A Reason For Being

A Reason For Being

A poem like a story, or a song, a yarn, a tale, a communication, or just a conversation has a reason for being. Thoughts come to mind that need to be, are itching to be, amplified.

The following poem, A Cry From Mid-Space, was written at a time in my life when those things I dreamt about doing were not going to happen. In a long life, unrealized dreams are commonplace moving on in spite of desires being unfulfilled enabling a person to dream anew. When we lose the capacity to dream the flames of hope flicker out as the path to fulfillment blurs until a new spark lights the way for dreams to reoccur.

What's the old adage ? "It's not the number of times you are knocked down, but, it is the number of times you get up, that counts."

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Cry From Mid-Space

God damned you Dreams, whore no more to me, release me
To covet grayness bleating from a sullen sky .
Don't show me violets pure nor roses gay that cry
My inter soul awake . No ! I must not think free .

Chain my mind, please stem that emotion swell
Within this hide so I do not hope in vain .
In image of his maker, common man can train
As oxen are yoked to circle around the well .

I can not define mid- space where dreamers dwell ,
Far sight a scene then slowly squint it into
Mental pictures, like a frosted pane looked through,
Is it real ? Is it heaven ? Is it ? Well, is it, hell ?

Theater must be hell for a lost dreamer's soul :
Not in dance around soothing flames and crackling sounds
That flow the senses' veins ; but of grey ash mounds
Staged of choking soot waiting to fill a dreamer's hole .

Accept the young, they have not traversed the gorge
Left by dreamers old whose torrent thoughts erode .
Fill the young with placid manna lest they explode
With alien notions thinking they're their own Saint George .

Dreams - damn you ! Lay not your head on my breast this day .
Free me, so I may see what our Nation antes up :
Those dull, brow bent cast of actors who hold the cup,
Which keeps America hostage and wastes a dreamer's play .

Ronald C . Downie

Inconsequential

Inconsequential

Contrary to a popular notion, that
A person like me is indispensable,
I'd like to put this thought to rest.

My willingness to write is quite commendable ;
My ability to write may be truly questionable ;
But, on and on I go, writing words of valued trash.

I question authority without due cause,
I refuse to listen to reasonable chatter.
I am an icon of an ineffective communicator.

Those like me are seen daily on Facebook,
Always posting their image, good or better,
They feel images are better than new ideas.

Impervious to reticule, their facial expression
Shows they're the real deal, truth exudes.
All's alive, not from information, but by photos.

Narcissistic are our own Daphne's and Adonis'
Capturing their faces, not in pools, but on line.
Angelic are spirits of the super self important.

There I go again - King of the Hill - that's me,
Over stuffed, overly old, too unimportantly brash.
Don't listen to me, I am really inconsequential.

Ronald C. Downie

Look At Music - Listen To Art

Look At Music - Listen To Art

Spring mother, Dear, conduct your annual symphony,
Lead us to heights in primal song . Memory plays
Our pensive harp awake with color cords ablaze :
Golden daffodil yellow - crocus choir harmony .

Notes of sweet tulip red and smooth hyacinth blue
Await drum beats deep in the gold of forsythia .
Wake up world ! Your colorful cosmic orchestra
Readies again to play life's spring concert for you .

Look at the music of flowers swaying the breeze :
Like a string section in unison its visual sound
Silent, so brain supplies the score to music round
The mood we feel. One's self, only you to please.

Listen to the native art of unfolding leaves :
Slow but steady in a stretch enlarging their span
Reaching heavenly in canopy over common man,
Who, at song, sings of Gods in self image, not trees.

Concert master, tune the instruments true
To the pitch of the seasons : winter, spring,
Summer, fall . Movements composed are to bring
Life full circle as all living are compelled to do.

Ronald C. Downie

The Art Of Listening

The Art Of Listening

When we lean on the cluttered din of the day
Few sounds can escape chatter's deafening wake.
Sharp piercing sounds squeal loudly, far away,
The rest, cloud like, low muffled sounds make :

Then in conversation which guides this very day,
From clouds back to Earth, beckons our own reply.
Uptempo, finding why's and wherefores, we may
State truths and falsehoods out loud to the sky :

And then, do we really wait for an answer returned ?
Or, have we retreated back into the heavens cloudy,
Not hearing the din nor if the responder's concerned,
Which has bearing living silently, if not, then loudly?

Lost is the "Art Of Listening" basic to Earth as sod,
But, grown so closely, are we just "Pees In A Pod"?

Ronald C. Downie

The Jilted Suitor

The Jilted Suitor

Never to be the jilted suitor,
DEATH, lifelong your cell mate,
Treads in that parallel universe
Whether you're asleep or awake.

Forever twins to the final end,
Inseparable as a mirror image,
In comedy, mime, or dire tragic
Events, traces one's own linage.

In a spiritual world, this unbeliever,
Creeping beyond shadow's inky image
Sweeps in on wings of dreams denied,
Its dank pallor casts dreaded luggage.

Found napping is the progenitor of CANCER,
Which stews in a fluid bile of harsh pollutants,
Spewing nameless poisons into weakened bodies
And finds an endpoint, death, from vile mutants.

DEATH seeks its very own pound of flesh.
Never will our own Grim Reaper be denied
It's place in the shadows, caring ever less
About prayer to a God deity, Heaven skied.

Ronald C. Downie.

