Poetry: Let’s Not Pretend

                         Let's Not Pretend

To know you,
or really anybody for that matter,
I need to see you,
spend time with you,
face to face.

To see what you are saying,
with your body,
your eyes,
the timbre of your voice;
at times more important than your words.

To know you,
or really anybody for that matter,
I need to see you,
face to face.
We need this,
to really know the essence of you
and you, me.


c.2019 tch

    

Poetry: Requiem for the American Worker

 

Image Courtesy of US Library of.png

Requiem for the American Worker

I hear America crying

across the flatlands, hill and dale.

Embittered tears of weary souls

the beaten down, the proud.

 

American workers holding on

with a cry in their voice.

Fighting hard to not be counted

among the growing poor.

 

The waitress at night with a babe upon her breast,

The coal miner tired of his long rest.

The automobile worker doing her best,

The bakery is closing, the baker is next.

 

The bus driver without a human load,

The young black man never given a chance.

The hospital worker called off, worries how to pay the rent.

Telephone workers marching, out in the cold.

 

Voices, hands, and hearts

traded for those across the seas.

The small, American farmer

still fighting hard to believe.

 

I hear America crying,

as those “who have”,

with no remorse, no guilt,

build empires upon the workers backs.

Americans trying, trying, and trying.

I hear America crying.

 

 

(Printed with one time American rights, Labor News, Indianapolis, In. Feb 2006.

This Author: tch maintains rights).

Reprinted @ Terre’s Blog – Women of All Seasons c. 2018.

Poetry: Seasons

tch c. 2018 (8)

                                                                  Seasons

Many seasons have passed

since we met.

Tiny wrinkles and creases

have sneaked in

to mark tiny paths.

Yet, when I look at you

I see you as you are now,

but I also see within you

the young lover when we met,

that time tries to hide.

But I still see and smile,

Many seasons have passed.

tch   c. 2018:  Terre’s Blog – Women of All Seasons

Poetry – “Freedom’s Price”

Terre's Blog -

Freedom’s Price 

In the beginning of our nation’s birth,

Freedom to live in harmony

according to one’s beliefs

and in happiness’ pursuit

guaranteed at birth.

So, so many paid the ultimate price.

Sleep in peace, our comrades, Sleep.

Let us not take for granted

our freedoms hard won at home

and for others on foreign shores;

their sacrifices made,

lives unselfishly given.

Oh sleep our hero’s,

Sleep in peace.

American Revolution (1775 – 1783)                          25,000

War of 1812 (1812 – 1815)                                            20,000

Civil War (1861 – 1865)                                            ~ 625,000

WW1 (1917 – 1918)                                                       116,516

WW11 (1941 – 1945)                                                     405,399

Korean (1950 – 1953)                                                      36,516

Vietnam (1955 – 1975)                                                    58,209

Persian Gulf War (1990 – 1991)                                            258

Operation Enduring Freedom (Afghanistan)                   2,356

(2001 – 2014)    

Operation Iraqi Freedom (2003 – 2012)                           4,489

 

terre c. 2018

*Statistics Source – MilitaryFactory.com

Goodbye Friend

_When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes%2

                                      Rose

Today my friend you’ll be laid to your final rest.

Yes, you will be sorely missed.

But when I think of you,

I will smile

and remember your laughter,

you dancing,

you tending to your garden

and smelling your flowers.

 

Your love and friendship

that you so readily gave.

I will remember you in your joy

and acceptance.

I will remember you with happiness.

 

Diagnosis: Books

tcholland c.2018

I have this disease called “Books”
they’re hidden in
every cranny and nook.

I’ve run out of room,
—it’s true,
but still I go
aborrowin and alookin
to find just one more book.

The basement is full
the attic too
shelves line the garage
they’re on the ceiling too.

I guess I’ll have
to dig a well
one without water
but “very” deep
and there more
new books
I will keep.

Many more books, I can seek,
have no doubt
I will find them very well.
And when that well is full,
you will see,
I’ll dig a new well
for my disease.

 

tcholland  c. 2018

 

 

 

 

A WordPress.com Website.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: