Missouri
Hill Country Poetry
A
MOTHER’S IMPOSSIBLE DREAM
I
fear that I shall never see
A
moment of my privacy.
I
wait till they are all asleep,
Then
in the bathroom I do creep.
Just
when I’m sure the coast is clear,
Upon
the door a tap I hear.
“Can
I come in? I need a drink.”
(They
have antennas I do think.)
One
day my sister took the clan
To
stay with her in
Birmingham
.
At
last! At last! I jumped with glee
My
bubble bath’s awaiting me.
So
there I was, all peaceful now,
When
I did hear a loud “Meow!”
I
wondered, as I pet the cat,
“Will
heaven come with a private bath?”
--Debbie
McGrath
THE
HIGHLANDS
When
I was a child there were issues
That
pushed me from the place where I grew up
And
for time out of mind I did not call that place home
I
would say I was from the prairie or even nowhere
But
always I wished I could call some place home
And
the longing grew in me until it was larger than life
We
need a place to look back on, a place to call our own
Without
it we possess transparent anonymity
As
the longing grew with age I began to open my eyes
And
the vision of home that was once obscured by bitterness
Was
clearer to mine eyes made blind by that bitterness
And
so now I look across the vast hills of green forest in summer,
The
steep ravines with flowing waters from spring rains,
The
clear rivers and creeks that flow through my dreams,
Unsullied
sky over hills that is touchable with outstretched arms
Soft
winters of temporary snows and wind that sings,
Autumns
of colors beyond the creativity of mortals,
These
are the Ozark Highlands, this is my home.
--Terry
Jamieson
NATURE’S
LULLABYE
Whisper
rain
Lulls
me softly
On
gentle
Wings
of sleep.
Like
a pillow song
It
keeps me
Tucked
inside
A
summer Saturday.
All
thoughts of doing
Dissolve,
absorbed
By
the unhurried rhythms
Of
liquid motion.
If
stolid oak and hickory
Succumb
to the lure
Of
Her ancient music,
Who
am I to resist?
--Debbie
McGrath
GLENNA
I
remember the first time I saw her
At
the end of a long cold dreary day.
It
was a sight like a ray of sunshine
As
the daylight was slipping away.
We
had wrestled our fears since before daylight
And
few answers the doctor could give,
For
something was wrong in delivery
And
they said that the child might not live.
We
had waited so long for this moment
(Nine
months?) No; Twenty Five Years!
And
the sight of this beautiful baby
Brought
joy and eyes full of tears.
She
didn’t look like a new baby
No
redness or swelling to see
She
had only been born a few minutes
But
she looked two weeks old to me.
The
years since her birth have sped swiftly
It
seems just the bat of an eye.
Tonight
she has gone to the prom
And
once more I’m alone and I cry.
Her
mother’s not been her to help her
With
the dress that she made for today
But
somehow I think she goes with her
To
guide her and show her the way.
No
way can I tell all my feelings
As
I sit here along on this night.
There
is a pride in this special young lady
Who
now is the core of my life
But
I worry; Much like a mother
And
it hurts like the stab of a knife,
So
pray that we think of each other
And
don’t end in continual strife.
God
gave her more talent than many
Whatever
she wants she can do.
But
responsibility goes along with it
And
I hope she realizes it’s true.
Like
all girls her looks will not please her
But
to me she brings nothing but pride,
And
the same would be said by her mother
If
she was still here by my side.
Might
she always know how we love her
Though
sometimes it may fail to be said.
She’s
all that I have of her mother
Who’s
left us and gone on ahead.
I
can’t take the place of her mother
No
matter how hard I would try
But
each time she wins recognition
No
one could be prouder than I.
Donald
C. Woodcock
May
6, 1995
About the poets:
Debbie
McGrath lives in Rolla with her husband and three cats. She teaches
piano and writes plays as well.
Terry
Jamieson, of Cassville, is a public school administrator, soccer coach
and columnist for the Cassville Democrat, a weekly newspaper in
southwest
Missouri
. Married father of three, he is an avid runner and fly fisherman; his
love for the natural world is found in all his written words.
Donald
C. Woodwoock, of Sullivan, a retired Baptist minister, has a published
book of poems.
Archives:
Ozarks book reviews
Books
shipped worldwide from St. James
Some
Ozarks poetry
Author
shows how family reflects relationship with God
|