Rethinking Growing Old

/ rothpoetry / 38 Comments

Barbados Sunset

When I was young some decades ago

Invincible youth, little did I know

Thoughts of growing old very far from my mind

Shifting sands in the hour glass always run blind

Though still it flows and still it shows

Justice is blind like petals on a rose

Sand running toward gravitational forces

Never seeing as the end approaches

*

Perhaps it’s good to not knowing the future

But my time is passing, I ‘m an aging creature

Riding each wave with its ebb and flow

Seeing sand wiped clean as each one goes

*

Some say it’s great living long, growing old

But I am not so sure I would be so bold

Young ones want to live to be a hundred

As quality of life fails, time seems to plunder

*

So, as I lay my aging friend to rest, I pause,

take a deep breath, and rethink what’s best

Painting: Dwight L. Roth

Posting for d’Verse Open Link Night

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Great Again!

/ rothpoetry / 64 Comments

A bit of history a bit of myth

repeated

Instilled in the minds of the faithful

Built on feet of clay

crumbling with time

as Bable rises to reach to the sun

blinded by the glare of delusional voices

as reality flakes softly away

*

Stamp Art: Dwight L. Roth

Posting for De Jackson’s d’Verse prompt using the word Myth in some form.

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Our Water Cistern

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Paul Sanford and Dwight with our goat

The cistern was an important part of our household when I was growing up. The well water we drank was too orange for washing clothes, so we used the rainwater from the house roof.  We loved to play on the cistern, climbing all over it and sitting on top.  The plastered finish did not hold up and flaked off in big chunks. You don’t see them much anymore. Everything is now piped in for drinking and household use. For me it is a very good memory of my childhood.

Rainwater Cistern  

(Childhood Details Collection)

Rising from the earth sitting next to our porch

A concrete bowl capped our cistern

Provided water for our household use

And water to wash clothes in

*

An acned finish flaking with age

Made it easy to climb on when we played

A brick wall inside divided the pool

Semi-filtered seepage let water pass through

From rushing intake to calm output pool

*

Slate roof rainwater fed angled downspout

Transporting water and soot from our coal furnace

Dust from farmer’s fields and smoke from coke ovens

*

Dirt settled to the bottom and re-stirred with every rain

After the downpour it settled back again

Water for washing not for drinking

When dry weather came, we hauled water in

Keeping clothes washed and our bodies clean

*

A great place to play with our little pet goat

Agile as a rock-climber he was no joke

Butting my head with concussion blows

Running wherever his little chain let him go

*

Two lids on top let us look down inside

Dark brackish water with mysteries to hide

Small round hooks embedded in the top

Made it easy to grab when set aside with a plop

*

Cisterns are long a thing of the past

With piped in water that fills every glass

But it’s an interesting invention as old as time

Preserved precious water we used all the time

***

Photos: from Family Album

Plastic Earth

/ rothpoetry / 21 Comments

“Where were you when the earth was plastic?” This is what God asked Job, in answer to Job’s complaint about his woes and sorrow. Obviously, this is more of a paraphrase than a quote. I love to think about the time when the earth was in its formative years. The beauty of geological time is written in the rock layers all around us. I can’t imagine the tremendous forces that lifted and bent these rocks. Once mud on the ocean floor, these rocks are now part of the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. Fossils tell of a very different time. I have broken open rocks and found perfect fossils in them. I have cracked geodes open to find amethyst crystals that grew as lava cooled millions of years ago. So, when you complain about your situations in life, I ask, “Where were you when the earth was plastic?”

