Ideals From Ideas

Ideals From Ideas

When, from your basket of dreams you pull out
Thoughts from earlier years which laid out ideas
Not yet realized, sort of detoured, changed route.
Mentally churned many ideas mature into ideals :

Then, as always, years accumulate dimmed decades :
Raising family, building a career, avoiding ill health,
Hopefully attaining stature among piers. Accolades,
Anemic statements, bring neither health nor wealth :

And then, the grandeur of an aging mind brings hope.
Earlier thoughts incubated over many years surface
To format a lifetime of wants, ideals ready to cope.
Now, after winning the battle of time, we save face.

If not from our mental cauldrons where do ideals
Come from ? Ultimate importance churns from ideas.

Ronald C. Downie

Wanted

Wanted: Director and a Board of Directors

Citizens for a newly formed organization, The Forrest Gump Foundation, ( if legally allowed) formulated to foster the universal concept of "Stupid Is, As Stupid Does" so eloquently espoused by Forrest Gump played by Tom Hanks of the film of the same name based on the novel of the same name released in 1986 by Winstom Groom.

"Stupid is, as stupid does" is to be awarded to political parties and all politicians who embody the letter and intent of these words.

The board and its director will be responsible to develop its own mission statement and a statement of purpose. Realizing the enormity of potential recipients, citizens volunteering for these positions should be thick skinned and certainly stout of heart.

The Country needs you! Thank you!

Seeking Our Resolve

Seeking Our Resolve

"When in the course of human events", do we stray
Or remain in a direction that speaks to our resolve ?
Making a mark in life, our resolve. What is the way?
Ancestry commands all of its strengths must evolve :

Then, from the fringes into the middle, a line struck
Marking the optimum course to achieve desired goal.
Familiarity captains ship, reads charts, exudes luck,
All the while the groove is ground etching the soul :

And then, the die being cast, you put your shoulder
To the task ahead committing yourself into action,
Finally realizing an unexamined life is not one bolder,
But one swinging widely poised to gain more traction.

Life marked to succeed by person's true grit gathers
Many followers. Desire to win with a winner matters.

Ronald C. Downie
An English Sonnet

Frogs

Frogs

Plundering for energy
Greed extracts with lust
Earth's horrid demons,
Let loose...extinction ?

Faint from emissions,
Clear skies polluted
From gross bunker bile
Belched aloft as vapor :

Raising Planet's temperature,
Clouding Earth's atmosphere,
Melting every ancient ice cap,
Deserts form from fertile lands.

Forests wilt and whither
Back they must retreat
To once much colder zones,
If unable, be forever gone.

Rising waters lap over top
Engineered built higher dykes
To tame rising, angry seas
Enraged by awful, wrecking storms.

Dreamer's fond lost memories:
Azure colored embracing skies,
Soft green slopes covered of moss,
Rainbow colors pastel in flowers,
Winter's whiteness, Spring's rebirth,
Summer's warmth, Autumn's harvest.

But,"We Pledge Allegiance...",
Sing,"America The Beautiful",
Love high performance automobiles
Which speed beyond set limits.

Desire every darn device devised,
We worship the arrogance of excess:
With 4% of World's population
We consume 20% of World's energy.

Is our future very pretty ? Or,
Are we to be like lowly Frogs
Placed in pot of cold water
Brought up to a rolling boil ?

Will we stew slowly, swimming
Happily in the warming water
Until voiceless, then croak ?
What will be our cooking time ?

Just how long can we last ?
Frogs, Frogs, you and me, Frogs.
Jump! Jump! Get out of that pot !
Holler! Holler! Don't, no, do not croak!

Honor a basic, primary oath -
"First - Do No Harm -"
Be a doctor to the Earth
"Do No Harm !"

Ronald C. Downie

Connection

Connection

We were young bright faced back then
Yet lived through each hard war year.

Seated far too long we were fidgety
Shifting again and again in our chair,

Adolescently tuned in for ring, ring,
Recess, up and out, gulping in fresh air.


Loudly spilling out past heavy metal doors
We chose sides for macadam ball games,

High-low jumping preceded double Dutch .
Pupil pods were sprouting lifelong nicknames .

