Sword

On the wall it hangs,
silently.
In scabbard encased.
Secure.

Secrets

What secrets might it conceal?
Courage, heroism
earned on battle's field?
Challenge?
In conflict no quarter.
Honor?
Was it never drawn with biased intent?

Silence.
Is that subtle clue to all?
Disturb not sleeping essence,
for to disrupt its peace.

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poem by Kurt Hearth
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Freedom

For freedom you and I enjoy.
At the cost of blood and tears.
Of those warriors all.
Who stand in harm’s way.

What compensation
must be petitioned?
To satisfy the toll
of those who gave so much.

To some merely a word.
A word tossed loosely around.
To use and abuse
over and over for personal gain.

What would our country be
without it’s freedom?
How much torment
would we suffer?

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poem by Kurt Hearth
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Old age, when?

At what designated point,
does society consider a citizen old?
Is one chronological period designated?
Positive productivity ceases contributing?

What then shall be done with this issue?
Should an elder's creative contributions,
conclude not, but continue beyond established point?
Is it therefore acceptable, to re-examine protocol?

Is the gift of Wisdom, as well?
One's acquired ability,
to accept facts and standards.
Conclude and present, before all, no matter when?
23Nov10

poem by Kurt Hearth
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Spirits

When their days at sea are done
they challenge the waves no more.
When the horizon no longer beckons
the deep finally loses its lure.

What is to be of the free sailor?
Does his spirit ever surrender
the call of the bounding main?
Forsake long life as a wanderer?

The sailin' man it seems
never to be secured.
If one should closely watch
the seafarer's spirit will be found.

In tern albatross and gull
soaring o'er wave and swell.
Smiling dolphin wandering whale
there all sailor's spirits dwell.

poem by Kurt Hearth
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Campfire Smoke

Watch it climb curling.
Seeking its way
from crackling flame.
Up through forest tree.

Soundless drifting.
Aloft to a star filled
moonless night canopy.
Campfire smoke.

Gaze with the mind
into that scented magical haze
Do legends or shadows
dwell within for one to find?

What wonders
would shaman sorcerer soothsayer see?
Visions brought forth
from deep in the past?

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poem by Kurt Hearth
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Test Run

Equipment experimental
new and untried.
Will successful performance
be user satisfied?

Many trials and failures
at what should be well known.
Sometimes with an audience
others alone.

Still somewhat unsure.
Is this time right for the test?
Confidence there
a bit shaky at best.

With a mighty heave!
The machinery is put in motion.
Each independent move
brings a flood of emotion.

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poem by Kurt Hearth
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His Shadow

When I was young
the shadow he cast was long.
When I was afraid.
In his shadow I could be brave.

Walking together
watching his shadow by mine.
I yearned for the time
like his my shadow would be long.

As the fledgling finally
flies alone from the nest.
To step away from his shadow
my time came.

One day long after
my child at my side.
Two shadows I saw.
One long joined one small.

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poem by Kurt Hearth
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Membership's Fee

Though it has been touted.
The portal's never closed,
all who seek to pass.
Welcome.
Take heed, Freedom's membership
bears expense.
Should one petition entry,
cost required steep.

See ever so silent meads
of crosses white, standing.
In rank and file bearing tribute.
To those souls who verified,
this land.
Sorely craved by despots many,
shall never fall.

To pledge allegiance
sacrifice one must bear
simple.

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poem by Kurt Hearth
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A Rainy Day

Slipping through the open sash.
Cool wet freshness
draws me from the depth
of my slumber's darkness.

The gentle cadence
of falling rain.
Its soft pelt splashing
upon the window pane.

Coursing down
the glass transparency.
Rivulets of wetness
distort the world outside I see

A canopy of leaves
keeps dry a nest
of fledgling birds.
While they rest.

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poem by Kurt Hearth
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Hourglass Sand

Through the hourglass
watching
grains of sand falling.
I see time slipping by.

To myself I wonder.
Do we pass with such ease
through the hourglass of life?
Like tiny grains of sand cascading?

When that sand has gone.
Does that mean time has stopped
until I turn the glass over?
And the sand again begins to fall.

Through our hourglass
as we pass like grains of sand.
How many frowns can we turn to smiles?
How much good can we make from bad?

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poem by Kurt Hearth
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