Country Doctor

When duty called

Me from my home, my work, where tranquil skies

And smiling hills gave benediction-peace,

I wore rebellion's mantle on my soul.

Why should I thus uproot my feet from loam

That knew my easy tread, and go afar

To heed the cries of those already doomed?

How I am here

Where I, myself, behold the face of War

And feel his cruel arms, and breathe the air

Made foul by his hot breath; here, where I lead

Your sons through strange dark corridors of pain,

And prune their shattered limbs, and ease their shock.

While some but mutter curses, others weep

Like homesick children that they are. Last night

A lad so like my own was brought to me--

So young and fair and suffering, that I prayed

That God would grant me healing. Then I knew

He would not live the night. I saw his soul

Naked and bleeding: in its primal need

Craving the chrism of a mother's kiss.

A hardened country doctor! Yet the tears 

Rivered my calloused cheeks. I held him close.

As his eyes dimmed, I kissed his ashen brow.

He murmured, "Mom", and passed death's portals

To find, at last, the Holy Grail of Peace.

Now as I stand

In this vast auditorium of death,

War's grim face softened by the lamps of night,

I cast aside the mantle I have worn,

And place about my new-awakened soul

The robe of thankfulness that I can give

My holy gifts--the frankincense and myrrh

Of deep compassion, understanding love--

Illume the way to life, or death, for these

Our valiant sons whose birthright has been sold.

The American Bard

Song for an Infant Son

O little man-child, sleeping on my breast,

I pray the carillons of peace will sound

Before the doleful drums disturb your rest;

Before a cross for you marks hallowed ground.

And yet my son, this grim, chaotic world

Whose greed's strong henchmen ride on crimson sod

Will some day see the flag of peace unfurled

And build a great imperium to God.

I wait the dawn to follow the dark night

Of horror, with the cross of Calvary.

You may behold, my son, the growing light.

One of the chosen builders you may be.

So sleep my darling, in your infant bliss,

For you may never feel the sword's sharp kiss.

The Emancipator

Hon. Mention in IWL Contest

Let Your Black Tears Flow

Weep black tears

for the fallen hero,

for the uninhabited mountain from which he fell.

Weep, for he lies at the foot of the mountain

wizened to a dwarf with his spine curved

like the willow.

Weep, and pull the sword

from his bleached heart.

Let your black tears flow

till the sword corrodes with rust

and the soaring Eagle sky-writes PEACE

with the ashes of the war-stallion.

Leave Me This Last Shred of Hope

Let us leave the answer

For the historian to record

We who have not prophet-eyes

To read the future

Cry with a terrible wailing

The senselessness of the last warring struggle.

Backward in history

Like-wailings were heard,

Yet time built a monument to freedom

On the graves of its martyrs--

The cross of Calvary

Transposed a song of death

Into a timeless symphony of life.

So may the fields of crosses

Blossom into the beauty

Of freedom for all men.

Leave me this last shred of home

For my son was killed in Korea.

White Carillons

Rivers of grief are swelling, flooding the soul's mute sanctum;

Quivers of fear are shaking its depths at the curse of war.

Weeping, we see the crosses over our soldier-martyrs

Sleeping at last, while terror rides on his crimson steed.

Praying for war's cessation while on our knees we worship,

Saying, "Thy will be done," then leaving the rest to God

Never will bring right's triumph, lighten our cross of sorrow;

Ever we all must toil our utmost to bring release.

After the long dark night when dawn is breaking in glory,

Laughter will flow from hearts erasing the spirit-scars.

Winging to Heaven, our joy will be an anthem. The angels

Ringing white carillons will sound the Millennial Gong.

The Archer

First in Arabesque Div., Head-Rhyme Contest

No Greater Love

No greater love is known than this:

The love to dare the saber's kiss

That man may live--Christ walks again

Where men give life for brother-men.

Candor

Step Lightly Night

Shine softly, stars, above him where he lies--

My youthful son--somewhere beneath strange ebon skies

Dreaming of home and cricket lullabies--

                       Shine softly.

Blow gently, winds, and give him my embrace,

And let your cooling breath caress his boyish face

As he lies sleeping in some alien place--

                       Blow gently.

