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Earl Shallenberger

To Heather

This was for my little wheel-chair bound step-niece, but it is flawedbecause it became self-serving.
Just look at wheat I've found!
Why, it's even leather-bound,
For my little friend, Heather,
Up on her hill.
The poets and their faces -
The best our English verse embraces;
The Immortals whose voices
Time will never still.
Their thoughts, pure and true,
Endure like granite here for you
In this eternal paper temple
To Man's grace.
They're a democratic lot,
Who make us think - agree or not,
With words Man's greed and power
Cannot erase.
Some praise Almighty God,
Who is denied by this old clod.
YOU hear their truth, reserved,
But for the wise.
Love and pain I understand,
But hate the viciousness of Man;
I hear Nature's plaintive plea
For our demise.
Some write of tragedy and war,
Or other woes we may deplore;
Some are too lofty for our minds
To comprehend.
But some poignantly reminisce -
Recall a rose . . . a tendr kiss,
Or immortalize their childhoods
Way back then.
I'll ask you to ignore
those with themes in praise of war;
And too, the mournful thoughts
Of gentle boys who fell.
But enjoy the smiles and thrill!
Aunt Mary's jam and daffodils;
Blithe rhymes which interweave
To cast their spells.
When you're all alone at home,
Shout LOUDLY through each poem -
Bounce Bobby Burns' Scottish accent
Off your wall.
But for each despondent mood,
I bequeath you Ella's Soliture.
She whispers wisdom for us all
Til shadows fall.
If I could lemulate Abou -
If Kipling's If for me were true'
If I could live in Foss' house
Beside the road.
If MY words could grace these pages -
One gem of wisdom for the Ages,
I'd find a purpose for this
Godless path I've strode.
Though sin and folly strew my lane,
I cherish Emily's Not in Vain
It's a lonely grain of wheat
In my world of chaff.
We'll not meet in your Hereafter
Think of me kindly, and with laughter
And may, He Was My Friend
Be my earthly epitaph.
(Enjoy this little book in leather -
and remember me, Dear Heather!