Whispers of Summer

I have many more poems to share over the next several weeks, but since it is winter here in Michigan, I decided on this one for now. I wrote this while working for the manager of the D.C. Cook Nuclear Plant in Bridgman, Michigan. There was a time when big companies had their own small newspapers or newsletters. At that time they were called House Organs. Wherever I worked I always contributed to the company house organ because deep inside, years and years before I wrote books, I had that need and desire to write, so I started with poems, which is why I have so many of them. This one fits the season.

Whispers of Summer

I walk knee-deep in the snow and gaze at black, naked trees.

And, as the sharp winds they blow, I think of daisies and bees.

I close my eyes and I think of green leaves, grass, and sand,

Of fragrant roses of pink, and peaches freshly canned.

I brush the snow from a bike and see my child riding free,

Sweating and laughing and playing, with glee!

I dig to find dirt ‘neath the snow, But it’s frozen and hard and dead.

Then I think back and I glow with the thought of warm earth instead.

As the gray clouds break apart, I raise my face to the sun;

And with a slightly sad heart, I see days of swimming, cookouts and fun.

How sweet the bird when he sings! How lovely the scent of a flower.

How nice to smell the sweet spring, and to lie in the grass by the hour.

That first snow is exciting and fun, and for Christmas we want it around,

But then we remember the sun, and soft, green grass on the ground.

It’s now, when we’re tired of the snow, that whispers of summer will call.

They nudge us, and taunt us, to show us that summer’s the best time of all.

© Rosanne Bittner 2016

Days Gone By

For some reason I have always been fascinated with the past, or rather, what might have been or could have been … what has been lost through progress … the mystery and memories of those who once lived. The following poem reminded me of how nostalgic I am about the subject, which is probably why I prefer to write historical rather than contemporary stories. This is another poem I wrote a good 45 years ago, and it shows me that even then I was imagining what life was like in days gone by. I think it’s sad that too many people have been forever forgotten.

DAYS GONE BY

I saw an old, old house today.

The wood was worn and weathered gray.

In the gaping windows there was no glass.

It seemed a monument to the past.

I wandered to the barn out back

With its sunken roof, tar-paper black.

The weeds grew to my waist, and bees

Buzzed by to rest on sweet-flowered weeds.

I dared not go into that barn,

But I saw signs of a one-time farm.

An old, rusted plow sat just inside,

With harnesses for horses that long-since died.

All was peaceful and quiet there.

No worry, no hurry, not a care.

Not a thing was heard for miles around.

The birds and the breeze made the only sound.

I wondered who had once lived here,

Perhaps with family they held dear.

I tried to vision things way back then,

Who toiled on this old farm, and when?

Progress never will replace

That special look on an old farmer’s face.

It cannot bring back, with its fast, new pace

A people and heritage so silently erased.

© Rosanne Bittner 2016

I wrote the following poem in 1981, 35 years ago, and in reading it I realized nothing has changed in all those years or even in the last 500 or 1,000 years. Man always seems to find a way to make war, and the primary victims of war are children … children! Those in power seem not to care about them. When our own government made war on our Native Americans, too many children were simply shot down as though they were nothing more important than rabbits. Recently we’ve seen the horrific suffering of children in Syria … unforgivable abuse and annihilation. It blows my mind what some men can do to children without concern. As you can see from this thirty-five year old poem, nothing has changed. The sad part is, it probably never will.

War’s Children

I saw a little boy one day …

His clothes were torn and dirty gray.

His feet were bare and looked so cold.

An old, broken toy his hands did hold.

His many tears had made long streaks

Of salty pathways down his cheeks.

A look of fear shown on his face,

Where laughter should be … there was no trace.

His little body looked hungry and sore.

On neglected wounds, ragged gauze he wore.

He was lost and alone, nowhere to go,

His little face had lost its glow.

He had no family, no next of kin.

They’d all been killed, except for him.

He sat alone, so very confused.

No one had claimed him, hospitals refused.

I wonder if he’s still alone,

That little boy just barely grown.

Somewhere tonight a child will roam,

No food, no clothes, no love, no home.

How many others are there like him?

Small ones who suffer from our sin!

War has its price for everyone …

But not so costly as for the young!

Our Magnificent West!

Following is my next submission of poetry I wrote in my twenties. I don’t remember exactly when I became so fascinated or fell so in love with America’s magnificent mountain ranges and its Western landscape. I truly believe I lived another life, either as an Indian or a pioneer woman. That’s just part of my weird side, and I think you need to be a little weird to be an avid writer who is as much in love with his or her subject as I am.