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The Dance
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The card lay crumpled and tossed
in the trash.
The stranger picked it up
scanning the dance floor.
He watched the other dancers.
The military blues a sharp contrast
to the festive ball gowns.
Then he saw her.
Head held high.
And the puzzle fell into place.
He handed her
her dance card.
And she looked up
and in that moment
forgave his tardiness.
As he swept her into his arms
and they began to waltz.
It was a dance
they would share for
years to come.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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In Praise of Tea
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It defined an empire.
Caused the birth of a nation.
It's very name speaks of
far off places:
The Himalayas, Ceylon, China.
And what names.
Would you like Black Dragon
or Gunpowder with your Russian Caravan.
Perhaps better yet
Earl Gray with your Irish Breakfast.
Or maybe the more exotic sounding
Darjeeling, Yunan,
Lung Chin, Tung Ting.
But wait, there's more
what of
Mint, Jasmine, or Rose.
Tea
one of the first games of childhood.
As bears, dolls, and imaginary friend
sit for a cup.
It reminds us
of polite conversation.
grace and charm
manners we've all but forgot.
We serve it in polished silver
in whimsical pots
and grandma's best china.
We delight in high tea.
Where protocol dictates style
and visit bed and breakfasts,
where tea is a welcome retreat.
Sweet tea
the drink of the south in summer.
Where iced tea is served on verandahs
beneath circling ceiling fans,
surrounded by potted pots and ferns.
It is the toast
of the new bride
as we shower her with gifts.
It's offered
to the minister's wife
with assorted tea cakes and cookies.
Ah,
and what of tea leaves
a glimpse into the future.
As trees,
horses, butterflies,
take on new meaning.
Yes, tea
it symbolizes
refinement and grace.
And speaks of another unhurried time.
"Coffee or tea"
you ask?
"Me"
"Make mine tea!"
Copyright 2000 Terry Lowenstein
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The Hour Glass Has Shattered
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The hour glass has shattered
and time lies at our feet.
Today, yesterday, tomorrow
now suddenly all meet.
As all those moments
like pictures pass us by;
Of years that all too soon
Too soon, multiply.
Our soul cries out we gasp
and in that last breath;
We are embraced
embraced by Death.
And so carried away.
No more to see
the dawn of day.
Oh, but that one
could stop time.
Alas this power
is not mine.
And so I watch
the shifting sand.
And see death
offer me his hand.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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Tears of the Moon
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From the past comes a story.
A story told by one yet
familiar,
with a civilization
lost long ago.
Their history is not
written.
But, it is recorded,
with their quipus.
It tells us much,
for it tells us how
they used
tears of the moon,
and
the sweat of the sun.
Ah, they were,
advanced.
For from these elements,
they were to craft,
dishes,
goblets,
cups,
and more.
But these show us,
only a part,
of who they were.
Now, what is left
is but a remnant
of, what was.
Mere shadows of
so much.
Cuzco,is but one
small part
of what is gone.
So much was lost.
In 1682
their civilization
was wiped out.
Now we have but
remnants of what was.
Now we can only wonder
at their art,
architecture
and more.
Copyright 2000 Terry Lowenstein
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The First Wave
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It was the year 1835.
The year Death
came to call.
The green hills of their homeland
gave scant evidence
of the blight upon the land.
But when they walked,
over bridges of stone and wood,
past thatched cottages,
and castles with no roofs,
it was to say goodbye.
Thus they left families
and friends,
homes and farms.
all that was dear.
Theirs was an exodus
that began as a trickle
and grew
to an ocean.
They took little with them.
In truth they had little.
And there was hardly room
for baggage.
So they chose carefully
a satchel of clothes.
Pots and pans.
Needle and thread.
Sadly, a tradesman could not
take his tools for his trade.
Except for the watchmaker,
who carried his tools in his pocket.
But they made up for their lack;
in the spirit they took with them.
In their hopes
for the future.
They carried with them
stories,
songs,
memories.
They took the part
of Ireland
that would forever
be in their hearts.
They sailed aboard
the Perservarance
leaving Dublin
bound for America.
The sweet smell of molasses
filled their nostrils
as the future
beckoned them on.
They were the Irish.
And they brought with them
the best of all that
was Ireland.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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Whispers Through the
Grass |
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Long ago travelers came this way,
on roads we now travel in less than a day.
They braved the heat and the cold.
