Mapern's Poetry Page

by Rob O'Connor Photography
"...when I carried you."

"Art is not a mirror that reflects the world
but the hammer with which to shape it."

I would like to have this page represent different types of poetry from as diverse a community as possible. However, this is a G-rated site, so write accordingly. Just send me your contribution and I will publish it here with gratitude. I am contemplating a contest in the near future. My email addy is: Mapern. Happy writing and may God bless you and "...keep you in the palm of his hand."

Happy News! I have just discovered a quantity of poems written by my Great Uncle Nick in the box I received after the passing of my Aunt Ellen. I have sent these poems on to my cousin, Ruth Postgate, for her inclusion in the book of poetry she is submitting. You can access the poems I found from the menu below. He wrote these during WWII. Hope you enjoy the feeling he transmits.

Table of Contents

Searching for the Voice in my Heart..........Anonymous
Dear Grandpa..........Pamela
The Lamb..........Anonymous
America Gets Out..........by Rose
Burma Shave..........Burma Shave Company
Death of a Daisy..........by Dan McElwain
A Child's Delima..........by Mary Hamill

Searching for the Voice in My Heart

It was the first day of census, and all throught the land
each pollster was ready...a black book in hand.
He mounted his horse for a long dusty ride,
his book and some quills were tucked close by his side.

A long winding ride down a road barely there,
towards the smell of fresh bread wafting, up through the air.
The woman was tired, with lines on her face
and wisps of brown hair she tucked back into place.

She gave him some water...as they sat at the table
and she answered his questions...the best she was able.
He asked him of children. Yes, she had quite a few.
The oldest was twenty, the youngest not two.

She help up a toddler with checks round and red.
His sister, she whispered, was napping in bed.
She noted each person who lived there with pride,
and she felt the faint stirrings of the wee one inside.

At the number of children, she nodded her head
and he saw her lips quiver for the three that were dead.
The places of birth she "never forgot"
...was it Kansas? or Utah? or Oregon...or not?

They came from Scotland, of that she was clear,
But she was quite sure just how long they'd been here.
They spoke of employment, of schooling and such.
They could read some...and write some...though really not much.

When the questions were answered, his job there was done
so he mounted his horse and he rode towards the sun.
We can almost imagine his voice loud and clear,
"May God bless you all for another ten year."

Now picture a time warp...it's now you and me
as we search for the people on our family tree.
We squint at the census and scroll down so slow
as we search for that entry from long, long ago.

Could they only imagine on that long ago day
that the entries they made would effect us this way?
If they knew would they wonder at the yeaning we feel
and the searching that makes them so increasingly real.

We can hear if we listen the words they impart
through their blood in our veins and their voice in our heart.

----------------Anonymous

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Dear Grandpa

Dear Grandpa, how are you?,
Are your wings white with a touch of gray?
Can you see me from where you are?
Do you miss me as much as I miss you?

Can I talk to you for awhile?
Do you think Jesus will mind?
Can we sit on the back porch and watch the garden grow?
Would it be okay?.

May I have a sip of your coffee?,
Cream and sugar in it tastes better when you share.
Tell me what you planted,
then I can wait to watch it grow.

I still don't like thunderstorms
or strange sounds in the night,
you told me it was okay to be afraid of lightening
and things I didn't understand.
But you were always there with a loving hug,
until I could find my own courage.

I miss our little talks as we watched the garden grow,
but now the sun is warm upon my face,
and you are not there to hug,
or are you?

I see your face in the dawning sun,
where tomatoes ripen on the vine; I hear your voice.
You hug me with each gentle breeze,
and I can imagine all my forgotten dreams anew.

Coffee still tastes better with sugar and cream,
when shared with my son;
then I weave tales of hope and trust,
with someone I love.

----------------PAMELA

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THE LAMB

Mary had a little lamb,
His fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went,
The Lamb was sure to go.

He followed her to school each day,
T'wasn't even in the rule.
It made the children laugh and play,
To have a Lamb at school.

And then the rules all changed one day,
Illegal it became;
To bring the Lamb of God to school,
Or even speak His Name.

Every day got worse and worse,
And days turned into years.
Instead of hearing children laugh,
We heard gun shots and tears.

What must we do to stop the crime,
That's in our schools today?
Let's let the Lamb come back to school,
And teach our kids to pray!

----------------Anonymous, sent in by Judith Bradley

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Here is one from my friend and mentor, Rose

It seems a long time ago that I met a lady by the name of Houng. She told me of the things she saw before she left on one of the last evacuations from Viet Nam. I thought, "Well, it will soon be over now. Things will be back to normal soon!" Unfortunately, even though things have gotten somewhat better for the people in her country, the story is being repeated over and over again. In Bosnia, Zaire, Ireland, and many other areas of the world, things aren't much different. Sadly, I have lost track of Houng and her family, but I would like to dedicate the following poem to her...just as she inspired me to write it.

AMERICA GETS OUT

I remember the horror I felt
when the news hit my ears
like a creeping slime of inhumanity.
Thinking of all those doll children
with liquid black eyes
and boney hands clutching bowls of rice.
I remember the shame I felt
knowing I was one of those Americans
who looked the other way
at a new car,
a vacation trip,
and new curtains for the living room
while children in Viet Nam were
being torn apart by shrapnel,
burned by napalm,
and orphaned by a war
too old for most to remember the beginning of.

But I remember most coming to know there was no other way. "When you give Viet Nam man a gun," my friend Houng told me, "and tell him to fight... he go in jungle, he see enemy, he throw gun down, and run away."

In her village, a woman hangs from the rafters of her paper house because she can no longer bear to see her children starving. Children fathered by a spineless "man" who ran in fear Fear of being "sent to G.I." and having to give up games of black jack beautiful clothes and young girls to smile at him.

