J.D.'s Poetry Page

J.D. Weeks
Poetry Page

Poetry is as simple as reflecting on things about yourself or those you know and writing it down on paper. We all have that ability, we just need to write it down somewhere.

My few thoughts here are from observing other people and trying to project myself in their place. Of some I knew little, and some I knew very well. Sometimes those I thought I knew very well, I didn't really know at all.

These poems are neither serious nor scholarly, just a few thoughts and reflections. More may be added as time and mood permits. Most are untitled, as titles are really not necessary. Poems mean different things to different people anyway. You may see it one way and others will see it their way. Neither way is wrong.

If you have written a poem, I would be happy to include it here. I only ask that it be a poem you wrote yourself. Comments are welcomed.

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I watch the wind blowing your hair softly
as you walk along the beach.
The water hurries up onto the sand to kiss your feet,
as if sent for that purpose only.
The sea gulls are floating into the gentle blowing wind,
moving up and down slightly.

You're not aware that I'm watching and never will it seems.
Even when I call out your name,
no matter how loud,
You just can't hear my dreams.

I am a wanderer but I travel nowhere,
A player but I have no part.
My journey is ended and still proceeding
And maybe tomorrow I will start.

My time has expired with a little left,
I stopped but I also ran.
There are dark clouds in the clear blue sky
And Mother Earth gave birth again.

As I walk through the forest with the
crunch of winter underfoot,
I see the pine branches laden with
white puffy snow.
The crispness of the air whistles in my ear
And from where does the wind come
and where does it go?

The goodness of nature abounds all around,
The completeness of balance is there to see.
All the wonders,
the greatness,
the oneness,
Are there for love of all and me.

No, I'm not getting old.
I have stories remaining that must be told,
Wares left still unsold.
I will enjoy the warm summers and endure
the winters that are so cold.

You know, I thought about you today.
Do you remember the things we use to do?
The things you share that can't be shared
with anyone else?
I think of them often,
I wonder if you ever think of them too!

Will this day never end?
Shall I say the same tomorrow?
And the next,
And the next after that?

Must you always be a dream,
A memory?
Recurring thoughts?
It seems like forever since I saw you last.
Will we ever be together again, or will you
always be in my past?

It's Spring time again, little girl.
The blossoms have disappeared from the plum trees.
Tiny little plums are in their place now.
I saw a mocking bird looking at them yesterday, or
was he looking for his rib?
It's nice to see the trees so green, and skies so blue,
And have these thoughts of you.

This was written for a very special friend of mine.

Yourself

Have you ever stopped a while to think
about the things you do?
And tried to change a little bit
knowing someone is watching you?

Your true self will not appear
and never does, you see.
But stays trapped, deep inside,
and never ever will be free.

Do not put on another mask
or let others tell you how to be.
Just be yourself, your real self,
and say.."Look everybody, it's Me."

The wind blows softly.
The red sun is hiding as it illuminates
the long, heavy clouds in the evening sky.
The colors change to a dark purple and lasts
only a short while, til the shadows blend
with the darkening sky, into a new deep oneness.

Walk up,
Sit down,
There's room at the bar.
It seems better than reason, much better by far.
The things you don't want to see will disappear.
Don't think.
Don't scheme.
Don't fear.
But remember this for sure.
There's no solution here.

This union of these two people is like
the dawning of a new day.
A path never taken before.
God's blessings will surround them just as
the sun gives warmth from the
crispness of the early morning.
They will walk together, in love and respect.
Loving the person, the mind,
the soul of the other.
It is a happy day, and many more will follow
as their love grows.
We will remember this time and say
it was good to know them.

It was nice for a while,
to think I could find happiness.
You seemed to be my light.
I will never forget the hope, the thoughts,
the dreams.
But some things were never meant to be.
Yes....it was nice for a while.

Be A Friend

There are many ways to show it,
It's not that hard to do.
Everybody wants to know it,
To have a friend you must be one too.
Help your brother, there's no one else.
We're all we have you see.
The nicest thing to be said of you,
Is, he was a friend to me.

The path isn't easy, the way is never clear.
It makes no difference when or where,
Or if your heart is filled with fear.
The sun always sets, and rises again in the morn.
But before a man can die, he must first be born.

When summer breezes blow, and mind and soul
are far removed from now,
We wonder if, and how, since there are endless tasks
waiting on which much depends.
Friends aren't as friendly as before
and pressure is applied.
But this is not the time to quit.
Friendship, real friendship,
Will stand the test, and we'll see who has true grit.

Would you walk with me on the sand?
The sun is warm, the air is clean,
And you're nice to be with.
I like to see your baby smile,
Let's walk down the beach for a little while.
Come let me take your hand,
And walk with me on the sand.