We chalked for hop Scotch, loved dodge ball,
Made fast friends long before our adult aims .


How high could a metal chain swing be pumped ?
How fast could the rickety old merry-go-round turn ?

How much climber time did we spend up side down ?
How was hard steel hand polished smooth as an urn ?

How far out were the fields where big kids played ?
How do we remember Miss Neiman who urged us all to learn ?


She joins with memories of cool chilling breezes sent yet
From western blue skies, mauve at late sunset, still .

She is present in our thoughts about classrooms, those of
The playground, even, out picking milkweed pods, at a fire drill .

Mrs. Francis Neiman Buchert, here today with us, is our
Connection to Lower Pottsgrove Elementary School, built upon a hill .

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
A sonnet

Past Is Knowledge ; Future , Wisdom

Past Is Knowledge ; Future, Wisdom

Water, like thought, calms when slowed
Into deep pools at cool quiet depths
Where mud and murk bottom settles
To clear the liquid for it's final trip .

Thought, if not allowed to calm
And settle out busy nonessential
Clutter that keeps the mental stream
Clean, finds no clear ideas will surface .

As water makes it's long journey
To the sea, it encounters swiftly
Moving rapids and falls that roar
Before it again pools and calms .

So too, the mind's mental travel path
Must shoot the turbulences of doubt,
Navigate trouble, and evil, and fear,
Each cascading down until calm calms.

Ever since the early dawning of time
When water appeared on the earth,
It adapted to Earth's Natural Laws :
Repeat, repeat, over and over, repeat.

In his time, upright man found a force
Far beyond his physical prowess, when
The vast utter strength of his mental
Ability raised him above common beasts.

The sun, the moon, stars, earth, water,
The air, the eagle, fire, wind, and rain -
Man would experience and then worship.
But, as with water, strong storms disturb,

Alters flows, and interrupts water's calm;
Quite common with Nature's Earthly way.
But thinking man dreams about the future
Thus he soon becomes uncertainty's victim.

The past is knowledge, the future, wisdom.
And through time knowledge accumulates,
But wisdom is fickle, and the needed spark
Not timely, so wisdom has to be nurtured.

Water flows everywhere to the very
Same Laws Of Gravity, while thought,
Not contained within our physical world,
Flows in a stream we all seek to posses.

Ronald C . Downie

I Love The Art In Stone

I Love The Art In Stone

I love the art in stone shown much less, these days,
When hung framed on bare walls of homes, in ways,
Absent of a stone mason's style of art, he displays,
With hammer and chisel his love of stone, he plays .

Gathering in fresh farm springs
Country creeks flow downstream
Eroding outcroppings of hard rock
Strata used as wagon crossings
Later becoming bridge locations .

Near these, built at creekside,
Stone walls rise four stories tall,
Deep window sills mark each floor,
At the peak a hoist beam extends .

Below is an arched stone mill race,
Where channeled swift water turns
A huge drive wheel that transfers
Power by wide leather belts up to
The grinding floor where grain is
Fed between a flat stone face and
Another stone face that is turning .

Flour feeds an early struggling Nation .
Cut stone seeks a past's artful relation .

Mills, Roller Mills, Flour Feed Mills
Still stand tall, their art's in place,
Family named, silent, strong the walls.
Their need is gone, now long forgotten .

You. - cameras, You - pencils,
You. - water colors, You - oil pigments,
You. - Have you captured their souls ?

I love the art in stones when built as walls.

Ronald C . Downie

The Passion Of Ayn Rand

"The Passion of Ayn Rand"

Anyone interested in what America missed from this last election was summed up in a movie I just watched on television . "The Passion Of Ayn Rand" shockingly opened my eyes to the unbelievable life of one of the most influential women of the 20th Century. So open, I understand now, the lust of the Tea Party for the women known as Ayn Rand, who plied her influence, over the likes of, Paul Ryan, the Republican choice for Vice President in 2012.