They took their belongings,
Their young and their old.
They crossed over mountains,
and rivers so wide.
they traveled by foot,
When they no longer could ride.
Through meadow, through valley,
Through desert too!
They pushed on to settle,
this land that was new.
despite difficulties,
and other men's schemes,
they carried their hopes,
they pursued their dreams.
Through birth and joy,
sorrow and pain.
They stopped only to rest,
and then set out again.
Their markers are there for all to see,
left behind for eternity.
In forgotten abandoned graves,
visited by the passing tumbleweed.
And ghost towns,
that grew out of greed,
when gold first showed up in a miner's pan.
Now these empty, empty stand.
Except of course for a rattlesnake,
or, the chance traveler there by mistake.
But, what of those who loved the land?
Look, for still their homesteads stand!
Listen to the echoes of their life,
hear the children, husband, wife.
Be quiet and you'll hear the past,
as it whispers through the blades of grass.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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The Fort |
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Come dear reader, with me and
see,
A fort left standing for posterity!
A place, built not just with brick and stone,
But, forged with courage, blood, and bone!
A fort of which proud men did boast!
For courageously, it did guard our coast.
Always ready, day and night.
Soldiers marched prepared to fight.
Cannons stood at ready aim,
the enemy real, the war no game!
And bunks, that now so empty stand,
Held once, those men who did guard our land!
Their voice yet, can be heard at night!
As their ghosts return to continue their fight!
Heeding still reveille's calls,
weary soldiers yet, walk these halls!
Watching the sea, the wind swept sand,
they struggle yet, to defend the land.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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Forgotten Monuments
Of The Past |
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Forgotten monuments of the past
Obscured by woods and grass.
Visited now by morning dew
for all have gone who knew,
that they were buried here
these souls of long ago.
Yet, this was not always so.
Once, family and friends lived near
and visitors came here,
and tears were shed.
For these forgotten dead.
Yes, they were mourned and missed,
by lips they once kissed.
By wives, who then were dressed in black.
And children who, wondered when they'd be back.
Or by mothers, who now with empty arms,
remembered the child whose innocent charms,
had brought such sunshine to their life.
For buried here are children, husband, wife.
Those lives of long ago,
whose names are all we know.
And sometimes event this is lost.
Worn away by wind and frost.
Leaving only markers to remain,
of lives that once knew pain,
knew love, knew joy, knew mirth.
Now their secrets rest beneath the earth.
Beneath this tree, sheltered by its bough.
Perhaps this is a way of telling how,
long ago when this soul was laid,
in what was then an open glade;
a tree was planted to offer shade.
For the grave then newly made.
Its roots were watered by the tears,
shed in mourning through the years.
And caused to grow this hidden glade.
Thus forever giving shade
to this loved one of long ago,
now sleeping beneath the falling snow.
Visited no more by mortal souls,
hidden in these wooded knolls.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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The Barbie Wars |
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The Barbie wars have begun again
its victims are laying end to end.
And Ken, sad to say has lost his head
while Barbie grief stricken lies in bed.
As Skipper looks on in dismay,
as one of the kittens come her way.
Her sigh of relief
becomes one of grief.
As Emerson leaves with a Kelly in his mouth,
while his brother Dickens, who is no sloth
runs quickly down the stair,
holding Tommy by his hair.
And cries of dismay
quickly come my way.
"Mama, look what they've done."
Ah, and yes they are having fun
as they run to snatch another doll
and quickly take off down the hall.
While my youngest in quick pursuit
tries to rescue a small doll boot.
And I laugh when at last I see
their treasure, yes their bounty.
And so I returned them once again.
Barbie now is reunited with her Ken,
who sits now with mended head.
Until, that is from their bed
they are snatched once more,
as kittens enter through the door.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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Sunday Dinner |
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The tablecloth is spread upon
the table
as young hands gather cloth napkins,
and silverware,
while plates and glasses are taken
from the hutch.
Sunday dinner,
it simmers yet in the kitchen.
Fried chicken, crisp and golden.
Summer squash, tender spring peas,
potatoes and carrots,
hot cornbread muffins.
Sliced red tomatoes,
share a plate with crisp cucumbers.
As iced tea is made,
and lemonade is poured into a pitcher.
These are set upon the table,
joined by bowls of mashed potatoes,
buttered summer squash,
tender spring peas,
and carrots,
that are dotted with butter.
