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March Winds Near Spring

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***** Wedding Winds Blow

Wedding bells barely heard were ringing
while March winds were grandly swinging
cloudy threats across the lowland plains.
Could they get to the church before the rain?

Wedding guests in pairs were mightily struggling,
headed to the church doors while snuggling
against March winds’ threatening flows.
Would they remain upright, or fall down low?

In they blew ahead of the brewing
of the winds of March’s stewing,
and all in one crowded position.
Were they neat enough for admission?

With much ado they unsteadily went, shaking
away the March winds’ loud awakening,
noisily seeking their assigned pews.
Would they cease their fretting, catlike mews?

Then many families, fretfully people-arranging
after March winds’ sulky misbehaving,
were fraught with sitting in single rows.
Would they all need identifying bows?

In the basement’s little chamber below, glowing
parties of the wedding soon began showing
stress from March winds bent on giving them tests.
Would the crowd above stop being argumentative pests?

Out of the raining storm, came the bride careening,
certainly wishing and wanting to stop her leaning,
and finally beating off the March winds’ tearing.
Would the bride and groom ever reach their pairing?

Late-appearing and smeared, the bride’s arriving
in the March winds’ pounding and stiff driving,
raining affair, caused a horrible, silly fuss.
Would the groom’s stress add to his bride’s muss?

Rows and pews decided, those needing straying
from seats for bathroom breaks were praying
for less of the March winds’ blustery bellow.
Could each person rest and become mellow?

Front-side organs spewed the bride’s walking
song, bringing the crowd’s end to talking.
Outside March winds still shouted and raged.
Could the weather for awhile be caged?

This union in noise and storm blazing
was apparently doomed to more razing
and damage from March winds yet untamed.
Who among them could establish blame?

Nothing could stop the cold relentless raving
of March winds’ increased, crazy waving.
The crowd cowered under great booming thunder.
Would lightning, too, tear them all asunder?

Church windows rattled in terrifying fashion, shaking
and drawing admirable ooohs, aaaahs, and quaking
from those fervently awed by March winds as their foe.
Would the bride, after all, answer a beleaguered “no”?

Minister Lane rose his arms wide, flailingly
called on High for His reason, but failing
to receive an adequate Godly reply,
shouted, “Must we pick a day to reapply?”

A windless sensation filled the quieted room;
then came a Voice from on High; it boomed,
“If you all trusted me fully, you’d not hide,
but take this ceremony to hold outside!”

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Credit:
Photo and Poem from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg

 

Words for Fun Play or Pay

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***** A Post Per Day or Ten?

Getting our ducks in a row
absolutely, always will show
that we’re after perfection.

At this site, a post per day
is always a sensationally good way
to strike a positive, productive cord.

Is ten posts per every day
the very best successful way
to build an Internet stock of words?

To have the brightest success
without creating a messy mess,
a writer must be able to stay.

To speed a writer’s happy day
to a fabulous, worthwhile pay,
must ten posts happen regularly?

I’m short the goal of ten, I’d say,
every day of each week I play
on WordPress with my keyboard.

If I were to succeed without pay,
play through each day and stay
at this site, a writing rainbow I’d see.

For without those awesome connects,
and considering comments that affect,
still I’d be short that silly ten per day.

I’m happy to follow, comment, and say
WordPress is the only satisfactory way
on the Internet which to daily write.

With my ducks in a row in my own way,
I’m still going to be short a bit of pay;
short that ten posts per day by a million.

Is ten posts per day the only way to
bring in the traffic, and the best woo
we have to ring up the very big pay?

If so, my ducks won’t align, but be small
compared to the strict wording law,
and $100 a day I’ll be short by a zillion!

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Credit:
Poem and Photo from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg

 

Poem for…

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***** Scrabbled Short Stories

What is this Scrabbled Short Story defined?
It’s a story on a game board aligned.

A story is many times very short,
a sharp, shouting, battling retort.

Very short sometimes is equally soft,
lowered calmly from its mighty loft.

A story can be of few words, maybe six,
as LionAroundWriting says; he’s slick.

A story can be a long sentence, or two;
although, still, it can subdue, or rattle you.

Short stories may be little in letter
and, yet, none anywhere are better.

It’s true, we know, less can be more,
even when reason closes that door.

Scrabbled Short Stories on a game board,
easy words, even hard ones, come in hordes.

We love to raise the story curtain,
and short stories lure us, for certain!

Short is good, reasonable, and lazy
when our attention, at best, is hazy.

Longer stories within us grind; we
can’t listen long — naught! — and be

willing listeners; we know important time
is limited to small, easy, little rhymes.

In the truth’s mirror, impatience, we see;
not a fitting way ever a reader to be;

still, we’ll go short on storyline everytime,
and saving explanations, too, is very fine.

From those scrabbled words on the board,
can you bring a short story sensibly forward?

(Go to
http://www.fansandgamers.wordpress.com
for Scrabbled Short Story fun!)

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Credit:
Poem, Scrabbled Short Story, and Photo from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg

Demise Of A Riverbank Tree

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***** Ode to A Riverbank Tree *****

Once I stood tall and strong,
mighty among the riverbank throng.

I ruled like a King,
bloomed lushly each Spring.

Came days of many Summer winds;
my trunk ached in stormy dins.

Aged branches spit and cracked
with the wind’s heavy whacks.

Low I bent, blue, abashed,
ready to break at each crack.

But through the windy days I’d last,
now certain I’d survive any blast.

Alas, the winds of Fall brought more tests,
beating torturously upon my breast.

Huge gusts were too much to bear;
twisted and broken, I gasped, “Not fair!”

