Twisting leaf in wind.
Green, it moves with limb and twig
youth has strength to spare.
Twisting leaf in wind.
Red, it leaves its lofty perch
color to be seen.
Twisting leaf in wind.
Brown, it’s blown from place to place
no one knows it’s there.
Dennis Price
No one really listens to anyone else, and if you try it for a while you'll see why.
- Mignon McLaughlin
All of us dream, but not all of us remember our dreams. They creep into our subconscious thoughts during our slumber and relieve us of the pressures of the day. Their acts play out in surreal scenes so vivid on occasion they wake us up. At other times we rise from our beds with a hazy recollection of snippets that make us blush or chuckle. We try and interpret recurring dreams, but it is only conjecture. I wrote this poem to paint a word picture of dreams. Dream Catcher
Seeping into consciousness from
the land of Koala Queue,
a tangled mass of mystery
appears from the mist of Roo.
From a eucalyptus canopy,
where all the leaves are blue,
comes the answer to your
riddle in electro-coded goo.
The blue Koala’s whisper
travels on a turquoise wind,
and synaptic gaps convey his
thoughts to the place where
yours begin.
Dennis Price
Ah, the famous poets through the ages. You already have my picture on the sidebar. Here are two of my poems on poetry. Poetry.
Euphony.
Dark, light.
Rhymed, not.
Metered, free.
Long, brief.
Symphony
I Salute You William Shakespeare
If I could just remember who wrote what,
and what they said,
I would quote them in my poetry,
the living and the dead.
I would be obtuse and dark,
droning on in endless prose.
not caring where my poem’s been
not knowing where it goes.
They’d think I’m educated,
worldly, pithy, hard.
For sure an academic.
cutting edge, avant garde.”
I would throw the cesspool at them
from bathroom to bordello.
A gasp, a blush, a whisper,
“He is such a brilliant fellow.”
They would clap when I was finished,
softly sigh, and nod assent.
And wonder if the others
had a clue of what I meant.
Dennis Price
We are the sum of our various parts. Our physical component is the most obvious to strangers, while our mental and spiritual components remain hidden to outsiders. We can manipulate what others see at times, but stress can remove the facade. We are on occasion blind to aspects of our own behavior and must be alerted to aberrations by those who know us best, or professionals probing the hidden areas. We are unique and complicated. We are most comfortable with those who share a number of common factors with us. But, our liaisons outside our comfort zone can be enlightening and interesting even though accompanied by some tension and distrust. We often find more common ground than expected and good friendships can be the result. MR. ME AND MR. WHO
A rivulet of water ran down my mirror,
splitting my image in two.
I thought I could see them both in that scene,
Mr. Me, and Mr. Who.
Mr. Me, is on the outside,
he’s always looking in.
Mr. Who is on the inside
looking out at his old friend.
Mr. Me is aging,
he thinks of getting old.
Mr. Who is just a boy,
his age is still on hold.
Mr. Me is what you see
when you look my way.
Mr. Who is what I think,
sometimes what I say.
Mr. Me, and Mr. Who
have been there from the start.
One looking in, the other out,
they’ll never live apart.
If you see me on the street
and, if I should see you,
you’ll shake hands with Mr. Me,
but be seen by Mr. Who.
Dennis Price
We don't see things as they are, we see things as we are.
- Anais Nin
OCTOBER MUSINGS
Ideas blown by gusty breezes
Slipped into consciousness.
Towering trees in some virgin forest long past.
A crystal stream.
Wild geese set against a gray winter’s sky.
A log cabin.
A warm stone fireplace.
A flannel shirt.
A friendly dog.
A need to hunt.
A good hot cup of morning coffee.
A biscuit.
It is crisp October air that brings them on,
So strong I almost let them take me where they will.
Where would we be without them? I hope if you are a Father you were feted yesterday. I had a wonderful day with my family. I now have a new bottle of expensive cologne and the promise of a pair of expensive flip-flops with arch supports built in. The canvas straps on my old pair are fraying and could go at any moment. I suppose you might be wondering about the rather large head stone to commemorate the day. Well this is a monument erected to honor the memory of my great great grandfather, Reverend Thomas Price. It is located in a small cemetery in south Mississippi. It contains a brief history of the family carved in stone on both sides, and a list of the direct decendants. The brick pavers were purchased by living decendants to pay for the memorial. I never knew the man, but he must have been a man who many considered worthy. I can make this deduction because I knew his great grandson, my father. It seems strange now that I'm older to consider I've know some of my friends longer than I knew my father. He died in 1963 on the day before my sixteenth birthday. I knew him for fifteen years. He has been gone now for forty six years and he was forty six when he died. The difference is I carry his genetic code and I can still remember him as clearly today as I ever did. Poems are created from memories brought to life again. I wrote this poem about my dad just a few short years ago. I am proud to have my paver next to his on the monument to my great great grandfather. WHAT’S IN A NAME?