Rand, the vixen of individuality, may have brought over from the Soviet Union an air of mental superiority, but according to this film, it was her insatiable lust for sex with a man twenty-five years younger that caused her downfall. Rand professed individualism but she needed a partner in bed or anywhere else and demanded sex very often to cool her physical desires.

This Queen, Ayn Rand, of the Tea Party establishment and of a Vice President want-to-be could have changed the World ; love over hate would become the banner and the war cry. Rutting would become so darn commonplace, it would be like in a barnyard during spring arousal. So many pregnancies would pop out, the Republican Party would have to adopt contraception and, heaven forbid, abortion. What a time we missed out on, if only Paul Ryan had prevailed ; revise that thought, better yet, thank God he lost, thank goodness he lost.

Ronald C. Downie

Appreciating Readers

Appreciating Readers

Thank You ! Mary Bagwell, for writing that you enjoy my poems and urging me to keep writing them. I'm sorry, but you don't join a long list of my admirers, in fact, that list is so short it embarrasses me. Those, who write verse for pleasure, surround themselves in obscurity.

Too often someone like me, a farmer by occupation and a civic/municipal activist by choice, doesn't dabble in mental agility preoccupations, such as, poetry. Although my ancestral countryman, Robert Burns, referred to himself as the Plowman's Bard and, when he wasn't chasing women, he was farming while oft in his head he was composing verse.

Retired now many years, it wasn't until my wife, Connie, bought me an iPad a few years ago, so I could distribute my poems and essays electronically, that I felt comfortable writing daily. I am not educated in poetry and, I'm sure many of those who are, look down on my attempts as immature and frivolous.

I receive Poetry magazine monthly and read it cover to cover religiously. Reading newly written poems in Poetry magazine really puts me in my place. To me, today's poems are mostly unreadable and certainly not understandable by enlarge. Try as I may, modern poetry is not very reader friendly, so if you're out of the circle of the learned, you're like a fish out of water.

I've resolved myself to write for myself, post my efforts and, if anyone likes to read them also, I am flattered. Thank You again, Mary. Sadly, age will become my final arbiter, the true determiner of the time constraint lashed to all of our feet. But now, with my writing out in cyberspace, words in verse may last for an eternity, never to disappear, but to reappear upon someone's whim to connect with a deceased ancestor. If they're
determined to be readable or not isn't my decision to make, it's the reader who makes that ultimate choice.

Ronald C. Downie

It Depends Upon

It Depends Upon

It all depends upon, Henny Penny's sky falling,
And Jacques Cousteau's blue oceans swelling ;

Depends upon, The Rolling Stones' songs playing,
Guardian Angles' protection finds safety amazing ;

Upon, John Updike past his Endpoint, again rising,
Evan Brandt penning each story his Dad's not writing;

The Mercury attending to the poor's needs unending,
And leaders in Washington their ignorance extending;

It all depends upon, the morning sun clearly rising
In a dedicated arc across our sky its energy giving;

Depends upon, grandsons picking up batons dropping,
Left over from attempts to keep live music rocking;

Upon, the fingers at their instruments still plucking,
Viewing the World from a lens in need of adjusting;

Within you, trees feel at ease, grasslands swaying,
Gardens seek your pleasure, soil rich for playing.

Ronald C. Downie

Past - Future

Past - Future

Prayer - sending a message to your God -
Poetry - sending a message to a stranger -

Each from within seeking an ear without,
One strictly personal, the other universal.

Taught prayer universal when young, while
Through nursery rhymes, are taught poetry.

Maturing minds grapple with their humanity ;
Many to an unknown pray, some seek expression.

Scripting words into phrases developing themes
Jogs mental synapses into action creating verse.

Then verse pulses Earth's vibrations as thought.
Thought, caught in both worlds, real or illusory,

Is to each person's make up as breathing or seeing,
More deeply to some, but to others diversionary.

The pinnacle of thought is wisdom, original thought.
Prayer, touted as faith based, reinforces the past ;

While poetry, gleaned from thought, seeks a future ;
It needs you to write it out, to bring it the light of day.

