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Poems about Friends and Remembrances
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A Good Man
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One morning while in meditation
A question entered my mind
"Just what is a good man?"
Just as quietly, a name filled the void
Bernie
Oh, Bernie is not a perfect man
He has his faults like us all
But good he is
Like the description of several trees
does not truly describe the forest
A description of his giving acts
does not truly define his goodness
I liked him from the start
Sorrow and pain now wrap their tentacles
around his massive frame
Both continue to hone his goodness
Causing him to rise higher than he thought capable
Revealing the inner mettle of his soul
I thanked God today for answering my question
For allowing me to know a good man
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Comments: Bernie and I became friends several years ago while working together. Little did I realize that little over a year later he would battle cancer for the second time. This poem was shared with him in the midst of that battle. Even though I had left for a new job, we still remained in contact. We especially enjoyed sharing the joys and challenges regarding our individual journeys. Following what we thought was a successful second surgery, Bernie made his final transition in this lifetime. At the memorial service I learned much more about my friend. Primarily, I learned that indeed he was "A Good Man!"
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Alan
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Defining spirituality and godliness
is often in the eyes of the beholder.
Sometimes those talking continuously of God
walk a crooked mile.
Sometimes others, marching to nontraditional drummers,
walk hand-in-hand with the Spirit.
Only the Divine truly knows
who we are within.
But to the humble eye of this poet
Alan marches with his Creator.
On that fateful day sometime in the future,
Alan will be privileged to hear,
"Well-done, my good and faithful servant."
What greater reward can one have?
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Comments: Alan was our association minister before moving to Western Pennsylvania. Over the last few years I was privileged to work with Alan on a variety of church matters. But more importantly, we became friends. Alan possesses many talents that God has chosen to use. As the poem states, Alan walks to his own drummer, the cadence being set by the Creator. I presented this poem to Alan on his departure, wishing him, 'God speed' in his new endeavors.
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James E. Magaw
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Who is this person called James E. Magaw?
One who touches so many lives.
The world better because he journeys here.
So many roles he’s played in the Drama of Life.
To family, he is father, counselor, and rock of support.
With wife Bonnie, his life partner,
They’ve sailed the ship
Through times of sunshine, sublime, and stormy waters,
They steered and stayed the course.
To the church, Reverend Magaw is a pastor and church leader --
Willing to speak out on the unpopular;
A fighter for justice and equality;
A person who cares;
To friends, he is Jim, a man quick to laugh;
To offer his hand of support;
A talented writer and poet;
One who thinks deeply on the big issues.
Perhaps, most importantly, in his seven decades
The father, pastor, poet and friend has come to understand
One of the great spiritual truths.
“We are spiritual beings inhabiting physical bodies.”
And that has made all the difference.
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Comments: This poem was written in honor of Jim's seventieth birthday. He has had quite a life making many contributions to the betterment of this world. He is also quite writer and poet in his own right. I am proud to call him a friend.
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A Friend
through the Decades
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A smile, a kind word
Encouragements
May birthday cards
Each arriving
at the opportune time.
Gifts freely bestowed.
Children huddled around –
squirming, wiggling
The teacher reaches out
offering knowledge
Touching with love.
All part of warm memories
From moments shared
and observed
Of friend Bonnie Magaw.
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Comments: Like Jim's above, this poem was written for Bonnie on a very special birthday. Bonnie and I have known each other for many years. She is one of the kindness people you would ever meet. As a career educator, she touched many lives and continues to do so today.
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The pianist’s fingers move across the keys
At speeds the eyes can barely see.
Improv and Jazz describe the melodies.
As the notes dance across my mind,
My memory turns to a friend now gone.
And to an evening in New Orleans
Where we were enthralled by similar tunes.
The music continues to draw me away
Into a dimension, neither here nor there,
Where sounds and feelings do combine.
Where mystical unions can intertwine.
I smile – for my friend and I are together again.
Sitting side by side like that night long ago,
We laugh together as if never apart
Our fingers tap, tap, tapping to this musical art.
All too soon the pace slows and the surreal ends,
Our whimsical journey now complete.
Though I return to this world and he to his.
What joy it has been to be together again!
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Comments: One spring evening, I attended a piano concert where most of the songs were jazz and improv. Part way through the concert I closed my eyes and allowed the music to carry me beyond self and my immediate location. My thoughts turned to a dear friend Bill who had passed on about ten years ago. Bill loved life and music like few others I have known. He was a character in a very positive sense of the word. For a few moments, I felt as if Bill had joined me again for the evening concert. In a sense, this enjoyable event was like two minds joining. Perhaps you have had a similar experience. I am proud to have had Bill McDonald as a friend.
Incidentally, to learn more about the outstanding musician Bradley Sowash who was able to perform such magic, go to
http://www.bradleysowash.com
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I clearly remember the spring day
.....when she first returned from Florida
.....after a three-year absence.
She fourteen and I, thirteen.
Never had I seen anyone so cute.
How I loathed the fact
.....that she was my first cousin.
My budding adolescence
.....could only dream otherwise.
Today, decades later
.....I attend her funeral.
Sadness fills my heart.
But my memory sees
.....the young girl gaily laughing.
Frozen forever in time.
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Comments: In '03 I was deeply sadden when my cousin ravaged by cancer died. As I sat in the memorial service right behind her family, I continually thought of our youth; the time we spent; and the different journeys we took. Being a believer in the eternalness of the spirit, I felt joy for her. With that in mind, this poem becomes one of celebration.