The steam rises as heads bow
and prayer is offered for the meal.
Then as the cornbread muffins are passed,
and the glasses filled
with ice tea or lemonade,
kittens watch noses sniffing the air
anticipating the fried chicken
that will find its way from
the youngest's plate,
as she drops pieces to the floor
while her mother passes vegetables, gravy.
Dinner done, the places are cleared
and dessert is brought out.
Apple pie,
homemade apple pie.
Piled high with apples,
the crust sprinkled with sugar,
topped with ice cream.
Greeted with smiles and praise,
It is served up with hot coffee,
and milk.
Then the table is cleared.
As dishes are done
and put away.
The remnants of the meal
saved for lunch.
When cold fried chicken,
will be served
with leftover cornbread muffins,
and salad
a top a red gingham tablecloth
on cobalt blue plates.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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One Wore Gray and Another
Blue |
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The gray storm clouds overhead,
reminded the old soldier of bullets of lead.
And the sound of thunder, brought to mind,
another place, another time.
when battles were fought,
and victories won, and victories sought.
When war waged upon the land.
And gallant men stood their stand.
Once more he gazed at his coat of gray,
And saw again yesterday.
When he first put on his uniform,
and said goodbye to his parents' farm.
His brother donned a coat of blue,
and thus, the war divided the two.
Still, they shook hands at the old farm gate,
As each walked down separate roads to fate.
While their parents looked on, sadly torn in two.
For their was nothing they could do,
to stop their sons from going to fight,
for sides they both thought were right.
And so the years passed by and he returned again,
for finally the war had reached an end.
He hung his jacket on the door,
and learned his brother would return no more.
For sad is the cost of liberty,
and he had given his life for his country.
Now, united once again was the land they knew.
But, separated forever were the two,
for now outside of prison walls he lay,
buried no longer able to see the light of day.
For his countries soil is his final bed,
And, the brother now mourned is among the dead.
So in the south there lays today,
soldiers who will never go away,
perhaps they watch over yet and see,
this land they paid for so dearly.
When long ago, we were divided in two.
When one wore gray and another blue.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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Blueberry Time
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Between the ocean and the mountains
lies the foothills of North Carolina.
It is blueberry harvest time here.
Here, in the foothills.
Here, in the place I call home.
At the grocers,
and the farmers market,
rows upon rows,
of baskets of blueberries,
wait.
They wait for the housewife,
the husband,
the young couple starting out,
the new mother,
and
the young baby;
who has yet to sample
Nature's gift.
The blueberries
wait to be bought,
taken home,
and enjoyed.
They wait to be eaten
as is,
by young children,
in overalls and
summer dresses.
They wait to top
ice cream.
To be baked in a pie.
And in my household,
they wait hidden
in the fridge.
A Wednesday morning
surprise.
As fresh baked
Blueberry muffins,
wait for
my rising children.
They smile blueberry smiles
smiles of appreciation,
as warm muffins
and ice cold milk,
make up the menu
for breakfast this day.
And the other basket?
It is retrieved just after lunch.
As another surprise
is readied.
This time with the help
of my two daughters.
As a Blueberry pie
is made
(in between "samples"
of blueberries)
and then put away
till it can be
brought out after
dinner.
As a surprise,
a surprise
dessert.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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The Guests |
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The welcome mat,
is at the door.
Fresh flowers fill a vase.
A pineapple is on the mantle,
and in the hearth a welcoming fire.
The aroma of freshly
brewing coffee floats
through the air,
as pot roast simmers
and a fresh baked apple pie
cools.
Upstairs in the guest room
crisp freshly laundered
linen is on the bed.
In a basket
fresh towels and
soap await
The dresser nearby
holds a lavish bouquet
picked by small hands
and lovingly arranged.
All is ready for
the guests
who'll come this
day.
There on the highway
the elderly couple
ride through mist,
fog, and rain,
over hills and valleys
The miles and hours past.
Finally a familiar hill
comes into view.
Then the doorbell rings,
and laughter fills the hall.
There are hugs and kisses.
Welcome is in the air.
The family now together
though often miles apart
Recalls old times as
new memories are made.
Time, it slips by
unnoticed,
as the meal is shared,
dishes cleared and washed.
Hours turn to days and then,
good-byes at the door.
The old couple on the road
riding once again
with apple pie,
packed for the journey
and flowers
for the soul.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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Autumn |
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Pumpkins, bright orange still
sit upon the vine.