Over 40 years ago, he died.
I still miss him everyday.
Quiet country boy – Brought up hard.
Learned early how to make his way.
Strong from work and tan from sun.
Dark hair and winning smile.
I never saw him waiver, change,
in good times or in trial.
He loved hard work, family.
Served his country. Spoke the truth.
Taught with bible and example.
Twigs need bending in their youth.
Outdoors was his favorite place.
Hunting, fishing, sun, fresh air.
He taught me manly lessons
when there were no women there.
Grave illness struck, he fought hard,
working right up to the end.
He crossed the bar so peacefully
to meet his Lord, and friend.
The world won’t know how great he was.
He had no wealth or fame.
Because he would not compromise
the value of his name.
I’m older now than he was
when he left this mortal frame.
But hope, that like my dad I leave
the treasure of a name.
Dennis Price
I had forgotten about this second little poem also penned to honor the strength of his memory.
Memory
I heard my father’s voice.
Long gone, but still there.
Dennis Price
During the last couple of weeks we've had some much needed rain. I wrote a poem last year to express the refreshing nature of a rain after a long dry spell. God’s Symphony
The land is parched and dry
beneath the summer sun
and one might question,
why its been so long since rain
has spattered softly in the dust
until the droplets blend
in numbers large enough to
soak the crust and run in rivulets
steaming in the heat with
pitter, patter beat
backed up by lights
behind gray clouds
and roar of distant tympani?
First pianissimo, then forte
as the lightning cymbals crash
and drum roll thunder shakes
the core.
The howling wind joins in
for harmony and takes the
movement down to pianissimo
once more
then fades to blue.
Dennis Price
I was channel surfing last evening when I ran across an interview with George Beverly Shea. Bill Gaither was conducting the interview and it apparently took place when George (Bev) was 98 years young. He was born in Canada on February 1, 1909 and turned 100 on his birthday this year. His voice was still strong and rich and he could still sing. He was the soloist for the Billy Graham crusades and he always sang just before Dr. Graham brought the message. George and Billy started working together in the early 40's. It is estimated that he has sung before a combined audience of over 220,000,000 people in his long career. As clips were played of his performances through the years, my heart melted and my eyes misted up at the sound of his rich baritone voice singing the words of those great old hymns. I listened without a word as he sang "How Great Thou Art", "I'd Rather Have Jesus", "Amazing Grace", and a host of others. I miss singing those hymns. Our current song services are a sham when compared to the melody and poetry of some of the older hymns. Bill Gaither said it very well when he commented that he didn't sing them because they were old, but because they were great and need to be sung. I wrote a couple of poems with that very message. Closed Hymnals
Hymnals hang idle
on the back of the pew
replaced by words
on a screen.
Words without music.
Chanted, repeated.
Unknown melody slurred.
Hymnals hang idle,
their music not played.
Inspirational stories unheard.
Dennis Price
The following is an excerpt from a longer poem entitled "Worship;
Racks with unused hymnals,
silent reminders of the inspired
utterances of saintly poets.
Sometimes we sing one or two,
rarely stopping for a breath between them
so we can chant some over used chorus
several times while craning our necks
to see the words displayed high above
on a drop down screen.
No music to follow. Just some bouncy tune
that we should know because we
hear it so often.
It makes me want to bunny hop down the aisle.
I squirm and hope that the song service ends soon.
Worship.
Dennis Price
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I was reminded recently on my motorcycle trip through the Texas Hill Country how beautiful the outdoors can be during the months of Spring. Recent periods of very dry weather have lessened the colorful splendor a little, but memories of those Springs when every trip through the countryside was like driving in a painting reminded me of a poem I wrote to describe the feeling. I hope you enjoy it as you start your week.April Impressions
Zephyrs stir miniature
soldiers of lavender
and salmon pink
standing at attention
on a carpet of pastel green.
Purple tendrils
surround a phone pole.
Splashes of white and pink
peak out from
Winter’s stark remnants.
An ice blue sky
domes the hillsides
carpeted in yellow and blue.
Songbird fugues
pierce the air
backed up by the
steady gurgle of a
crystal stream.
Subtle hints of perfume
carried on the breeze
refresh and revive
my wakening spirit.
Dennis Price
MR. ME AND MR. WHO
A rivulet of water ran down my mirror,
splitting my image in two.
I thought I could see them both in that scene,
Mr. Me, and Mr. Who.
Mr. Me, is on the outside,
he’s always looking in.
Mr. Who is on the inside
looking out at his old friend.
Mr. Me is aging,
he thinks of getting old.
Mr. Who is just a boy,
his age is still on hold.
Mr. Me is what you see
when you look my way.
