I Wear His Lei

(To My Father)

I hear him saying,

"My child, through praying

     The waters of the sea of doubt

     Will part to let you safely through;

     Your soul will hear the silent shout

Of April crying,

'There is no dying,

     For death is but life's messenger.'

     I weave this lei of hope for you

     To ever wear." Though tears may blur

My eyes, his weaving

Illumes my grieving.

In Tribute

(To Rexford and Marjorie Sharp)

I gazed long at your portrait in the "Bard,"

And carillons of spirit-music rang.

From some far Temple came an organ-chord

Of peace. Serene and beautiful, you sang

A silent lyric healing to my soul,

Bidding me see, beyond the mortal whys,

A new horizon, ultimate truth its goal,

And view the glory of the Distant Rise,

Yet know: that now is of eternity;

Together we live here in the real realm

Whose portals open to the mystery

Revealing God is ever at the helm.

Together you illume the shadowed trail--

Within your eyes, the light that does not fail.

I Am Returned

(To May C. Jensen)

So long death lingered that I never knew
That spring would come for me and flower-strew
My way. Yet now I watch young summer pass
Writing your name in jewels on the grass
And weaving leis of roses that declare
Your gift of life to me. On dawn's still air
A robin chimes your praise. At dusk a breeze
Whispers your name in love through willow trees.
The little river sings for you a lay
In silver lyrics, dancing on its way.
Again, as I caress a lily's face,
You lead me to the Gardener's healing grace--
So long death lingered ... yet because of you
I am returned ... my skies cerulean blue.

Laurel Crown

(In Memoriam to Virginia Cummins)

I saw the trenchant beauty of her soul

When first she bade me enter her retreat,

Gave of her manna that I might be whole.

Compassion's sandals were upon her feet,

About her form, the robe of love; her scarf

Of shining moon-glow faith--Now she has rowed

Across the Singing River; at the wharf

Of sunrise, views the fields of earth she sowed

With lilies, burgeoning, bursting into bloom.

She steps from her bright craft of song to weave

A pattern for the angels on the loom

Of Heaven as she sings. So do not grieve

But hear her lyrics, for she is not dead!

She lives! The laurel crown upon her head.

Portrait of Dr. Flozari Rockwood

(Founder of Modern Bards)

The beauty of her face and form is only

The chrysalis that cloaks her gracious soul.

Compassion bids her give the weak and lonely

The manna of her love to make them whole.

Though she has walked through corridors of sorrow

And felt the cruel javelins of pain,

Always the promise of a glad tomorrow

Has fringed her clouds with silver, dropped blue rain.

The years have yielded richly from their coffers

The jewels of truth and wisdom that impart

Their deep fire-opaled luster; now time proffers

Its greatest wealth, an understanding heart.

Within its shrine faith's candle ever glows,

And One abides whose timeless love she knows.

Yours Was the Saving Hand

(To May C. Jensen)

No star illumined. I was drugged with fear,

And stood by the perilous chasm of despair.

Yours was the hand that reached to draw me back.

Yours was the patient voice that, like a prayer,

Intoned my soul to peace. You wove for me

A shining lei of faith, then gently led

Me from the darkened valley, step by step,

Into the light of hope. Each word you said,

Each blessed, healing word became a star--

The music of your voice still calls afar.

To Challenge the Years

(To Pioneers of Fort Franklin, Idaho's First Settlement)

Hark to the song the Bear River is singing
Slow-winding through farms with their rich fruited loam,
Through villages, cities, its echoes clear-ringing
Retelling how pioneers founded a home.

Hark to the rhythm of wagon wheels rolling!
Mothers are queens, their gowns calico ...
Startled are prairies: A church bell is tolling ...
Wagon-box homes birth our loved Idaho ...

Primal land conquered: Sowing and reaping--
Hours are numbered by blessings, not woes--
Man bent to purpose: The desert is leaping--
Cooling canals--its triumph the rose!

Listen! In stillness the moon-threaded river
Sings in its saga how pioneer-tears
Bright-pearled the valley ... "God is the Giver!"
The message it lyrics to challenge the years.

Nancy Hanks Lincoln

"Stay close to God, my son." She held his hand

And searched his craggy face so young yet wise.

She prayed that when she reached the Promised Land

Her spirit would be with him, light his eyes

With star-filled inspiration, for she knew

The unawakened strength within his soul.

"Stay close to God ..." This golden thread spun through

Life's somber weave illuminates the whole--

"Be strong, my Abe! Stand tall! Be not content

Nor tolerate the grief you should erase."

In Heaven she beheld him, reverent

And humble in a grateful world's embrace.

How short her day with him--and fringed by tears--

But oh, how long her shadow through the years!

Poet-Teacher

(To Snow Longley Housh)

While piloting her silver yacht of song
To reach, at last, a quiet blue lagoon,
She bids the weary desert-hearts be strong

To find the cool oasis, flower-strewn.
The sails of sunset now serenely hold
The beauty she but glimpsed at dawn or noon.

Her singing spirit never will grow old.
Refreshed at wisdom's fount, she gives to youth
The wine of inspiration, and the gold

Minted from love and tempered fine with ruth.
A star, her compass guiding to her goal,
Her heart a chalice lifted high for truth,

Her light of faith becomes an aureole
Revealing God's own imprint on her soul.

In a Gentle Mood

(To Thomas Jefferson)

Let others tell of how with star-tipped pen
He formed the structure for our liberty,
Then toiled to build with wise, far-visioned men,
The architecture for democracy.
But let me sing his love for solitude;
How music moved him when wild grasses stirred.
I would portray him in a gentle mood--
Love crowned his home and spoke the silver word.
The poetry of hills, smooth plains of blue,
The miracle of birth ... in dreams were spun.
How tenderly he led his "Patty" through
The "shadowed valley" back into the sun.
Then came the journey he returned alone ...
But knew love's triumph over death and stone.

Yours Was the Saving Hand

(To May C. Jensen)

No star illumined. I was drugged with fear,
And stood by the perilous chasm of despair.
Yours was the hand that reached to draw me back.
Yours was the patient voice that, like a prayer,
Intoned my soul to peace. You wove for me
A shining lei of faith, then gently led
Me from the darkened valley, step by step,
Into the light of hope. Each word you said,
Each blessed, healing word became a star--
The music of your voice still calls afar.

Beauty-Tryst

(To Mildred Nye Dewey)

You opened wide the door of song
And bade me know the throng
Who taught my heart
The art.
My fears
Dissolved in tears
Of pearl and amethyst--
Each day became a beauty-tryst.

Twilight Symphony

(To Margaret Ball Dickson)

She guides a tranquil Pegasus and mounts
The crest of laureate hills, and humbly counts
The hours by friends who hear within her song:
The eagle's dauntless challenge, clear and strong;
The lark's rinsed lyric through cool April air;
The timid phoebe's lullaby of prayer;
The benediction of a killdeer-chime
Tuning the heart to peace at vesper time.
With mellowed overtones, serene and free,
How beautiful her twilight symphony!

In Memoriam to Eugene Field

Sonnet I

Speak softly here where he was laid to rest.
Step lightly where the feet of angels trod
Who bore his spirit Home to meet his God
Who welcomed him, not as a transient guest,
But as a son returning from a quest--
His task completed, where the mundane sod
Was brighter for his flowers of wit; the prod
Of toil a challenge mounting laughter's crest.

His door to childhood, ever left ajar,
Death opened wide; bade all to enter there--
Boy Blue, the angel children, joyously,
Were waiting at the gates lit by a star.
Speak softly! Singing comes--on jasmined-air--
Sweet as the truth of immortality.

Sonnet II

Can Heaven be more beautiful than this,
His shrine framed by a garden; the embrace
Of silent peace here in the hallowed place
Where loved ones gently laid the chrysalis
His spirit wore? Across the still abyss
Of death, star-spanned, borne by the tender grace
Of angels, he returned to God, his face
Bearing the record of his earthly bliss.

I think that Heaven's little children came
And climbed upon his knee: his own Boy Blue
And all the rest who romped on Heavenly loam.
Within the Book of Life, he saw his name
Recorded. Then as childish laughter grew,
He felt a deep content and was at home.

In Memoriam

(To Clarence Sharp)

He sang
Like a glad thrush
Sending its wild, sweet notes
Upward when there was none but God
To hear.

The Returned

(Dedicated to Healers of the Mind)

How new to her the sun-up ray--
I heard her softly speak His name.
Along the hyacinthine way
Of morning-wonderment she came.