It is difficult to conceive of a nation where a girl child is a blessing someone to take care of brothers and sisters and parents in their old age and a boy child is "much bad luck", a burden to bear, a parasite on the family and the nation.

A nation such as this, a nation of child men is difficult to defend.


----------------Submitted by Rose, written in September 1975

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Remember when? The following are verses of the "BURMA SHAVE" commercials that dotted the highways and byways of America in the "good old days" and we all loved 'em. They were poetic and fun to read as the automobiles (which we also loved) streamed down the road. Go here to Catch the new wave of Burma Shave

A CHRISTMAS HUG
A BIRTHDAY KISS
AWAITS THE WOMAN
WHO GIVES THIS
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

SUBSTITUTES
ARE LIKE A GIRDLE
THEY FIND SOME JOBS
THEY JUST CAN'T HURDLE
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

MY MAN WON'T SHAVE
SAID HAZEL HUZ
BUT I DON'T WORRY
DORA'S DOES
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

SUBSTITUTES
CAN LET YOU DOWN
QUICKER THAN
A STRAPLESS GOWN
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

IF YOU DON'T KNOW
WHOSE SIGNS THESE ARE
YOU CAN'T HAVE
DRIVEN VERY FAR
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

UNLESS YOUR FACE
IS STINGER FREE
YOU'D BETTER LET
YOUR HONEY BE
BURMA-SHAVE

* * *

THIS CREAM MAKES THE
GARDENER'S DAUGHTER
PLANT HER TU-LIPS
WHERE SHE OUGHTER
BURMA-SHAVE

* * *

MANY A FOREST
USED TO STAND
WHERE A LIGHTED MATCH
GOT OUT OF HAND
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

THE ONE WHO DRIVES WHEN
HE'S BEEN DRINKING
DEPENDS ON YOU
TO DO HIS THINKING
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

DIPLOMACY IS
TO DO AND SAY
THE NASTIEST THINGS
IN THE NICEST WAY
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

HER CHARIOT RACED
AT EIGHTY PER
THEY HAULED AWAY
WHAT HAD BEN HUR
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

CATTLE CROSSING
PLEASE DRIVE SLOW
THAT OLD BULL
IS SOME COW'S BEAU
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

"NO, NO," SHE SAID
TO HER BRISTLY BEAU
"I'D RATHER EAT
THE MISTLETOE"
BURMA-SHAVE

* * *

PAST SCHOOLHOUSES
TAKE IT SLOW
LET THE LITTLE
SHAVERS GROW
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

THE BEARDED LADY
TRIED A JAR
SHE'S NOW
A FAMOUS MOVIE STAR
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

IF YOU THINK
SHE LIKES YOUR BRISTLES
WALK BARE-FOOTED
THROUGH SOME THISTLES
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

SHE EYED HIS BEARD
AND SAID, "NO DICE
THE WEDDING'S OFF-
I'LL COOK THE RICE"
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

A CHIN WHERE
BARBED WIRE BRISTLES STAND
IS BOUND TO BE
A NO MA'AMS LAND
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

USE THIS CREAM
A DAY OR TWO
THEN DON'T CALL HER
SHE'LL CALL YOU
BURMA SHAVE

* * *

THE BIG BLUE TUBE'S
JUST LIKE LOUISE
YOU GET A THRILL
FROM EVERY SQUEEZE
BURMA-SHAVE

* * *

TRAIN APPROACHING
WHISTLE SQUEALING
PAUSE! AVOID THAT
RUNDOWN FEELING!
BURMA-SHAVE

* * *

----------------From The New Wave of Burma Shave

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"Death of a Daisy"

I saw you for the first time in a field of clover
Your tall, slender body swaying in the wind
Your arms rising and falling with every gentle breeze
Your life nourished by the morning dew and
The warmth of the midday sun
You were so young, so full of life

I watched you as he reached down and snapped your
Slender stem; and as each petal fell, his words echoed in my ears
"She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me"
And as the last petal falls, and your life is gone
So is a part of mine
For I have lost you, my darling, my love
My Beautiful Daisy

----------------Contributed by Daniel McElwain

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I have just started to write poetry and this is my first try. I would be very interested in any feedback you might want to send, because I know I need help!

A CHILD’S DILEMMA

Our Dad left the family, he said
Because Mom had another in bed
So, Mom was alone when she had me
And that was the start of tragedy.

The four of us went to live
With this-or-that relative
While Mom went to the city
To work and play and be witty.

As a little girl living on a “farm”,
I felt carefree and kept from harm;
But then I grew older to find
That life was not so kind.

I had an uncle who was “funny”
On days that were not sunny
And an aunt who couldn’t believe
What she did not perceive.

During the days, I could hide in the crowd
But at night, I wanted to scream out loud
As I lay wide awake in the bed,
My heart and mind filled with dread.

“He” would sneak into my room
Whether in moonlight or gloom
To touch the most private part of me;
I’d pretend to awake and he’d flee.

Then, my aunt bought a restaurant
And fear drew my lifeline taunt
For I knew if she was not there
He’d commit a sin I could not bear.

So, I went to live with another
Whom I wanted to have as my Mother,
But I guess she really didn’t want me
For she already had a great family.

I went back “home” to Aunt Bell
Even though I knew darn well
What waited for me at the gables,
So after school I went to wait tables.

As the years went by I became very adapt
At avoiding his touch and the strap.
Then, my sister, Pat, came to live with us
And, Thank God, he gave up without a fuss.

At 16, I graduated and left for the city
To be with my Mom, and what a pity!
A woman not able to love is sad
For we were the only family she had.

I vowed as I left her house
Not to marry an abusive louse
And always keep my kids with me
No matter what problems there be.

by Mapern


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