Would you walk with me on the sand?
The stars are out, the night air is cool,
And you're nice to be with.
I can smell the salt in your hair,
Let's run as if we haven't a care.
Come let me take your hand,
And walk with me on the sand.

Who fell that tree in my path?
My course was straight.
I knew where I was going,
Now it seems I'll be late
If I get there at all.

I could change my direction.
To the left or to the right.
Or should I try with all my might
To move the obstacle.
I wonder, is it worth the fight?

Do I fear failure or
Do I lack the desire to try?
Why do I take so long to think
As the world swiftly passes by?
Why do I take so long to think?

There's time for thought and time for deed,
But a deed unthought will often need
More thought to undo.
I'm almost ready, I'm at the brink, but...
Why do I take so long to think?

Thinking of You

When things go wrong and my world starts breaking up,
I think of you.
And when I'm happy, very happy,
I think of you.
In the early morning when birds are waking a new day,
I think of you.
Watching children run and play without worry or care,
I think of you.
As people pass and nod, going along their way,
I think of you.
At the end of the day, as the sky changes to a deep purple,
I think of you.
I look into the darkness with it's quietness, and wonder
If you ever think of me too.

Where Am I Going?

Where do I go and why do I stop?
I must continue, faster, faster I must go.
Is it so bad to stop and look?
Why do I go so slow?

Run, run, it matters not where,
Go, it's what must be.
Run, flee, don't wait on me,
There isn't time to look and see!

A Friend Will

Talk when you want
Listen when you're down
Cry when you cry
Laugh when you clown.

Help when he can
Follow where you lead
Tell you if you're wrong
Help fulfill your need.

A Friend Will

Run when you run
Calm when you're mad
Ignore your faults
Console when you're sad.

Wait when you're not ready
Show so you can see
Be there when you need them
But, never a lover be.

Thanks for reading my poems. Check back again, more will be added.


POEMS SUBMITTED BY OTHERS

OK, this area is waiting for a poem from you. Let's get those thoughts down and get them here.


This is a poem written for my Great Grandmother, Josephine Louise Page Weeks by her nephew, R.L. Page, Jr. It appeared in The Belmont Herald, Belmont, MS on Thursday July 8, 1915 along with her obituary. R.L. Page, Jr. was also the editor and publisher of the newspaper.

To The Memory of my Dear Aunt
Mrs. J.P. Weeks

We bent today o'er a coffined form,
And our tears fell softly down;
We looked our last on the aged face,
With its look of peace, its patient grace,
And hair like a silver crown.

We touched our own to the clay-cold hands,
From life's long labor to rest;
And among the blossoms, white and sweet,
We noted a bunch of golden wheat,
Clasped close to the silent breast.

The blossoms whispered of fadeless bloom,
Of a land where fall no tears;
The ripe wheat told of toil and care,
The patient waiting, the trusting prayer,
The garnered goods of the years.

As each goes up from the fields of earth,
Bearing the treasures of life,
God looks for some gathered grain of good,
From the ripe harvest that shining stood,
But waiting the reaper's knife.

Then labor well, that in death you go,
Not only with blossoms sweet-
Not bent with doubt, and burdened with fears,
And dead dry husks of wasted years-
But laden with golden wheat.

R.L. Page, Jr.


Josephine Louise Page Weeks


"OUR MAMA WEEKS"

O Lord hear my prayer,
I need a favor for someone there.
After a long hard struggle here,
Now you have our Mama dear.

It hurts so much that she is gone,
But Mama was tired when you called her home.
She was the star of our family tree,
So completely devoted to her family.

She'd lost so many in such horrible ways,
So much heartache she felt in those days.
When just a girl she lost her Mother,
And at the same time a sister and brother.

She lost her baby Willard one day,
When he went out in the rain to play.
Then the war took Deck, her oldest son,
Just three months after she buried her youngest one.

Her baby girl Louise had left behind,
Two little children for Mama to mind.
Mama worked hard to put her pain aside,
But cherished those she'd lost til the day she died.

She kept her memories of those she'd held dear,
And focused on the ones that were still here.
Her precious granddaughter, Betty Lou,
Had her life taken at age thirty-two.

This broke Mama's heart, Lord she cried for days,
And Betty had left six children for Mama to raise.
She tried so hard to raise us well.
Worked dawn 'til dusk until the day she fell.

She was cooking Sunday dinner the day she dropped.
She didn't linger, her heart just stopped.
No, Mama didn't suffer any that day,
But she sure hurt a lot along the way.

So Lord if I could I'd ask for the sun,
For our Mama Weeks for all that she's done.
But You've already answered my prayer,
For all those she'd lost were waiting for her there.

Kathy Louise Beam Crowley, Great Granddaughter


The following poems were written by my Granddaughter, Beth Shelnutt.

