A Quiet Walk
In the tall, wet grass with its faint perfume
let us wander you and I,
where the wind is free in the forest leaves
underneath a turquoise sky.
Let us linger there where the dew drop gleems
as an emerald facit jewel.
In a blue-green mist we will share a kiss
by a moss encircled pool.
In the tall, wet grass with its faint perfume
let us wander you and I,
where the wind is free in the forest leaves
underneath a turquoise sky.
�2006, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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The Antique Store
I'd only meant to spend an hour
just browsing nothing more,
the way I'd done so many times
in some small antique store.
There's something in my soul I guess
that seems to lead me on,
for ev'ry time I travel seems
that's where I've always gone.
The owner met me at the door,
"Come in and look around.
If I can help you call on me
'bout anything you've found."
I nodded as I'd always done
though in my mind I thought
I've only come to nose a bit
I seldom ever bought.
But there upon an aged stand
a rosewood box I swear,
and underneath a latch-hooked lid
a sight beyond compare.
For there in eight compartments snug
beneath a mirrored lid
were marbles in the hundreds like
the ones we had as kids.
There were steelies, swirls and shooters,
cat's eyes of ev'ry hue
some aggies, peewees, cola brands
from ev'ry drink I knew.
I ran my fingers through them all
like precious jewels to see
And then I saw the owner's face
a-lookin' straight at me..
He sort of winked and came around
my face was turnin' red,
"Don't let it bother you one bit:
I've done the same," he said.
It's funny how a little thing
albeit just a toy,
can touch a chord within the man
and find again the boy.
We spoke of early schoolboy days
of circles on the ground,
of marbles and a simpler times
no longer to be found.
At last I heard an old clock chime.
I'd stayed til time to close.
but as I started I came back,
"I'll take a bag of those."
It's funny how a little thing
albeit just a toy,
can touch a chord within the man
and find again the boy.
�2005, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Vincent
Laughter filled the starry night,
A distant, muted sound,
Celestial movement all about
The heavens o'er the town.
The artist drew his colors forth
From pallet-shaded hues,
His brush to empty canvas, so,
With joy of life infused.
Lord, take my hand and guide it now
While round the heavens swirl,
Let this become a hallowed gift
To set before the world.
Let those who doubt have surety
The Host of Heaven shines,
Let wonders of this starry night
Blaze through this work of mine.
Laughter faded from the night,
The stars now faintly shone,
But on his canvas heaven blazed,
Though Vincent,too, was gone.
�2005, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Sonnet To Age
The falling snow of early eve
Collects in drifts of winter white;
Outside, the world is lost to me
Within a candle's ebbing light.
The thoughts of distant mem'ries pass
As through a dimly lighted hall;
Each face illumed for me at last
Is diff'rent now than I recall.
The longest night of winter's nigh
To close the soon departing year;
And leaves for now the last goodbye
To pen by aged sonneteer.
The boon of age is often not
In mem'ries, but in what's forgot.
�2005, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Sonnet To Creativity
How rare that we should hear an unsaid thought
When silence holds the winding cloth of night
Or that we see a thing where there is naught
But that which lives within the mind's own light.
How strange the taste upon the arid tongue
When neither drop nor hint of liquid pass
Or that we feel the touch of old or young
Though neither hand nor soul's within our grasp.
How real the sense of what has yet to be
When prophets sleep and fail to render truth
Or that we know the course and where it leads
Bereft of learned age or callow youth.
Most wondrous of gifts to man was given
That the light survive and dark be shriven.
�2005, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Meet At The Gate
"We'll meet at the gate before supper."
That was the young couple's plan,
but that was the last time he saw her
though he would return there again.
We'd see him each evenin' 'fore supper
walk to the gate as he did.
He was still young, I remember,
while I was a freckled-face kid.
The years found the cowboy a-grayin'.
I grew to be a young man.
Still ever' evenin' 'fore supper
he'd walk to that old gate, again.
Then one day, the cowboy, an old man,
stood at the gate by the road.
A buggy was headin' up slowly.
Could this be the girl he had knowed?
Her hair was the gray of an elder.
"Lord, Tom, is that really you?"
"I told you I'd wait for you, darlin',"
the old man said, teary-eyed too.
"We'll meet at the gate before supper."
That was the young couple's plan.
And now, after fifty long summers,
Two sweethearts united again.
�2005, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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In Memory Of Dad
Eighty-two years in forty-three minutes
the length of the sermon that day.
Though deep in my heart it seemed a bit short
as we carried my dad to his grave.
While the words of the pastor were thoughtful,
the service was all it could be,
the love and the tears of eighty-two years
takes more than a mere forty-three.
A verse from the Bible, his favorite,
a hymn of The Old Rugged Cross,
the Twenty-Third Psalm, a mem'ry of mom,
served only to deepen the loss.
Some stories from friends who remembered,
a moment we'd almost forgot,
testament true of the cowboy we knew,
but still that weren't sayin' a lot.
Over twenty-one years he had lived then,
'fore I became part of his life.
Two tow-headed sons and me the first one,
by the woman he took as his wife.
With the mention of those who survived him,
the service now drew to an end.
A brief silent prayer for those of us there,
then the unison sound of, "Amen".
Eighty-two years in forty-three minutes
the length of the sermon that day.
Though deep in my heart it seemed a bit short
as we carried my dad to his grave.
While the words of the pastor were thoughtful,
the service was all it could be,
the love and the tears of eighty-two years
takes more than a mere forty-three.
�2003, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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When The Poem Has Left The Pen
Rain is falling past my window,
Constant drum of measured fall,
In my mind, a pattern forming,
From reflections on my wall.
Within, a muted question,
An answer, somewhere, lies,
Do I paint what is before me,
Or the image etched inside.
Subtle sounds of distant music,
Drifting from another room,
In my ear, a gentle murmur,
In my heart, another tune.
Cool and warm, the rain is falling,
Deftly touching on my skin,
Is there ever any closure,
When the poem has left the pen?
�2001, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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The Reunion
They were strangers
and they knew it,
faces without names,
bodies bent by living
hiding silent lives of pain.
They were mem'ries
long forgotten,
visions brought to mind,
voyagers without leaving
being now and then in time.
They were dreams with
shadowed meanings,
joys and hidden shame,
tales long lost and distant
stirring hopes and fears again.
They were hands that
time had measured,
eyes I thought as blind,
lives once seen as diff'rent
giving truth at last to mine.
�2000, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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