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Poet's Platform Column | 12 April 07

by Janet Nesler | The Scioto Voice | Wheelersburg, Ohio

 

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Southern Trail

Remembering Kentucky,
the Kellen Hollow road,
my first steps there, dirty feet
on the way to the sycamore tree.

The Shawnee spring was there,
will be forever I suspect.
A resting place for red and white men all.
Gave my first bath and drink,
joining their numbers.

Tecumseh, Kenton, Tygart,
all walked this way along the great trail.
I am just a poet of no import,
but as a child and as a man, I
have always hoped that I would
someday meet them there
beside that dusty trail.

Robert W. Kimsey
McCaysville, GA
From: “Paths From The Shawnee Spring”

 

Buried Secrets From Mother Earth

The trail is wrapped in comfort,
no earth-words of welcome or recognition.
Yet, everything is muted song.
Gnarled fingers of swaying maple branches
point to the trail beneath my weary feet
as if to say “Listen, listen to Mother Earth”.
She will whisper buried secrets to you.

“My arms cradle your sons and daughters.
I embrace all beginnings of new life.
Do not take lightly this holy ground you walk upon,
one day my arms will cradle your last breath.
Like seeds, all things will rise to new life.”

Mabel I. Massie
Portsmouth

 

This Early Spring Day

Light rain caressed the young spring grass
Growing green from the drops falling down
So pure now seems our beautiful hillsides
That's turning bright from miserable brown

Throwing off the shackles of a long winter
Flowers show off all their colors so sublime
From the Tulip beds with the gorgeous tints
To the green leaves up on the timberline

Along the brook we see pretty wildflowers
Deep Purple Violets are growing down there
Over in the meadow we can see the children
Flying kites high up in the early spring air

Sun splashes through a cloud up in the sky
Mother Earth has started showing her array
Getting back the energy lost in cold weather
Strutting her stuff on this warm Spring day

Acie Workman
Eden Park

 

Spring Peepers

I love the little tree frogs
And their Springtime serenade.
Every tepid evening
Their symphony is played.

Tiny peepers playing
A dulcet bedtime tune.
There may come storms or even snow,
But spring will be here soon.

Happy harbingers are they,
Living in the lees.
Soon they’ll leave their muddy beds
And blithely climb the trees.

Rita Balser
Baltimore, Ohio
(Former Portsmouth resident)

 

 

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