Mr. Who is what I think,
sometimes what I say.
Mr. Me, and Mr. Who
have been there from the start.
One looking in, the other out,
they’ll never live apart.
If you see me on the street
and, if I should see you,
you’ll shake hands with Mr. Me,
but be seen by Mr. Who.
Dennis Price
Pappy's going to be gone for a few days. I may not get back in time to post for St. Patrick's day. So in honor of my Irish side I'll leave you with a poem honoring St. Patrick. ST. PATRICK
clovers and Leprechauns,
singing and dancing to old
Celtic tunes.
the parish of Maewyn,
the bishop, converter, till 461.
March 17th, the day of his death
we celebrate now in secular mirth.
Captured at sixteen by Irish marauders,
sold into slavery,
a Welshman by birth.
He escaped after six years and
fled into
where he studied with monks
Christianities’ tenets,
and fourteen years later he
answered the call.
Bishop to
he preached and converted.
Resisted by Druids,
arrested, escaping,
building schools,
and churches.
Metaphorically chasing,
the snakes from the land.
Maewyn the pagan,
St. Patrick, the Christian
served thirty years in
his mission to
His vision,
to see his captors set free.
Dennis Price
I thought of the old George Jones tune when I saw this picture of my grandkids taken last weekend when they went to visit my little 88 year old mother (their great grandmother). Aaron is almost three and Ava is one.
I glad they have pictures to remember these times. I still remember visits with my great grandmothers when I was very young.
Several years ago, I wrote this poem for a state contest. The poem category was "Steel Magnolias". I thought of my mother when I saw the category and penned this poem for the occasion.
THE MYSTERY OF THE FLOWER
She was the Belle of Jeff Davis County.
Stunning to the beholder.
Long haired brunette
with more curves than a mountain highway.
She was raised in the traditions of the South.
Never leave the house without your make-up.
Always dress to the nines.
Her wide brimmed hats shadowed her face
to add to the mystery.
She learned to be strong and silent in adversity.
A player in a man’s world.
Influential, but not obtrusive.
Beautiful, but powerful.
She remains the same today.
Never making an appearance until her face is fixed.
Her hair shows no gray.
Graceful and fragrant like the Magnolia’s blossom.
But make no mistake,
her resolve is steel.
Bebe has always been a good sport about going along with new ventures of mine. A friend taught me to sail and I bought a little day sailer much like the one pictured here. My teacher had a much larger boat and invited me to join he and some others in an around the lake treasure hunt. The weather on the day of the event turned out to be overcast, windy, and cold. It was March. Bebe was dubious, but agreed to try it anyway. I gave her some basic instruction on shore and we set out to join the others. This poem recounts the mis-adventure.Dennis Price
I don't know of anything more refreshing than a good night's sleep. I wrote the poem, "Purple Sea", when I was off on some work related errand and was missing Bebe and my bed. Since retirement we are rarely apart except for the occasional night when the grandkids stay over or I've had some malady that requires me to sit up in order to sleep. Both, occured on the same night last night and I thought of this poem as I made the morning coffee. I hope you are enjoying a peaceful weekend. I am going back for more coffee real soon.
Yesterday I took a morning walk. I like to walk alone and think. I observed the Jackrabbits in our neighborhood as they fiercely clung to the small patches of vacant ground and seemed to be thriving. Their tenacity and survival gives me hope for our country. In spite of the assaults of the people who would sell us into slavery in the name of saving us, the silent core of working Americans continues to function. I salute all of you who contribute daily. My poem to the Jackrabbits salutes their adaptability.
I hope you do something special for your Sweetheart today. I wrote the following poem on Valentine's Day many years ago, maybe you can relate. Bebe has been getting Valentines from me for nearly 44 years.
I rarely give any background on my poems, but I feel this one merits it because of the subject. I am fascinated by people who do dangerous things and in doing so stir something in all of us. Some are driven by money, others by the love of their sport, and others because they crave the rush. I enjoy watching a good boxer, or an accomplished rough stock rider. They are able to push past the pain and fear and do something most of us would not even consider. The price they pay physically is often severe. What do they think when they get old? Are they sorry they participated? I was investigating arson fires out of Austin, TX back in the eighties and had driven to Kileen, TX to look at a scene. I was tired and dirty as I started my return trip along the rural roads back to Austin. I spotted an old pickup truck along side the road loaded with watermelons and decided to stop. The slow moving old cowboy who was selling the melons turned out to be Joe Hood a former rodeo star and bull riding champion of the forties and fifties. He and his brother participated in rodeo on the senior tour until fairly late in life. Two hours later I had a water melon and a wealth of stories from a man who obviously loved his work. The physical price he paid was obvious, but his spirit suffered no damage. I wrote this poem in tribute to his smile and enthusiasm as he shared his life story with me that day.