Read writing in rocks

Recognize we are but dust

Gives life perspective

Photo: Dwight L. Roth

Fossils found in the Northwestern Mountains of Virginia

From: 2018

Dirt

/ rothpoetry / 56 Comments

Dirt

There’s something about dirt that draws me

The smell of freshly turned earth

Not just one but many tickling my olfactory

Clay and loam hillside and bottom land

All have a unique smell

Better than the smell is my memory

Of running through the freshly disked field

Feeling the fresh dirt under my feet

Squeezing between my toes

Pushing the cultivator to make straight rows

Following my father as he plants tomatoes

With a bucket of water and a soup can

One can for each new plant

Then there’s the smell of the dirt as we dig potatoes

An unexplainable earthy smell just for that moment

Amazing dirt jumpstarts beans and peas

Pushing their roots deep as the green shoots emerge

Corn shoots the size of a split pen point  grow tall

Standing eight feet high with green ears of gold

Some like to substitute sterile potting soil for dirt

Spongy peat wood fiber that holds no water

I much prefer real dirt with clay and rocks and sand

*****

Photo: Ruth A. Roth

Posting for Melissa’s d’Verse Poets Pub prompt, writing without punctuation!

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First published in 2017

“Where Knowledge is Free”

/ rothpoetry / 48 Comments

Dream On…

I dream of a world where Knowledge is free

A place where truth is no longer a blend

Of twisted politics sculpted to influence minds

Shaping their own versions and expectations

*

I dream of a place where knowledge is free

A place where children can learn about life

And grow up in a world where diversity is respected

Not erased, pretending differences don’t exist

*

I dream of a place where knowledge is free

A place where we learn from history instead of repeating it

Where the past is embraced and mistakes acknowledged

Not whitewashed and revised to fit special interests

*

When knowledge is free, truth becomes the great equalizer

Allowing for meaningful change for the common good

Photo: Dwight L. Roth

Posting for Open Link Night at d’Verse. Punam gave us this mini-prompt from a poem by:

Rabindra Nath Thakur/Tagore (7thMay 1861-7th August 1941) was a poet, writer, playwright, philosopher, composer, painter and social reformer. India’s national anthem is written by him.

“Where knowledge is free

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments”

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Toot Toot…

/ rothpoetry / 42 Comments

It is quadrille Monday at d’Verse, and Lisa’s prompt horn took me way back to when I was eleven years old and this song was playing on the radio. I hope you enjoy it. We had lots of fun songs back then, like Ally OOP, The Flyin’ Purple People Eater, The Bloody Red Barron, Big Bad John, and Lil’ Red Riding Hood. You can find them all on You Tube.

When I was a child cars had real horns

Not just weak ones like the ones we have today

Horns let slow pokes know you’re coming

Sailing by like a giant steel tornado

Now it’s just plastic cars with plastic horns that go toot

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Dreamer (e-book)

/ rothpoetry / 34 Comments

I decided to post my children’s book Dreamer, that I wrote back in 2021, on Amazon Kindle. You can find it by clicking on the picture above. the book is illustrated with my paintings I did several years ago. Below is the beginning sample…

Dreamer

Henry followed the big yellow cat down the block, wishing to pick her up and hear her purr.  He continued across the street to the next block. She showed up before on the door step of his old brownstone buildings.

          His mother told him not to wander off, but the cat seemed to want him to follow. Henry’s mother’s words faded away. He would only go a block or two.

          The cat paused in front of a long winding stair case, then scampered up and through a large open door at the top. Henry thought perhaps he could meet the cat’s owner, so he slowly climbed to the top.

          As he peered into the dark opening, Henry heard an old man’s voice, “If you are a dreamer, come in my child.”

          He froze, uncertain whether to go in or run back down the steps.

          Henry only paused a few seconds. When he heard the voice saying, “If you are a dreamer, come in.” he could not resist. He always had a vivid imagination and loved the mystery of what comes next in the books he devoured.

          As Henry stepped from the bright stoop into the dark hallway, it took a minute for his eyes to adjust. “Come in my child, it has been such a long time since I had visitors other than Simmi! As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a stooped old man holding Simmi on his lap. There was nothing fearful about him as Henry anticipated.

          “My name is Purrlin. I can make dreams come true. Do sit down and tell me your dreams.”

Henry moved to the rickety old chair by the table. Should he tell the old man about his dream?

          When Henry hesitated, the old man reached for a box of stick matches and struck one on the side of the box. It burst into flame and Purrlin used it to light a single candle.