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
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Thursday, February 7, 2013
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
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
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
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
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
Monday, February 4, 2013
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
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
Sunday, February 3, 2013
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 !
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 !
Saturday, February 2, 2013
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
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
Friday, February 1, 2013
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
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
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