John Jacob

Here comes John Jacob,
From down the street.

Here comes John Jacob,
Ready to preach.

He's heading for the church now.

A dog says "Bow wow."
He pats the dog's head and
Continues on his way.

For John Jacob is busy on Sunday.


Zombie Road

Zombie road
For the living dead.

Where animals die in vain
And bow down in pain.

Shadow people lurk
So you might get hurt.

There's a few ghosts
Waiting for you.

So go over and
Say boo!

Zombie road for the living dead.
Next time go to the beach instead.

Beth Shelnutt


"LIKE THE LITTLE JESUS"

Like the little baby Jesus,
I was born on Christmas Day;
But I had a lovely cradle,
Not a manger full of hay.

Not a home in David's city
Would the Christ-child shelter give;
While in home so warm and cozy,
Was my happy lot to live.

But the baby in the manger
Was the world's Redeemer-King
Born to me and countless thousands
Gifts of untold price to bring.

He's the best gift of many,
Given me this happy day;
And my heart shall stand wide open
That he may come in and stay.

Author Unknown
Contributed by:
Peggy Weed Willingham


"VULCAN"

SO TALL AND STATELY HOVERING OVER BIRMINGHAM
VULCAN, THE IRON MAN, I AM
WITH ARMS AND LEGS OF STEEL
AN ANVIL AND HAMMER READY TO WIELD

MANY CHANGES TO THIS CITY I HAVE SEEN
TIMES OF PLENTY AND TIME OF LEAN
A CITY ENGROSSED IN RACIAL DISARRAY
WITH DOGS, POLICE AND LOOKS OF DISMAY

THE YEARS HAVE PASSED AND TIME HAVE CHANGED
THE INWARD CITY HAS BEEN REARRANGED
FOR A PERIOD OF TIME THE PACE WAS SLOW
BUILDINGS WERE EMPTY AND THERE WAS NO PLACE TO GO

BUT NOW THE ACTIVITY IS LOOMING AGAIN
WITH LOFTS AND BUSINESSES WHERE NOTHING HAS BEEN
THE DOWNTOWN AREA IS COMING ALIVE
WITH GOALS TO REACH THE MORE WE STRIVE

WHEN YOU LOOK TO THE MOUNTAIN MY STATUE YOU'LL SEE
I'VE LOOKED OVER THE CITY FOR NIGH A CENTURY
STALWART AND STRONG I'LL ALWAYS BE
DON'T EVEN THINK OF REPLACING ME

THIS CITY IS SO MUCH A PART OF MY BEING
I, MYSELF, WOULDN'T THINK OF LEAVING
A MERE STATUE OF IRON YOU THINK OF ME
BUT LOOK ON THE MOUNTAIN AND WHAT DO YOU SEE

A LEGEND MYSELF OF BIRMINGHAM
A CITY METROPOLIS, HOW PROUD I AM
TO BE A PART OF ITS HISTORY
DON'T EVER TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME

IN YEARS TO COME AND AS TIME PASSES
THIS CITY WILL THRIVE WITH ALL ITS MASSES
ONE THING FOR SURE THAT I HOPE WILL BE
THE STATUE OF VULCAN FOR EVERYONE TO SEE

Betty Shotts


"WHAT IS MY TALENT?"

Pottery vases from my soul,
But, if my mind should take control,
The vessels are not living things.
Talent I claim; more than me sings.

Spinning clay and my fingers touch.
Wet and slick; shapeless lump , as such.
Pressure; strength; and I gain command.
Smooth and even, clay in my hand.

Up from the base, the pot takes form.
My tools, familiar, slightly worn,
From hours of working at the wheel.
My soul renews , as earth I feel.

How many men, like me, through time
Have felt the same, this need of mine??
To take the earth and make to live
Their souls within a gift to give.

Did theirs, like mine, not come to life
Unless the effort, without strife,
Came from within a secret place?
My soul? My heart? A gift of Grace?

Millicent Coulter


FULL CIRCLE

-Inspired by a photograph of my Great Great Grandmother, Jane MacMurray Sweeney-

She sits in a sepia dusk
balanced on the edge
of a spindle-back rocker, darkened
by smoky winters
and her own summer sweat.
She sways, and the lost wails
of babies are a string of feverless dreams.
In her flowered lap she cradles
a book of children's stories.
Her hands, ropy with veins
rest on the pages, her eyes;
pale moons ringed with steel.
Something like winter
has leached the summer from her hair
and swept a white drift
around her handsome face.
Is she threading a slender dream
of me?
Now her life is in my lap,
a dry sheaf of photographs. I search
their light for some shadow
of myself. The chair I sit in
sways with a song
I barely remember,
a song that sways in me.

