow, line and shape,
for they have eyes with which to see the world. 
§  Such instruments my eyes can never be:
My vision is too dim, too indistinct,
though strongest lenses supplement my sight.
And yet sometimes a thing of beauty rare
is seen by me alone: A glaring light
is blurred into a rainbow crystalline.
So give me, Lord, the eyes of mind and soul
to see earth’s beauty in the commonplace!
 
Copyright © 2016 by Perry Thomas
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Our Tree-House Earthquake

(Some of these short poems see Creation as if through a child’s eyes. Some of them suggest a more mature view of the Creator. A few of them even reflect the long perspective of age. Most are not intended to be Scriptural, sometimes not even spiritual. Yet they may give your spirits a lift: By the middle of the week, who doesn’t need a chuckle or a changed outlook?)
 
 OUR  TREE-HOUSE  EARTHQUAKE
 
 
§  We built a house high in an oak –
so big the branches nearly broke.
The neighbors flocked from near and yon
to view the vast phenomenon.
A ladder formed our front approach  —
pulled up lest enemies encroach,
dropped down so friends could come and go
to scan the landscape spread below.
 
§  We thought of adding rooms for rent
to share our rare environment.
We hung a sign; no renters came,
but we were happy just the same,
till one day when the north wind shrieked;
the branches shook and swayed and creaked.
We just had time to slither down;
our tree-house earthquake rocked the
 
Copyright © 2016 by Perry Thomas
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Cloud Continents

(Some of these short poems see Creation as if through a child’s eyes. Some of them suggest a more mature view of the Creator. A few of them even reflect the long perspective of age. Most are not intended to be Scriptural, sometimes not even spiritual. Yet they may give your spirits a lift: By the middle of the week, who doesn’t need a chuckle or a changed outlook?)
 
 
CLOUD  CONTINENTS
  
 
     (For Miriam)
  
§  We lay on our backs, my sister and I;
we looked at the clouds sailing under the sky.
“I see an old man with a beard,” she said.
I said, “There’s a cloud with a buffalo’s head!”
“O look! A castle with towers,” said she.
I answered, “It stands on an island. You see?”
“That island is mine,” she boldly proclaimed.
“By my name that tower and castle are named.”
I squinted. “But look at that wide blue sea.
Across it, a continent’s waiting for me.”
   §  The towers collapsed; the sea turned to grey;
the beard and the buffalo faded away.
There seems now no time to look at the sky,
but still we remember, my sister and I.
Copyright © 2016 by Perry Thomas

Big Old Locomotive

(Some of these short poems see Creation as if through a child’s eyes. Some of them suggest a more mature view of the Creator. A few of them even reflect the long perspective of age. Most are not intended to be Scriptural, sometimes not even spiritual. Yet they may give your spirits a lift: By the middle of the week, who doesn’t need a chuckle or a changed outlook?)
 
 
BIG  OLD  LOCOMOTIVE
 
 
(For Elyssa, Brianna, and Fiona)
 
 
Silent you stand in the September sun.
Do you remember the miles you have run,
Big Old Locomotive?
 
Even your wheels are taller than we are.
How long did those drive wheels roll, and how far,
Big Old Locomotive?
 
 Up to your cab, then, we climb the black stair.
How many others have once mounted there,
Big Old Locomotive?
 
Sticking our heads out, we look down the track.
Now, why did your engineer sit so far back,
Big Old Locomotive?
 
 Your firebox stands open, and we peek inside.
How hot did it get there when folks took a ride,
Big Old Locomotive?
 
We look up above and pull a long cord.
“Clang!” goes the bell, and we yell, “All aboard!”
We’re sorry you’re stuck here on this piece of ground.
We’re glad we found out that your voice can still sound,
Big Old Locomotive!
 
Copyright © 2016 by Perry Thomas
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Little Miss Sumac

(Some of these short poems see Creation as if through a child’s eyes. Some of them suggest a more mature view of the Creator. A few of them even reflect the long perspective of age. Most are not intended to be Scriptural, sometimes not even spiritual. Yet they may give your spirits a lift: By the middle of the week, who doesn’t need a chuckle or a changed outlook?)
 
LITTLE  MISS  SUMAC
 
For most of the seasons, most folks pass her by.
There’s not much about her to catch your eye:
She doesn’t stand tall like an oak or a maple.
She doesn’t spread wide like an elm or an apple.
She’s not evergreen like a cedar or pine.
She’s not like a birch, with her bark all a-shine.
But come to the woodlands early in fall,
and there you will see her, the first of them all.
Just listen as Little Miss Sumac brags:
“I’m the first of them all to fly red flags!” 
 
Copyright © 2016 by Perry Thomas
 

Sycamore Seasons

(Some of these short poems see Creation as if through a child’s eyes. Some of them suggest a more mature view of the Creator. A few of them even reflect the long perspective of age. Most are not intended to be Scriptural, sometimes not even spiritual. Yet they may give your spirits a lift: By the middle of the week, who doesn’t need a chuckle or a changed outlook?)
 
SYCAMORE  SEASONS
 
Who knows sycamores in summer?
Who can tell which trees they are?
Pears and apples signal fruit trees.
Pines grow cones, and smell like tar.
 
But sycamores? Same as the others –
branches, twiglets, leaves of green.
Can you say which ones are sycamores,
out of all the trees you’ve seen?
 
Wait till autumn. Better yet,
wait till winter. Then you’ll know:
Sycamores stand alone in glory.
Sycamore bark shines white as snow.
 
Copyright © 2016 by Perry Thomas
 
 
 
 
 

The Last One Chosen

(Some of these short poems see Creation as if through a child’s eyes. Some of them suggest a more mature view of the Creator. A few of them even reflect the long perspective of age. Most are not intended to be Scriptural, sometimes not even spiritual. Yet they may give your spirits a lift: By the middle of the week, who doesn’t need a chuckle or a changed outlook?)
 
THE  LAST  ONE  CHOSEN
 
Why
am I
the last one chosen?
Could it be because I’m fat?
Never
ever
do they want me
on their team to catch or bat.
 
Ball
and all
the other games,
it always turns out just the same.
I know
I’m slow,
but I can trot;
why won’t they ever call my name?
 
Why
am I
the last one chosen?
Maybe glasses are to blame.
If
I lift
them from my nose,
then I can’t see to play the game. 
 
If they
stay,
they slide downhill,
and likely will get broken.
Could be
maybe
that is why
my name is never spoken.
 
Why
am I
the first one chosen
when we play a spelling game?
They all
recall
how well I spell,
and race to call my name! 
 
Copyright © 2016 by Perry Thomas
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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