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Sharon at about 14 (taken from an old 46 year old Polaroid
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| Sharon (lf) taken a few months before her passing |
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Comments: Char and I first worked together professionally and over the years became friends. She is a woman of extraordinary talent. Don't be surprised if someday you hear her music on a CD. The picture was taken at Apple Computer where she enjoyed a few moments on The Grand.
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| Mom and Paul shortly after they were married |
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Tom Brokaw calls them “The Greatest Generation,”
....those who fought against Hitler’s pillage.
If so, my stepfather Paul was such a man,
....having fought with his hero "Blood and Guts" Patton.
Together, they battled across North Africa and later at the Bulge.
Though the battle-hardened soldier spoke little of those times,
....when he did,
....he spoke kindly of the General
....who led by example.
My mother chose this handsome white-haired man
....late in both their lives.
....after my father's passing some five years before.
Strong of will and firm in beliefs
....describe Paul well.
Even in his late seventies,
....he could work those half his age into the ground.
Then one fateful day while sitting in church,
....the second home he so loved,
....he stood and gasped
....before collapsing to the floor.
The stroke rendered what no enemy bullet did,
....taking him beyond his loving wife’s reach.
She visited daily for six long years,
....talking as if he were still there.
Finally, one day this old soldier
....lost the battle
....but gained the victory.
As the military salute was fired,
....I smiled, with my hands upon Mom’s shoulders,
....and thought of Paul and the General –
....for they are again together. |
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Comments: At 88 years of age, Paul E. Pendleton returned to his Creator. We mourn his loss and celebrate his life.
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A Ride for Harvey
Today, I ride for Harvey,
......my brother-in-law and friend.
In the 70's,
......I introduced him to cycling,
......to the joys of the air rushing against the face,
......following long downhill runs;
......the fatigue and second wind
......that pushes the body beyond normal endurance.
Like a new love, he embraced this sport with passion.
Despite the thirty plus years,
......it has not waned.
Today, he lies near death,
......from a biking accident
......along a country road not far from home.
Memories flood my mind
......of many rides shared,
......cycling Wisconsin with our young cousins,
......screaming down the hills of southern Indiana
......during the Hilly Hundred,
......or him waiting patiently
......as I finally reached the summit
......following a long mountain bike climb
......in Colorado.
Atop that majestic peak,
......we basked in the awe.
Now on much flatter terrain,
......my wheels crunch and crackle the fall seeds
......that cover the trail.
The wild yellow daisies are especially brilliant
......exemplifying the beauty that life offers.
Rows of eight-foot corn stalks stand guard,
......their silken tassels glistening and nodding
......allowing me to safely pass.
I marvel at creation and life's many turns.
Though my heart still aches for my friend
......and his family,
......this ride somehow cleanses the spirit,
......as I pray that Harvey will someday ride again.
Comments: This poem was written a few days after the accident when we were uncertain of his survival. But miracles do occur! Following over two weeks on life support, through his determination to live, along with his excellent physical condition, superb medical treatment, and many prayers, his condition began to improve rapidly. Within three weeks he was in physical therapy. While he still has awhile before he can again hop on his bike, we are thankful that this life's journey is not finished.
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| Notice the extra leg – the one on the right is a tandem |
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| Stalks standing guard |
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| Lined the trail by the hundreds |
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Jerry on his 75th
Three-quarters of a century,
......some say is a long time,
......for others, a mere speck in the eternal circle.
What say you, Jerry, Aussie poet and author?
Have the years passed quickly?
Your life has been full.
What stories you could tell,
......more than a few would bring a blush
......to maidens’ ears.
You have danced before the crowds
......and serenaded a sheila or two.
Remember the youthful island life,
......the joys and sorrows?
Mates have come along for the ride,
......blokes, such as Merv, still bring a smile your lips.
Passions of every kind have flowed in your blood.
Your sense of justice can cause the face to flush
......by mere mention of George or Howard,
......while the poetry of Bruce Dawes
......tweaks your soul.
Alison, now there is a name
......that touches deep within.
Like many who reach your august age,
......hard labour can be a descriptor,
......likewise, wisdom from the journey.
You are who you have been
......but also what you will be.
Celebrate the years that have honed your being
......and enjoy the moments
......that will continue to evolve you.
Happy Birthday, dear Friend.
Comments: Fans of my newsletter have been reading comments by Jerry from Victoria, Australia since 2003. Due to the nature of this newsletter, many of his comments have been edited for a variety of reasons. Jerry is very passionate about certain topics. Nevertheless, I have thoroughly enjoyed our numerous email exchanges over the years. As you can guess from the poem, on January 4, Jerry celebrated his 75th. In his honor I sent him the above poetical effort. (It is being published here and on my site with his permission.) To assist with interpretation, "sheila" – a slang term for an Australian female; "hard labour" – a play on words for his latest book of the same title; "Alison" – his wife; "youthful island life"– references his childhood in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka); "dance before crowds" – as a public entertainer; "Merv" – a good friend about whom he wrote a guest vignette for us; and "George and Howard," – I will leave to your interpretation.
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| Poet and author, Jerry from Victoria, Australia |
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Henry
A friend died.
My heart weeps
And smiles
As I remember
Who he was
And the life led.
Comments: A very brief poem summarizing my feelings about a very complicated individual whom I was privileged to know. Forty lines could not say more than what is encapsulated in these. Rest in peace, good friend Henry Millward.
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