Ronald C. Downie

State Of The Union

State Of The Union

Unlike my grandson, Connor Kurtz, a freshman at Catholic University, Washington, DC. who has full use of his hands and legs but, I'm sure, used neither last night at our President's State Of The Union Address. Connor and I are diametrically opposed in our political leanings : Connor would have sat in stoic deadpan with the other Republican lemmings following their leader, John Boehner, pouting ; even though I no longer can jump up and clap like hell, I favored the Presidents message.

What was your federal representative doing ? Was he or she like Connor or like me ? Mine, Jim Gerlach, I'm sure, was nonplussed in his obscurity toeing the Tea Party line wrapped in his party's banner hollering "NO"!

His Judgement Day comes in 2014 elections !

Ronald C. Downie

Wanted

Wanted :

Boarder collies, not docile sheep,
Herders, not the herded ;

Posses, not the hotly pursued,
Runners after, rather than runners from ;

Leaders, not meek followers,
Out front, instead of holders back ;

Lookers in the box, not lookers out,
Progressives, not status quo duds ;

Thinkers, not dull song hummers,
Eureka makers, rather than iTuners ;

Winners, not sap faced losers,
Blue ribbon receivers, instead of also rans ;

You, not the guy behind the tree,
A reader of this stuff, not comic book fanatics.

Ronald C. Downie

Eagle Verses Big Bird

Eagle Verses Big Bird

The eagle, life so fragile its eggs cracked,
Could not mature exposed to DDT,
Which until stopped by Federal agents,
Was everyone's spray chemical of choice.

This sixty year battle seems nearly won.
The eagle, symbol of our pride and strength,
The aggressive beak, piercing eyes, muscle
Overlapping muscle for the kill, groomed.

Many countrymen are militarist
Bent on pursuing their hawkish death dreams.
They seem oblivious to the eagle's
Earlier plight by Man's own ignorance.

The Eagle, the Flag, the Cross : are symbols ;
Each will stir man's blood to spill even more.
Their World is male dominant, ego driven,
Power imposing power, trample weak.

What has been the plight every militant
Country that history has had to endure ?
Its downfall - external or internal -
The World, slowly but surely, is leaning

Toward Peace. Yes ! Big Bird's teachings are so
Effective, that his forty year long term
Of instruction swept the World. A cadre
Of peaceful followers praise his teachings.

The Peace Corp and Doctors Without Borders
Do good, while doing no harm, free of guns.
Theirs is an outgrowth of a populous
Grounded in education, dogma free.

They project America's greatest wealth,
Freedoms our Constitution guarantees,
Which are universal to all free Men
And Women no matter their birth country.

Like the Eagle's egg - tenuous, fragile,
The World moves toward peace, slowly pacing.
It will take interaction of people
Giving up egos while blurring their turf.

Leaders better wake from their own malaise
Which draws them to do nothing, status quo.
If the World is to survive ever, forever,
Pease must rule the minds of common people.

Ronald C. Downie

I follow-I also complain!

I follow-I also complain!

Being right of center, I'm watching Paul Krugman on Up With Chris Hayes, MSNBC, 8AM-10AM, this Sunday morning. Krugman is a Pied Piper for liberals like me on the country's economic health. I lean forward with him in understanding the USA best increase spending on generating jobs rather then by going deeper into recession with more austerity.

Chris Hayes has had one of the more cutting edge political programs on Sunday morning's viewing schedule. Realizing this, I question why he has 800 calorie donuts on the table in front of his guests rather than apple or orange slices for them to munch on ?

Perception follows a television personality not only with what they say, but, how they're shown in their surroundings on the empowering screen of almighty television. Toughen up Chris, no more powered goodies.

Ronald C. Downie

Dreams

Dreams

I nap more, but
Sleep evades me.
I dream more,
But awaken often.

Dreams remain
Unfinished, no endings.
Why is my life being
Interrupted this way ?

Is my book closing
Or merely dog eared ?

When my final sleep comes
Will my dreams tell me then,
The ending to each story ?

Will loss of life, end my dreams ?

Ronald C. Downie

Stars & Stripes

Stars & Stripes

First star showing I'm alive
Was posted in year, 1935.

Tartan threads grow the field
Accepting stars of yearly yield.