No longer mighty, split as by
the woodman’s axe, I stood less high.

As Winter’s ice and cold came in,
I cried and mourned each loss of limb.

Spring again and the final act of fate:
my last upper sprout now a bare, twisted mate.

Roots spiritedly anchor me to riverbank’s tress,
but it’s true: by Mother Nature, I’m much less.

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Credit:
Poem and Photo from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg

She and Me

***** She and Me

 

Humans love their dogs, it’s
true; mine was a caring child,
and I a Newfoundland mild.

In early months, I eagerly ran,
but her frailty halted play
in an overly vigorous way.

She was fanciful and sat alone,
plain, weak, but never dull.
At my side was she, just to mull.

I was larger and black, and
loved to run, fetch, and catch
even when she would shut the latch.

Left to run from the yard, where to?
She likely would fairly stew
if I chose to pass through.

Besides, where would I go?

Lying still, she seemed to contemplate
for hours; as I grew, I knew her ways
of hide and seek from very bad days.

A walk to her was reason to think
and pray. I would willingly go,
then we’d come back so very slow.

The sweetest personality, a smile,
She’d call, “Here, girl”, as my friend.
Every day I hoped we’d never end.

But I knew a twilight ever called;
that life was weak and small, and love
would wane through a whisper from above.

Something evil was amiss for her,
it seemed; let me not be afraid
before that time to come, I prayed.

Because where would I go?

So many nights now are very long;
she shivers and shudders an eye
while I ask myself faintly, “Why?”

When first we’d met, I admit
I roamed a dirty, sheltered cage
while she was free and thrice my age.

Soon it was clear as sun is to
the growing rose; after we’d met,
Newfie black, girlie white, we were set.

Days we’d walk and talk and play;
never in doubt with her low giggle
as I would do a shake and a wiggle.

I’d thought that first day to give her a whirl;
to be her Newfie in a lifetime borrowed!
Now I only hope she’ll wake upon the morrow.

Because where would I go?

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Credit:
Poem and Photo from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg

Episodes

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***** Oiled Pelicans

Man’s eternal pursuit of the mighty buck
in the stark midnight of oil’s imparted hour
has caused all of Nature to drown in muck.
An exploded rig departed from its bower.

Man’s fretful dilemma comes to mind
as the birds sway heavily to and fro,
and the upright animals only find
their friends of Nature cannot grow.

Pelicans in dangerous, dreadful woe
can find no single heroic master
of calamity, no champion, or foe
to change this, their multiple disaster.

As the Gulf Stream waters do flow,
circulating the Pelican young away,
their parents remain with an oiled glow.
Without wings, or recourse, they must stay.

When, alas, the rallied winds blow,
and the calm seas wildly rage,
will the birds, the Pelicans, go?
Will the young ones come of age?

Crabs, turtles, creatures who crawl
will long be doomed to fall,
while Man engages in a brawl
to set the blame to law.

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Credit:
Peom and photo from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg

Poetry for Flag Flying Days

There are 20 dates in 2014 on which Americans can officially fly their flags in recognition of their countrymen and the United States of America. January 1 is the first day of each year on which to officially honor the Stars and Stripes.

Three flags fly at Veterans Park at the Bridge in Napoleon, Ohio. They are the State of Ohio (left), Old Glory, (center), and the POW-MIA (right), which gives recognition to Prisoners of War and those Missing In Action.

Three flags fly at Veterans Park at the Bridge in Napoleon, Ohio. They are the State of Ohio (left), Old Glory, (center), and the POW-MIA (right), which gives recognition to Prisoners of War and those Missing In Action.

*****Flying Old Glory

There are birthdays,
Washington’s and Lincoln’s,
which are Presidential;
we fly the flag, our beacon,

for them and all who the
Oval Office have occupied,
raising Old Glory so to
not ever side, or hide.

In February, we celebrate
their birthdays on two days,
February 12th and 17th, but
recognize all, as we may,

and give January 20th to
the junior Martin Luther King
alone; he whom we honor
singularly. He, also, let freedom ring.

In May is VE Day.
On the eighth we
remember those all,
without saying “me”.

Mothers of our hearts
we celebrate on a day
in May, too. We treasure
their quiet, guiding way.

Armed Forces Day, Memorial
Day; those are reflective times
that bring tears and new
fear to old, dwindling minds.

Flags of Our Fathers combine
in June on the 15th and 14
in honored debt we cannot
repay; only do we honor more.

Labor Day, VJ Day, Patriot Day!
Ah, these see Old Glory reign!
And we, free and eager to
remain, celebrate on that train!

The labored freedom train chugs
to Columbus Day, Elections
Day, Veterans Day, and ends
at Thanksgiving Day connections.

Once again, in December, we
remember, solemnly, a day of infamy,
a day surpassed, joyously, with
a new Christmas and Epiphany!

Flag flying days in order of date in 2014 include the following:
January 1 — New Year’s Day
January 20 — Martin Luther King, Jr. Day
February 12 — Lincoln’s birthday
February 17 — Washington’s birthday (observed)
May 8 — VE (Victory in Europe) Day
May 11 — Mother’s Day
May 17 — Armed Forces Day
May 26 — Memorial Day
June 14 — Flag Day
June 15 — Father’s Day
July 4 — Independence Day
September 1 — Labor Day
September 2 — VJ (Victory in Japan) Day
September 11 — Patriot Day
October 13 — Columbus Day
November 4 — Elections Day
November 11 — Veterans’ Day
November 27 — Thanksgiving Day
December 7 — Pearl Harbor Day
December 25 — Christmas Day

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Credit:
Poem and Photos from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg