Poet and author Norma Minturn Stilwell believes both books remind us that great things can result when we appreciate the talents and abilities of others and that tolerance is what has made us a great nation.
The Wind Reaper
The wind reaper gathered up
Some dandelion hair
And bore his silver captive high
Upon the summer air
He chose a very fertile place
To free this precious yield
Where sun and rain their magic work
Upon an open field
The wind reaper will wait a year
His secret to unfold.
How he gathered silver threads
And turned them into gold
A Poet’s Lament
I’m declaring open season
On poems that have no
Rhyme or reason
Spare me all that
Mystery rhetoric
I find it much too esoteric
I’d rather yawn at
The mundane
Than face the challenge
Of arcane
Better humdrum
Than conundrum
Give me trite
Not erudite
Call me bourgeois
Or plebian
I want to know what
I’ve been readin’
A Poet’s Prayer
Thank you Lord for the gift to see
Amid the neon glare
The world reflected back to me
Through a poet’s eyes
Thank you Lord for the gift to hear
Above the ceaseless noise
The quiet voice that speaks so clear
To a poet’s ear
Thank you Lord for the gift to feel
In a cold unfeeling world
Life’s joys and sorrows far more real
To a poet’s heart
Winter at the Jersey Shore
Icy winds that chisel to the bone
And carve the beach
As sculptors carve in stone
Hungry waves that chew up
Summer sand
Then spit it out on some
Forgotten strand
Silver moons that bathe
The sea in light
And paint a crystal path
Across the night
Snowbirds can have
All this and more
When they spend winter
At the Jersey shore
Winter Races
In winter the wild stallion waves race across the beach
Tossing their sea spray manes at the sky
Snorting trails of white foam, they thunder past last summer’s finish line
Toward more distant goals
Charging a corral of dunes, they rear back
Then, at last broken, trot on colt’s feet into the pastoral sea
Golfing Tips
When Golfing I do gladly walk
From hole to hole
With slate and chalk
And keeping up a decent score
Is now a pleasure
Not a chore
For if my game is a disgrace
I wet a sponge and just erase
Mother, A Remembrance
She is old now and leans upon a cane
But I remember mother when she played a children’s game
Hide and seek, catch me if you can
Staying just beyond my reach no matter how I ran
Time brings many changes but a memory stays the same
And I remember mother when she played a children’s game
Spring Growing Pains
Spring is our adolescent season
Cocky and self assured one day
Then full of self doubt the next
In her darkest mood she rebels
Against us with tantrums of
Thunder and lightning
Then contritely soothes us with
Rain wet kisses and sunshine smiles
With all the uncertainty of youth
She struggles to mature
To leave us and become a summer