Stripes are custom, long and lean,
Marking vision's a yearly scheme.

But my banner's incomplete,
I write to people, I'll never meet ;

Do I really write for all of them :
The strong women, thoughtful men ?

But for myself, a rhyme is sought,
No meter's found to further my plot,

It is only by chance or is it a struggle
That word by word grows my puzzle.

Somewhere there's another Plowman's Bard
Working the furrow's straight, deep, and hard.

He tramps God's Earth in want of nourishment ;
His mine is at work for destiny's encouragement.

One is so boldly driven for its benefactors ;
Other, dreams of clouds as if they're actors.

Lasting the longest, beyond a generation,
Some build a society, some feed a nation.

Who said, "Man can't live by bread alone."
We think of dreamers where ever they roam.

Poets subsist on a sparse spartan menu ;
They write words for all the World to view.

So soon, "I'll lay me down for a long night's sleep".
Not knowing, if any words my readers will keep.

But that can't drive my lust to keep on writing ;
I write for me, then for thee, then the unborn waiting.

Forgive me for being so overly aggressive,
For In my cluttered dreaming mind, the mess is.

To start a poem is not all that very hard,
It's been done fairly well by many a bard.

It's ending a poem that's a poet's blank wall,
The reader seeks closure, We hear its clear call.

Ronald C. Downie


Stars & Stripes

First star showing I'm alive
Was posted in year, 1935.

Tartan threads grow the field
Accepting stars of yearly yield.

Stripes are custom, long and lean,
Marking vision's a yearly scheme.

But my banner's incomplete,
I write to people, I'll never meet ;

Do I really write for all of them :
The strong women, thoughtful men ?

But for myself, a rhyme is sought,
No meter's found to further my plot,

It is only by chance or is it a struggle
That word by word grows my puzzle.

Somewhere there's another Plowman's Bard
Working the furrow's straight, deep, and hard.

He tramps God's Earth in want of nourishment ;
His mine is at work for destiny's encouragement.

One is so boldly driven for its benefactors ;
Other, dreams of clouds as if they're actors.

Lasting the longest, beyond a generation,
Some build a society, some feed a nation.

Who said, "Man can't live by bread alone."
We think of dreamers where ever they roam.

Poets subsist on a sparse spartan menu ;
They write words for all the World to view.

So soon, "I'll lay me down for a long night's sleep".
Not knowing, if any words my readers will keep.

But that can't drive my lust to keep on writing ;
I write for me, then for thee, then the unborn waiting.

Forgive me for being so overly aggressive,
For In my cluttered dreaming mind, the mess is.

To start a poem is not all that very hard,
It's been done fairly well by many a bard.

It's ending a poem that's a poet's blank wall,
The reader seeks closure, We hear its clear call.

Ronald C. Downie

Winter Weary

Winter Weary

In bleakest winter, drably
The latch of my garden gate
Rusts, its hinge stiffens badly
And creaks as if to break.

Hidden flowers peek
Out from time to time ;
From underground they seek
The awakening eyes of mine.

All across the World, gardens'
Restless engines trip the switch
Far too early to make amends
For frosted tips of growing's itch.

To wait in angst, as if a gate
Set for use, though groaning.
Grumbling is an Earth man's fate,
Too early this, too late's his moaning.

Tempered, is a gardener of merit
Honed in roots sprouting greens.
Knowledge trumps his lustful spirit
Driving him beyond his dreams.

Suddenly, snow withdraws its blanket,
Unlocks the frost of white winter's chill.
In apron, muddy, handles the bucket
Of garden tools, testing trimmings thrill.

Spring's equinox equals day with night,
Balancing an instant, then lightening up.
Moaning's gone, the garden gate's alright,
The stiffened hinge freed, tea fills the cup.

Ronald C. Downie

Concussion

Concussion

I am drawn these days to the popular sports headlines which is all about concussions. I've cycled myself back some 60 years ago to1953, back to waking up in a strange environment between clean white sheets and an antiseptic oder.

