Only The End Remains
Before light - the beginning - then light :
Then magma, and lava, and basalt rock :
Earth, water, and air : morning, noon, and night :
Cells, then wigglers, swimmers, fliers, man: and clock,
Calendar and hour glass : to segment and measure,
To regulate and order, to plan and then design :
For goods and services, for necessity and pleasure :
House, factory, and store : and for cars made fine .
Highly speeding around a curve a car leans
Outward from center in an act of separation .
Quickening minds defiantly tug at pent up dreams
Waiting release to burst forth with new sensation .
Find hidden roads to distant horizons that you seek,
Move the sky line moves, sight it, fades another hue.
Awaken all your senses, act strongly not weak,
Be, rather then to just seem, forevermore be true .
Nearing the end, does fleeting time go faster,
Or, does awareness lost from aging veins
Deem doddering slowness become the master
Of the clock winding down ? Only The End Remains !
Ronald C . Downie
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
The Messenger Ancestor
The Messenger Ancestor
Dog-eared thoughts crease corners of my cerebral pages
Ancestrally bound by hardened covers of earlier ages.
Universal questions chapter this book that engages
Me to write at this point in time. Please listen, my reply.
I have lived well beyond my half-life years.
Warm thoughts furrow happy acres, but, tears
Embedded deeply erode forgotten ancient fears
Wondering : "Why am I here?" and "Who am I ?"
Uranium encased rods are organized to squeeze heat
Into electric current, when spent, active life's complete.
But, until sealed to sleep decades of ten thousand years, feat
Required of our heirs, no stirring allowed nor restless cry.
Do atoms compressed into stiff rods differ that greatly
From DNA atoms strung like a pearl neckless neatly
To imprint fibers of the human body still physically
Evolving ? Atoms from the same early primal stew ply
Their way for eons until there present purpose found : one ,
Heat to electric; two, human imprint, a mental sun,
Brain waves at the center of a thought universe which run
Not only backward but forward toward a cosmic try
To create a Supreme Being in our own image. Earth rendered
Subservient. Desired omnipotent, God was engendered
Male by decree. With impunity, oppressors remembered
As cruel and debasing, unjust and inhumane, which flies
In the face of humanity. I'm here only by chance,
To do no harm so offspring of my DNA may dance
To the natural rhythms of Mother Earth. They will remember
Me, The Messenger Ancestor, not forced into sleep am I.
Ronald C. Downie
Dog-eared thoughts crease corners of my cerebral pages
Ancestrally bound by hardened covers of earlier ages.
Universal questions chapter this book that engages
Me to write at this point in time. Please listen, my reply.
I have lived well beyond my half-life years.
Warm thoughts furrow happy acres, but, tears
Embedded deeply erode forgotten ancient fears
Wondering : "Why am I here?" and "Who am I ?"
Uranium encased rods are organized to squeeze heat
Into electric current, when spent, active life's complete.
But, until sealed to sleep decades of ten thousand years, feat
Required of our heirs, no stirring allowed nor restless cry.
Do atoms compressed into stiff rods differ that greatly
From DNA atoms strung like a pearl neckless neatly
To imprint fibers of the human body still physically
Evolving ? Atoms from the same early primal stew ply
Their way for eons until there present purpose found : one ,
Heat to electric; two, human imprint, a mental sun,
Brain waves at the center of a thought universe which run
Not only backward but forward toward a cosmic try
To create a Supreme Being in our own image. Earth rendered
Subservient. Desired omnipotent, God was engendered
Male by decree. With impunity, oppressors remembered
As cruel and debasing, unjust and inhumane, which flies
In the face of humanity. I'm here only by chance,
To do no harm so offspring of my DNA may dance
To the natural rhythms of Mother Earth. They will remember
Me, The Messenger Ancestor, not forced into sleep am I.
Ronald C. Downie
Thursday, January 5, 2012
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, it is the number of times you get up, that counts."
*
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
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, it is the number of times you get up, that counts."
*
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
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
A Gift Given Us
A Gift Given Us
Between cream of split pea soup
And savory brown mushroom gravy
Hair, as dull as damp hay, droop,
Straightens broom like, turns wavy.
Cocktails do take effect after all
When they begin to vision what's seen.
The average in height, turns quite tall,
Those rather rotund, rollie-pollie, lean.
"To see ourselves as others see us,
A gift", Burns wrote, "He gives us."
Who gives insight so darn powerful
That it forgoes our arrogance of ego ?
However rocky, each life is meaningful
Routed by events played out long ago.
Implied within the rubble of real hope
Is a mythical, dreaming novel of one's life
Impassioned by a full broadening in scope
Complementing the real no matter its strife.
Ronald C. Downie
Between cream of split pea soup
And savory brown mushroom gravy
Hair, as dull as damp hay, droop,
Straightens broom like, turns wavy.
Cocktails do take effect after all
When they begin to vision what's seen.
The average in height, turns quite tall,
Those rather rotund, rollie-pollie, lean.
"To see ourselves as others see us,
A gift", Burns wrote, "He gives us."
Who gives insight so darn powerful
That it forgoes our arrogance of ego ?
However rocky, each life is meaningful
Routed by events played out long ago.
Implied within the rubble of real hope
Is a mythical, dreaming novel of one's life
Impassioned by a full broadening in scope
Complementing the real no matter its strife.