Christine Kasel


The House On The Corner Beside The Old Bridge


by Shirley Lacey Davis

The train whistles while rushing down the track,
Oh! the lonely sound takes my mind rolling back.
To the big old white house on the corner lot,
Beside the Old Iron Bridge across from Fairmont.

The old house so friendly and warm to both bad and good,
From the friendly postman; to the "hobo" begging food.
My friends loved to spend the night or just stay a while,
Knowing they were accepted with love and a smile.

Even though we were very poor I realize now,
Money scarce, my parents managed some how.
Delicious smells of food as home from school I'd run,
To a Christian mom who greeted me; "Hello Hon".

My dad's tired, worn hands made sure we had food,
My mom's cooking made the cheapest thing taste good.
My allowance was only a quarter, when the chores were done,
Then there was time out, go have clean fun.

To the Delmar or North Birmingham Theatre we'd go,
To see Roy Rogers, Alan Ladd or Doris Day at the picture show.
To Kresses, the church and school library to name a few,
The skating rink, pool and park, such fun things to do.

Class mates together eight years was neat,
Our lives were clean, simple and so sweet.
We pledged the flag and opened class with a prayer,
But our kids today couldn't dare.

The worst fear at school such a sight,
Two boys scuffle or maye even fight.
The worst thing written on the wall, "Kilroy was here", just who was he you all?

A sidewalk built around a large oak tree,
Such a novel sight for us to see.
It is etched in my memory still today,
Though some one cut it and took it away.

If I could give one wish to our youth today,
It would be they could go back to "our way".
To the house on the corner beside the bridge of rust,
With families, friends and class mates they could trust.

Ah! Dear North Birmingham, I truly miss you so,
Was it real or a childhood memory I can't let go.
Then I meet some one from that time so long ago,
Whose memories the same as mine and then I know.

A tribute To North Birmingham, The People, The Churches, The School And That Simple Sweet Time


HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA,

by Sidney M. "Sid" Benson

THERE MAY BE THOSE WHO WISH YOU HARM
THOUGH MOST OF US STILL CARE
DONT LET THE FOOLS AND TERRORISTS
TAKE FREEDOMS THAT WE SHARE

THE RIGHT TO VOICE OUR LOVE OF GOD
SHOULD NEVER BE REPLACED
TO PLACATE A MINORITY
OR SAVE A LITTLE FACE

EACH MAN CAN WORSHIP AS HE WILL
NO ONE WILL TELL HIM NAY
FOR THAT HAS BEEN THE PRINCIPLE
FROM YOUR VERY FIRST BIRTHDAY

DONT LET THE FOLKS WHO READ THE LAW
FORGET WHY YOU WERE BORN
OR SACRIFICES MEN HAVE MADE
WITH BODIES DEAD OR TORN

I WILL PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE
TO "ONE NATION UNDER GOD"
UNTIL THE DAY I'M LAID BENEATH
YOUR PRECIOUS, PRECIOUS SOD

For more poetry by Sid Benson check New Mexico Poet.com.


"Hidden Faces"

Do you ever wonder what's
really behind a smile?
The really sad things
we tuck away for awhile.

Do you ever wonder what's
the purpose of a tear?
Has it fallen just to be here,
or has it fallen to express fear?

Do you ever wonder what's
behind a mask?
Something maybe you
dare not ask.

Maybe all our fears
are misplaced,
and tucked away
in a hidden face.

Catherine "Tequila Sunrise"


Ode To A Croc Hunter
Or
Why The Crocodile Really Cries

I took a trip to Australia to see the animals in the wild,
the ones I used to dream about when I was just a child.
I went on walkabouts, to see what I could see.
I found all sorts of animals, on the ground and in the trees.

I heard a Kookaburra call and saw a Dingo runny by
and later there was a Kangaroo with a Joey, the apple of her eye.
When I went down to a creek there was a Koala up a tree
and swimming in the water there was a Platypus, such a strange sight to see.

I also went to swim in the sea, all sorts of fish were there to swim along with me
there was even an Iguana when I was finished to smile a warm greeting to me.
I traveled from the east coast to the west just to see an Emu,
but somebody told me, "You must see Australia Zoo."

When I got there, there were Wallabies, Wombats, Tasmanian Devils and all sorts of
animals to be found.
There was also a heavy silence hanging all around.
It was then a friendly Crocodile I did spy with great big salty tears pouring from his eyes.

I aske him what was wrong and he replied, much to my surprise,
"Steve Irwin, The Crocodile Hunter is gone from us."
He was a friend of any animal that walks or crawls, swims or flies and that is the story my friend,
of why the crocodile truly cries.

Larry Gothard

(Note: Larry Gothard passed away on September 25, 2008)



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