When I finally realized where I was, I tried to figure out why, what happened ? My last waking moments before that current situation became a murky memory of the past afternoon. You see, then, I was on a football field at practice during a scrimmage between the freshman squad and Penn State College's traveling team. I played right guard on the freshman squad and we were on defense. The freshman always took next Saturday's opponent's lineup so I was over center in a traditional 5 - 3 defense the opposing team was figured to use against State on Saturday afternoon.

In full pads State ran a series of its favorite plays : off tackle, up the middle, a flat pass, and a wide swing around end. Our freshman squad bent, bowed, and broke under the pressure of a formative team in mid-season form. We youngsters had become hardened by then and took physical punishment fairly well though we were an inferior team overall to the main squad.

It was a wide swing around right end by a former high school star that I had played against when Pottstown played Norristown who ended my afternoon. Charlie Blockson, who many might know these days as the
foremost authority of Black History in our area, was the runner. His job was to get around right end or, if the defense out flanked him, he was to plant his outside foot and cut straight up field. We met as he cut, my head between him and the direct line to the end zone. Charlie, for those who knew him, had the thinest ankles and calfs for a man his size. His lack of size in his lower legs was more than made up by the huge mass of muscle compacted up in his thighs. He could run, could jump, and he could certainly pack a wallop with his legs which knocked me out cold. His running records in High School may still exist today as maybe also his state records in the discus and shot put.

I was knocked out cold and, I imagine, incurred a concussion by today's standards. I have no idea just how long I remained unconscious nor how I reacted to, what then some sixty years ago, was the normal medical attention given persons in my condition. When released the next afternoon it was too late for practice, but the day after, I was on the field in full pads and had completely forgotten on having been knocked out except, some members of the freshman team told of Charlie going down too, like a bag of potatoes, this was my only consolation.

Over my short career, I was hospitalized twice more, an ankle and influenza ; I was awarded the Game Ball for my play against Pittsburg's freshman team ; the man who took my starting position, Sam Valentine, garnered All American Honors in 1956. Short, that my career was, I was surrounded with some notable players of that era : Lenny Moore, Rosey Grier, Jesse Arnelle, Milt Plum, Richie Lukas, Billy Kane, Dan Ratakovich, Jim Garrity , and, oh, so many more.

To my knowledge, I was never diagnosed as having a concussion but, if it happened today, I'm sure more medical follow up would have taken place. Some friends over the years will understand now, " Why I am, like I am ". Kidding aside, I've never had further complications, even though, over the years I've been dazed at least four more times, these without loosing consciousness.

Ronald C. Downie

Song Tune

Song Tune

The song,
The song of life,
The song of life is played in the key of time.

Seconds tick minutes into hours for days to find,
As weeks couple, bearing months, that years combine
Into passing decades etched forever on the mind.
Friends, in chorus, help harmonize the melody Devine;

But,
But the tune,
The tune is ours,
The tune is ours alone,
But the tune is ours, ours, all alone to find.

Ronald C. Downie

This poem I cherish as my signature poem.

Song Tune, www.thepostedpoet.blogspot.com
Song Tune is my signature poem suggesting time is the greatest regulator of each of our lives, segmenting periods of it at song, culminating finally in our own personal tune. It is the tune, stupid !

Memory

Memory

Memory is blurred leaded colored windows -
Life peers through -

Not bright stained glass pieces placed -
In view of the pew -

Artful are the beliefs there told to us -
By a few -

Figments of the mind, when not true -
Must be dreamt anew.

Ronald C. Downie

Unquenched Greed

Unquenched Greed

Rain forests cry out in searing pain:
Listen, hush, their teary drops rain
Down in agony upon thoughtless man,
Who swears allegiance to a fatal plan.

Inward, self centered into their navels,
Believing selfishly our Universe enables
So few use so much, an unholy contempt
For Natural Law from which none are exempt.

God of Gods, unquenched greed, a bastard seed
Planted in depleted, exhausted soil is in need
Of : purpose, commitment, values, and honesty,
Pillars long used to uphold life's grand tapestry .

Hoe out noxious greed, build proper tilth
In soils of concern. There is a vast wealth
Of nutrients in speaking out. Join voices
Who shout, "I will not accept wrong choices ."

Ronald C. Downie