Step lightly, night, and mute the strange alarms

Of war, lest he be wakened rudely from the charms

Of dreams. O, hold him close within your arms--

                       Step lightly.

Walk softly, angels, pause beside his bed;

Placing your hands in tenderness upon his head,

Smooth his dark hair, and kiss him in my stead--

                       Walk softly.

His Hands

Cymbals clang and drums beat loud,

Drums that chant of death.

Terror's mighty horsemen ride

With their flaming breath.

On the far Korean shore

Where our sons are dying,

Little children, scarred and thin,

In their need are crying.

Jesus bids us be His hands,

Feed His sheep in war-torn lands.

The Archer

First in Archer Miniature Contest

Shadowed Years

My joyful song

Is muted

In war-shadowed years.

Even the lyrist

In my willow tree

Sings in minor strain.

Etchings

Knowing that she had gone to live in the New Tomorrow,
Rowing across the river to the Elysian shore,
Praying I stood beside her feeling the peace of angels;
Saying a low farewell, I saw on her dear old face:

Etchings of children's laughter, lullabies dreamland winging;
Sketchings of sleeping babes, of hands that were clasped in prayer;
Beauty of homey living, filled with fire-opaled wonder;
Duty that yielded glory tuned with the lyre of joy;

Rearing of valiant sons, then having them die as martyrs;
Cheering of war-torn hearts that bled from the saber's kiss;
Sadness that dolorous drums were beating of greed and envy;
Gladness that love would triumph--etched by the artist, time.

Returned Korean Chaplin Speaks

In youth I stood tiptoe upon a dream
And reached to touch the brightest crystal star;
Then years away I still could see its gleam,
A silver shaft to rift the clouds of war.
The black-cowled horesmen bringing tragic death
Could not dispel its glow. With inner sight,
I eased a wounded comrade's tortured breath--
My Star became a benison of LIGHT.
Where birds of steel were screaming, wings outspread,
And swords were stained with crimson to the hilt,
I heard a Heavenly chorus, angel-led
And mustered out a soul his dream rebuilt.
O eager youth, stand tall upon your dreams
That you may build them by the Starlight's gleams.

Comparison

Wolves run in packs, obedient to the thunder
Of jungle lords they serve ferociously.
Their mouths are red as alien beasts they plunder,
But man with fiendish, atavistic glee
Destroys his sons for gain, a crime unknown
To wolves who never stalk to kill their own.

Different

Calm Waters

Wearing despair's dark mantle, bowed in grief,
I sailed rebellious waters; on my head,
The ashes of my dreams. I craved relief
From sorrow's cross. My son--my all--was dead.
The octopus of war had barrened me--
The joy of watching children's children grow
Was ever lost. Within Gethsemane
The darkness fringed with silver; through the glow
There came the Master's timeless lyric, "Peace!"
With Him I walked calm waters of release.

New Pharoah

A new Pharaoh
Is ruling today.
He marks our sons for death
Through war. His heart is cruel
And his name is greed.

Scimitar and Song

Barren Woman's Cry

O mothers, you whose sons are called to war,
The cruel talons also tear my soul.
Your boys return to wear a battle scar,
Are maimed and wounded; are not spirit-whole.
And you who mourn a grave in foreign earth
Beneath white crosses, gleaming row on row,
On reverent knees give thanks that you gave birth
To sons who bade democracy to grow.
I share with you the yearning for God's grace,
Beseeching Him to reach to warring zones.
Could I have felt a soldier-son's embrace,
My heart would sing above its anguished moans.
You walk in tears the path that Mary trod,
But hear my cry: Would that I might, O God!

The Relief Society Magazine
Sea To Sea In Song--APL Anthol.
Third in Eliza R. Snow Contest
First in MFCP Clinic Poems, Spring 1952

How Deep the April Mud

The ghost of laughter
Haunts remembered rain-green April moments
When April violins were singing.
The moon-hung mystery of night
Brings no enchantment to weary soldiers.
Weighted with dead dreams, they say,
"How deep the April mud!"

Montana Poetry Quarterly