The Last Hurrah

The Last Hurrah

When crippling becomes the coin of the realm,
When cane and walker ease some wiggly wobbles,
When a chair only substitutes for comfort in a bed,
When death creeps beyond all horizons of hope,
I challenge myself to keep writing, by plugging away;
Writing is cathartic, essentially cleansing, healthful.

I write for myself, as my number of followers, shows.

We organize our mind's eye, to envision, to synthesize
A subject so it unfolds for our own inward emotions :
As sure as waves embrace all shore lines, ebbing and
Flowing, with moon inspired tides, crashing or baying,
Oblivious to only, but Nature's Law. Our wants are left
On paper for all others to per rouse at their pleasure.

I write for more than myself. Readers are my targets.

Does an artist wish only his art to replicate his vision ?
Does a potter wish only his vessel carry cool water ?
Does a dancer wish only her movements to spin ?
Does a writer wish only his words to tell of the past ?
The human instinct is toward expansion, fulfillment of
The unique essence of continuous folds in the brain.

Why do I write ? Why do you read ? Who are we ?

I am compelled by an internal clock to record myself.
You are drawn to see my written thoughts exposed.
Mine is a must, yours is by chance, our's different.

Ronald C. Downie

A Rememberance

A Remembrance

David Dewey Detar, Jr. will be laid to rest on Saturday, May 11, 2013 after 84 years of an eventful life lived.

I knew his father about the same year I knew of him, the son. Doctor Detar was the Pottstown School District doctor who examined any student wishing, like me, to participate in school sponsored sports. I was entering seventh grade and football was my longing. Doc gave me the usual physical which I passed.

Doc was someone special : he wrestled at Penn State in the 1920's at 135 pounds, was Intercollegiate and NCAA champ, and even went on to coach the Penn State squad in 1922-24. He scared Dad and me on Thanksgiving morning 1946. The morning drive to Downingtown took us on Rt. 113 south off of Rt. 100 which wound through the countryside finally going down a fairly steep grade with a large sweeping curve before the road leveled out in the valley. Traffic south was heavy on this two lane road and Dad was in line going slowly with the other cars when all of a sudden he calls out, "My God ! Who's this nut passing us ? He's going to get us all killed ! " You guessed it ! It was Doctor Detar in his big black sedan barreling to get to the game. He made it but we lost anyway.

So memorable in Pottstown school's history was the year 1946 ; the stadium was packed on game days with everyone wishing to see our Trojans go undefeated in football. The backfield tandem of Dave Detar and Deacon Reinhart captured everyone's imagination as the best in our school's history. I remember the WW2 jeep decked out in school colors which brought into the stadium a costumed Trojan accompanied by many wholesome cheerleaders. The spectators loved it. Pottstown went on to win that day but Downingtown was waiting in the wings for the inevitable Thanksgiving Day Game. Undefeated did not happen that year when the turkey day game was over.

Young Dave went on to West Point for four years, Deacon began a painting business which is continued today by his sons long after his death. I continued my education in Pottstown schools and played football six years there. A few times during these six years Doc Detar got me and a couple other players to work for him bringing in baled hay at the farm off Route 23 and later at a farm off Route 73 near Gilbertsville. In 1960 I went to work at Firestone Tire and Rubber Company and guess who was their company doctor, yes, it was Doc Detar.

Also working at Firestone was Dave Detar where we talked often as both of us were on salary and working in some official capacity. I was hired as a Statistical Quality Control Technician; Dave was a department manager over plant cleanliness maintenance and the grounds surrounding the complex. Around the mid 60's I was elevated to Dave's position and he was asked to develop a new position, that of a quality recognition manager who was to bring a sense of competition into the plant and create an awards program that honored the individual laborer. We shared an office on the lower level near the cafeteria so we saw each other on a daily basis for a few years until I left the firm in early 1969.

Over the intervening years we saw each other occasionally generally at public affairs since I was in business which took up most of my free time. For some time we lived within three blocks of another, and then for a time only one block until Dave and his wife Kitty moved out to the senior living complex on Manatawny St. I watched one of his girls on PCTV televise the junior swimming meets and a few times I went to his son, also a doctor as his grandfather was, for medical treatment of a minor problem. Dave's son, Scott, is a well respected Certified Public Accountant who heads up a regional firm.

Early on during my football career Pottstown teams went to football camp. One camp I remember vividly was when Dave Detar, while still at West Point, visited a practice session. By then at the Point he was playing on the line at guard and our coach, Herbert Meyers, asked Dave to show our linemen some college tactics.
When my turn came, Dave took an offensive line stance and I positioned myself as a defensive lineman.
At the snap count Dave fired off from his stance and with his forearm crushed my stomach in driving me backward and the shiver took my breath away That was a real learning day for me never to be forgotten.

To bring this remembrance to an end, follow this story line which tells of David Dewey's football career. Out of high school Dave's physical running ability was, by far, one of the best in the country. Most said, If he could stay healthy, no damage to his wheels (his legs), the country would forget about Glenn Davis and Doc Blanchard the cream of West Point football. Detar , many believed, would reset the football records of past recipients of glory.

Football may vault a person into prominence but, far too often, when a person's limbs are in jeopardy, damage to those limbs can alter a career and nag that person for a lifetime. David Dewey Detar was caught up in a circumstance which damaged his legs beyond his bodily repair mechanism could correct. All sports emanates up from the legs, to excel, a player must have sound legs. What could have been, wasn't ; what was, nagged him into his grave. May he rest in peace !

Our Condolences:
Respectfully, Ronald & Connie Downie