Her eyes, when they were turned on me,
Were April violets, first-seen;
Her voice a pristine psalmody
That curved through blossom-fronded green.

"A miracle!" she cried--her eye
Swift-following a bluebird's flight
Until it blended with the sky--
"This rising day, renascent-bright!"

Her arms up-spread, she sang, "I know
The triumph over death and stone!
I breathe the breath these gardens blow,
Their living song, my own!"

Again she spoke His name ... I knew
To her returned from mind-dark tomb,
The sky was resurrection-blue
Above the white of lily-bloom.

She Is My Friend

(To Georgia Perry)

She is my friend: The music of the words
Has power to release the silver birds
Of song within my throat. My thoughts kneel down
Before the poetry of One whose crown
Of peace she wears. My risen dreams annul
The pirate years. Again the miracle
Within my heart ... And my grief's barren sod
Blossoms with beauty of the grace of God.

She is my friend, for when I walk with her
She leads me to the Healing Gardener:
Gone are pain's tethers ... I hear April pass
Singing His love in rain upon the grass.
She knows my need for April nor forgets
To weave a lei of her word-violets.
My friend who, when December snows are falling,
With new green words brings me a robin calling!

Lincoln

Like one lone pine against the blast, he stood
Fighting for oneness, one humanity;
Seeing the vision of a brotherhood
Where men as brothers know love's alchemy.
Against discordant patterns of his time
His giant soul rebelled. Through every squall
He steered the ship of State. The gyves of crime
Wounded and scarred his heart. He heard the call
Of brother-man within the chrysalis
Of ebony, and dared to strike the blow
That broke the slavery-chains, bridged the abyss
Of race, and birthed a nation-soul whose glow,
Enhanced by time, lends hope to other lands.
Majestic as the pine this giant stands.

Portrait of Lincoln's Second Mother

(Sarah Johnson Lincoln)

December Planting

Tall and strong she was, her gray-blue eyes
Held steadiness and kindness, firmness too.
Before Tom Lincoln's cabin in surprise
She noted how the wind could whistle through
The chinks between the logs, and saw no door
To close against December--just a hole
Wide gaping; moist foot-printed earth, the floor.                                
Why had she come? As panic touched her soul,
She turned and saw young Abe: A wordless pleading
Was in her face. His eyes, deep-set and gray,
Hungry for mothering sought hers. Love-heeding,
She sensed Divinity had marked her way.
Holding him close, there on the frozen sod,
She knew her task: to keep him close to God.

April Promise

Abe lay in silvered quietude, the moon
Of promise shining through the attic door;                                        
For love and willing work had wonder-strewn
His world. Light footsteps on the new pine floor
Below intoned the stillness. Reverent
He touched the softness of his feathered tick--
"Not corm husks, Ma", he whispered. "You should see                              
Our cabin now, all whitewashed, with a thick,                                    
Smooth door from our own pines ... But best of all                                
She loves us, Ma, and keeps us near to you.                                      
She says some day when I am strong and tall                                      
God has a work for me--Can this be true?"
Asleep when Sarah came and smoothed his head,
He dreamed of angels by his prayer-sweet bed.

Golden Harvest

Sarah was regal still, and Abe full grown
Stood towering above her. Awed, in pride,
She viewed the harvest from her seeds, love-sown:
A man of God! When Thomas Lincoln died
And Abe, his arms about her, gently said,
"Ma I'll take care of you," in his embrace
Again she felt his greatness; once more read                                      
The prophecy within his craggy face.
Fulfillment came: The Nation's President!
Her Abe! Once more as long ago--in tears--
His eyes sought hers and found, with wonderment,
The mother love that had enriched his years.
Through her had God prepared him? Need she ask?
Enough to know she had fulfilled her task.

Lincoln

He gave our nation of his giant strength.
When it was weak and could not stand alone,
He held its groping tottering form. At length
Triumphant, it emerged from war's dark zone,
Fulfilled the vision that this prophet saw
Upon his knees, his weary massive head
Bowed low. The ice of fearful hearts would thaw
Before the sunshine of his love. Though dead
He walks the earth to temper every hour,
For death but gave him every nation's lands
In which to dwell with tender, deathless power.
The work of this loved commoner withstands
Erosion of ill winds. He has his place
Within the universal heart's embrace.

The Improvement Era
First in MFCP Clinic Poems, Spring Retreat 1951