Ronald C. Downie
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Haiku 71
Haiku 71
Allow these Haikus to awaken your inquiring mind ~
"Where there's no vision,
People will surely suffer" -
Best read The Bible.
Before you were you,
Enslaved people found freedom -
Their paths marked by blood.
Learning needs respect,
Greatest treasure is knowledge -
Ignorant debase.
Great awakenings
Pulse through the blood of the young -
Education's gift.
To walk in wonder
Is an invitation to -
Pick up a good book.
Johnny can not read,
He's left behind to suffer -
What a waste to us.
Ronald C. Downie
Allow these Haikus to awaken your inquiring mind ~
"Where there's no vision,
People will surely suffer" -
Best read The Bible.
Before you were you,
Enslaved people found freedom -
Their paths marked by blood.
Learning needs respect,
Greatest treasure is knowledge -
Ignorant debase.
Great awakenings
Pulse through the blood of the young -
Education's gift.
To walk in wonder
Is an invitation to -
Pick up a good book.
Johnny can not read,
He's left behind to suffer -
What a waste to us.
Ronald C. Downie
Monday, January 2, 2012
It's A Good Day
A poem for my Granddaughter,Lily Kurtz,on this her twelth birthday, 1-2-2012.
It's A Good Day
It's a good day, Lily, for a walk,
This second day of the new year.
Time, writers wrote, will march on
Either with us or leave without us.
Let's walk up this well used country lane,
So take my arm, since I'm a wee bit wobbly.
This reminds me a lot of early growing up
Over in Chester County, in lush farm lands.
Look up there in the sun light along the bank
Why it's Tiger Lilies growing in all their glory.
They radiate such a lovely deep, orange color
And their speckled throats draw in many bees.
In the shade, over there beyond the stone wall,
I spy some low growing plants, let's pick flowers.
My goodness, these are bursting with fragrance
From little bells, oh, they're Lily Of The Valley.
Look ahead, just past the old mill at the mill pond,
Isn't that a bull frog sitting up on a floating pad ?
See how leaf pads caress the pure white flowers
Which cup up, calling, "I'm a Water Lily, fill me up."
Time to head back the lane arched over with trees,
Leaving peacefulness of this stroll behind as scenes
Fade but, over there in the field, what a beautiful
Display of pastel colors, Day Lilies grace our sight.
We often wonder what's in a name, like is it, fame ?
No, not that, that's too temporary. The name, Lily,
For example, is a pretty young girl growing into a
Lovely lady which we proudly call - Granddaughter.
Love, Nanny and Pop Pop
January 2, 2012
A dozen of meaningful years !
It's A Good Day
It's a good day, Lily, for a walk,
This second day of the new year.
Time, writers wrote, will march on
Either with us or leave without us.
Let's walk up this well used country lane,
So take my arm, since I'm a wee bit wobbly.
This reminds me a lot of early growing up
Over in Chester County, in lush farm lands.
Look up there in the sun light along the bank
Why it's Tiger Lilies growing in all their glory.
They radiate such a lovely deep, orange color
And their speckled throats draw in many bees.
In the shade, over there beyond the stone wall,
I spy some low growing plants, let's pick flowers.
My goodness, these are bursting with fragrance
From little bells, oh, they're Lily Of The Valley.
Look ahead, just past the old mill at the mill pond,
Isn't that a bull frog sitting up on a floating pad ?
See how leaf pads caress the pure white flowers
Which cup up, calling, "I'm a Water Lily, fill me up."
Time to head back the lane arched over with trees,
Leaving peacefulness of this stroll behind as scenes
Fade but, over there in the field, what a beautiful
Display of pastel colors, Day Lilies grace our sight.
We often wonder what's in a name, like is it, fame ?
No, not that, that's too temporary. The name, Lily,
For example, is a pretty young girl growing into a
Lovely lady which we proudly call - Granddaughter.
Love, Nanny and Pop Pop
January 2, 2012
A dozen of meaningful years !
Sunday, January 1, 2012
So Grows The Tree
So Grows The Tree
When I strike a match to light the village fire pit,
Flames illuminate faces of our own fine family tree.
Nearly six decades of bearing and raising young fit
Members, trained to think, to act, raised to be free :
Then, these young accomplished see the World stage
Spread out beyond their horizons awaiting discovery.
Poised in innocence, thoroughly tutored beyond age,
Finding their own footing, drawn to life's pageantry :
And then, capturing the day, making way, work acts
To temper aggressiveness in some structured setting.
"The art of the deal" attracts some lacking of facts,
Most will attest education displays their upbringing.
"As the twig is bent so grows the tree", sings to me
Lyrics, divinely achieving progeny, all lovely to see.
Ronald C. Downie
A sonnet
When I strike a match to light the village fire pit,
Flames illuminate faces of our own fine family tree.
Nearly six decades of bearing and raising young fit
Members, trained to think, to act, raised to be free :
Then, these young accomplished see the World stage
Spread out beyond their horizons awaiting discovery.
Poised in innocence, thoroughly tutored beyond age,
Finding their own footing, drawn to life's pageantry :
And then, capturing the day, making way, work acts
To temper aggressiveness in some structured setting.
"The art of the deal" attracts some lacking of facts,
Most will attest education displays their upbringing.
"As the twig is bent so grows the tree", sings to me
Lyrics, divinely achieving progeny, all lovely to see.
Ronald C. Downie
A sonnet
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