Flavorful grapes long nurtured by the sun,
Await impatiently the gardener, for it is harvest time.
There is much to do, much work to be done.
Look beside the white picket garden gate,
See the winter squash, carrots, ripened corn.
On orchard trees plump pear and peach await,
A pair of callused hands and dawning morn.
Soon juicy apples, round and rosy red,
That share this scene will disappear from sight.
As the gardener rises from his bed.
And begins to harvest through the night.
Autumn has returned yet once again.
Bringing her harvest to the land of men.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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The Winter Cold |
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Cold cloaked the land
in a heavy coat of frost,
a gray sky blocked
any warmth from the sun.
Trees their branches bare
shake from the freeze.
As the birds nested down
leaving the sky empty.
Empty and cold.
Those who had hearths
piled the wood high.
Chimneys showed
where fires blazed
in an efforts to keep
the cold at bay.
Inside wise wives and mothers
stacked extra comforters
at the foot of their
loved ones' beds.
counseling all
to wear a hat,
scarf and gloves.
Winter blew outside
with the zeal
of a hurricane.
And spring,
seeing all still within
his grasp,
packed her bags
and left in such haste,
that flower petals
could be seen at her heels.
Her fast departure,
was noticed,
by Jack Frost.
Laughing he held his sides,
and danced upon the lawn.
While, the general populace
and the poor suffered,
and counted
the days till spring.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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Construction Where
Once There'd Been Wood |
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All I could see from where I stood,
Was construction were once there'd been wood.
I turned and looked another way.
More trees no longer standing lay.
And I with my eyes traced the line,
Of the horizon once so fine.
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I started from,
And all I saw from where I stood
Was construction were once there'd been wood.
Sadly, I could also see
Landmarks gone once dear to me.
Now I could not touch them with my hand.
For no longer did the forest stand.
I wished that I was once again small
When trees stood here proud and tall.
But, sure the sky is blue I said,
Such thoughts did little to clear my head.
So here upon my back I'll lie
And weep, mourn, yes cry.
Because I had looked and saw fall
Trees who once had stood so tall.
This construction, must somewhere stop.
Have we not enough stores in which to shop?
We need to realize how dear the land.
Allow the trees to stand.
"Someone must try."
I screamed as I watched another die.
Its sound deafened the air for worlds around.
And brought unmuffled to my ears.
The sorrow of unseen spears.
As the creaking of the tented sky
Ended with tears from on high.
For nature had joined the lament.
And showed her sorrow in raindrops sent.
Copyright 2001 Terry Lowenstein
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Gone to War |
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He looked once again at the uniform
he'd worn
thought of the young child who'd not yet been born.
And when he went to hang the flag outside his door
he thought of long ago, and thought of the war.
How different it had been back when,
they were called those forgotten men.
He thought of his father and his before,
and his own son, when called to war.
How proud he was of all they did.
How, they'd gladly gone when bid.
He remembered yet the battles fought
and knew that all was not for naught.
He was brought back to his present
time
when the doorbell rang and he went to find,
that family now was here for the day
and a small blonde boy waited to play.
He marveled at his young face.
Looked and found more than a trace
of another boy of long ago
one this boy would never know.
He grew up and went off to war.
Left his home, his wife, and family too
left the child and the one that was due.
He never knew when he left that day
that he would never be here to play,
and that another would try to fill the gap
and hold his young children in his lap.
"Grandpa, come and play with me!"
Asked the boy who was all of three,
and so he turned to do just that
walked down the hall with the ball and bat.
And stopped to see and salute once more,
the picture of his son who had gone to war.
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Motherhood
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The months of waiting
are over.
I hold you in my arms.
Your smile is your father's.
It captures my heart,
as his did long ago.
I marvel at your tiny,
hands,
feet,
at you.
My firstborn,
lovingly cradled by,
my womb.
Now, at long last
cradled in my arms.
Others wait to hold you.
Your proud father,
your grandparents,
aunts, uncles,
friends.
Love shines in their eyes.
Presents are in their arms.
They wait ooing and ahing.
I hold you, as time stops.
Lost in the wonder
of you, of your birth.
Nine months,
so long
a wait.
And then finally,
a labor of love,
and you.
Tomorrow, there will be
first words,
first steps,
childhood and more.
Today and now,
there is this moment,
far too precious,
for words.
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