POETRY OF RICHARD WARREN BRANDLEIN
I always have liked poetry
And prose likewise appeals to me.
It doesn't seem that hard to write
And yet I sit up half the night
And still my sheet of papers bare,
The lines I want just aren't there.
The problem is, (there's no doubt)
I don't know what to write about!
Should I write of sounds of war,
Or would peace concern men more?
Perhaps a poem of ships at sea
Or mountains? They appeal to me.
And then I think of deserts, too.
I really don't know what to do!
So on and on and round it goes,
Rabbits or rain; flowers or nose?
Or love or ants or food or snow?
What to write I just don't know.
Yes, I could gain fame overnight
If I only knew 'what to write'
(Granny's comments on her 'Telyphone')
"That telyphone's a wretched thing,
It will ring and ring and ring and ring.
How does it know when I'm around
And start that piercing jingling sound?
And then I answer, just to find
The telyphone has changed it's mind.
There's nothing but a dial tone
To match my disappointed moan.
Half the time I try to call
And find I can't get through at all!
Or if a voice should answer it
It's someone I have never met.
Oh, I should tear it off the wall,
Be no more troubled by it's call.
I'd do it with no second look,
Except I love to read it's Book.
Self Critic
As a poet I've been known for my humorous sort of line,
A clever thought, a laugh or two, that's a mark of mine.
But part of what I write now takes a serious view
So I laugh awhile and then I shed a tear or two.
I do take consolation, though, at least a little bit.
I'm not completely serious; I still have half my wit.
A Mother's Grief
A Mother sat with head bowed low
And cheeks all wet with tears.
The lonely day was slipping by
With it's sadness and it's fears.
It seemed as only yesterday
That to this ordinary wife
Had come a world of happiness.
How that child enriched her life!
They had done so much together,
They laughed and sang and talked,
You could see them in the evening
As hand in hand they walked.
But the woman now sat lonely,
Her daughter gone from her side,
And failing to gain composure
She again broke down and cried.
Oh, her friends tried hard to calm her
But what could they really say?
Are there any words of comfort
When a Mother feels this way?
So she dried her eyes and wondered
For 'twas near the end of day,
When children first start school,
Do Moms always feel this way?
Learn About Your Land
When first I came into this land I was held in awe,
Impressed, entranced and captified by everything I saw.
All of this was new to me, This desert western land;
I felt the need to ask and learn and try to understand.
And so I questioned those who'd made this place their home
And asked about the desert where the long tailed lizard roamed.
I asked about the cactus and the mountains and the plains,
About the weeds, about the birds; I even asked of rain.
.I asked about the winter, the summer and the spring;
I asked all that, but honestly, I didn't learn a thing.
For when I'd say, "That tree so tall, what kind can it be?"
They'd simply nod their heads and say, "why, just a tree."
It continued, "Just a cactus", "Just a rock", "Just a bird"
I tell you, I was disappointed by the answers that I heard!
"I'll search the answers out", I said, and then put this vow first,
"When people question me, they'll find that I'm well versed."
Now guess what. Time has passed, it's been a year or so,
I'm in my place along the side of those who just don't know.
"What sort of cactus can that be?" they turn to me and say
"Oh, the sticky kind I guess" (I sat it some one day)
"What kind if Indian lived here?" and all that I can say
"Oh, an American one,of course" and then I turn away
For the Indians that did live here in lost and ancient time
Were marked with face of deepest red, but not as red as mine.
I know about the Dutchman's mine in Superstition Mount.
(I saw that in a movie, so I guess it doesn't count)
If people now ask things I don't know, I don't fret or fuss;
Why feel bad?. They don't know, so that makes two of us.
Progress
Long ago upon this land
Forests grew; now cities stand.
Once there was a sky of blue,
Charcoal gray is now it's hue.
Not content beneath the sky,
Men built a house, then wondered why
All was dark' There was no sight,
So holes were cut to let in light.
Cloth for curtains, glass for panes,
Thus he closed it up again.
Now to learn of what was out
Radios were brought about.
Now man only reads in books
Of water clear in mountain brooks.
Pictures, too, are on display
Of animals they chased away.
"The west is won", so they said.
But they lost. The west is dead.
West To East
Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall;
Which of these is best of all?
You can have your ice and snow
And temperature that's way below.
You can keep the rain that falls
In torrential springtime squalls.
Keep your pollen and humid breeze
And boots for feet and anti-freeze.
Send us, though, some leaves (with tree)
And send a well (with water) to me.
We'll send you, since you've wondered,
All our degrees above one hundred.
TV
My patience now is growing thin.
Who let this one-eyed monster in?
It takes my time and leaves me naught,
Not time to think or food for thought.
My eyes grow tired, muscles slack;
It talks to me, I can't talk back.
Ah, if I could only melt it's snow
And flip it's switch to stop it's glow,
Yet I've no will to squelch it's roar.
Hark! ...a knock upon my door.
"Repossessors, sorry sir" they say,
"We've come to take your set away."
Sorry? don't be.Take it, go,
Pull it's cord and stop it's show!
One-eyed beast, you didn't win.
Now I can slumber once again.
Poor Me
I looked up at the sky today
There was not a cloud around.
"No rain today" I said and then
The rain came pouring down.
Why can't I be right just once
In things I do or say?
Why must I make a fool of me?
It's always been that way.
Joes' not my friend anymore
And I guess that I'm to blame.
We'd been pals for twenty years
'Til I forgot his name.
It seems I'm always late for work
Or early for the show;
I'm much too fast in speed zones,
In track meets much too slow.
I think that I have something wrong
With my mentality.
I think I'm kind of stupid
And that should worry me.
But the fact I THINK I'm dumb
Is proof I'm smart, I 'low.
I'm always wrong on what I think
I'm positive I'm not right now.
The Prospector's Mule
Joe was a weathered prospector,
Dusty and dirty and old
Who combed the hills and mountains
In search of a vein of gold.
Joe's companion was a mule
Who hauled his grub and gear,
So Joe would scour the countryside,
His mule always near.
Moving along.
Both of them.
As long as Joe would lead the way
Everything was fine.
But the mule would get contrary
If Joe ever got behind.
He would balk.
And Joe could scream and shout and shove,
He could beat him but he wouldn't move
For money nor for love.
He just wouldn't move.
Not an inch.
Joe somehow got behind one day
On a canyon wall.
On a narrow winding ledge
With a thousand feet to fall.
Then, in a corner,
Just wide enough for him
The mule balked and dug in deep
And would not move again.
Not even backwards
Wouldn't even try.
Joe cussed awhile and kicked awhile
And pleaded with his steed;
But the only way to move him
Was for Joe to take the lead.
Slowly, on the outside,
Joe worked his way around.
Just a step or two to go
And he'd be on wider ground.
The mule moved.
Good-bye Joe.
If Joe were still around today
I'm sure that he'd agree
There's a lesson to this story
(Though it isn't plain to me)
Unless it is this moral,
Which might have crossed Joe's mind,
'If you want to stay a leader
Don't ever get behind'
Just keep moving.
Don't stop.