Maid of Honor speech

 When Natalie got married in 2023, Brianne, her Maid of Honor, prepared a beautiful speech to give at the rehearsal dinner when she would be asked to propose a toast. Christopher's Best Man, his father refused to bow to that convention; so Brianne had no opportunity to give her speech. I recently found it and want to preserve it; so here it is.

Okay, I'm going to try my best to get through this without ugly crying; but I really think that's highly unlikely, so if I start to lose it, maybe we can all just agree to pretend like nothing is happening and move on.

Throughout my life, my mom has always told stories about how Natalie use to always have to be holding my hand when we were little. Everywhere we went, she was always right beside mel, holding my hand. I can think of so many pictures that we have from when we were little of us walking through the zoo, on the beach, Easter egg hunting, even just sitting on the couch holding hands. 

As a big sister, I'm sure there were times it could have been a little annoying to have your little sister constantly want to be right beside you holding your hand; however, looking back, I realize now that Natalie has done that throughout my whole life; and I couldn't be more thankful for that. Natalie has held my had, bother literally and figuratively for 23 years. In some very obvious ways and in some more quiet ways that she might not even realize.  I know that no matter what we do or where we go as we start living mor separate lives, Natalie will always hold my hand, and I'll always hold hers. 

Chris, for some reason, Natalie like to hold your hand now. Really, though, I see how happy she is when she's with you, and I'm glad my sister is marrying a man who loves her so much and fits in with our family so well. I truly feel like I have gained another brother, and not just because we communicate in sarcasm, but also because you are so welcoming and accepting. As her big sister, it makes me happy to know that you will always be there to take care of her, make her laugh, make life fun, and hold her hand -- and if not, you live 5 minutes down the road, and I know where you hide the spare key!

Natalie and Chris, I am so happy that the two of you have found one another. I hope the following years are full of love, new adventures, growing together, living out dreams, so much happiness, and lots of hand-holding. I love you both. 

Letter to Mother, Ruth Shaw, 2013

 I recently found a letter I wrote to Mother on her birthday in February of 2013 (thirteen years ago as I write this preface - 3 ½ years after her death.) I want to preserve it here. 

Dear Mother,

In the book, The Five People You Meet in Heaven, Mitch Albom wrote, “Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move on. They move away. The moments that used to define them - a mother’s approval, a father’s nod - are covered by moments of their own accomplishments. It is not until much later, as the skin sags and the heart weakens, that children understand; their stories, and all their accomplishments, sit atop the stories of their mothers and fathers, stones upon stones, beneath the waters of their lives.”

As Mr. Albom said, now that my skin is sagging and my heart is likely weakening, I am beginning to much more fully understand that any life accomplishments that I might claim are simply stories resting firmly upon yours and Daddy’s stories. These are the stones upon the stones beneath the waters of my life — all those skills and concepts I didn’t realize I was learning and all those life experiences that I never knew I’d be so grateful for.

Thank you, Mother, for the guidance you and Daddy have provided me throughout my life. Martin Luther once said, “In the midst of affliction, God counsels, strengthens, confirms, nourishes, and favors us. In the same manner parents ought to handle their children.” You have always counseled, strengthened, confirmed, nourished, and favored me as Luther advised - and as God does.

Most of all, Mother, thank you for your unconditional love. That love was the cornerstone of my childhood and continues to ground me in my adulthood. It has been given to me every day for a lifetime - and I have accepted this gift as naturally as I have accepted the colorful rain of leaves in Autumn and the perky Jonquils in the Spring. You have always lovingly listened to me when I needed to talk, and you have always lovingly talked to me when I needed to listen. What an empowering thing it is to be the recipient of such unconditional love! Thank you for knowledge of the power of love that I gained through all those wonderful years when I was growing up, being loved, and cherished, and honored as a unique child of God.

Thank you, Mother, and Happy Birthday. I love you. Joan

Grocery List: an Acrostic Poem

Deadlines for Writers poem #10 for 2025 is due today. Acrostic Poems don't seem like a legitimate poetry form to me, but that was the assignment, so this is what I submitted to the group.  

Gotta

Remember milk;

Oh, and

Can’t forget

Eggs,

Rice, and

Yummy yogurt!

 

Let’s see now…

I think I’m armed.

So…..into the

Trenches I go!

Measuring Time: A Cinquain

The Ninth poem (the prompt was "measured") is due today. I submitted a double Cinquain. The American cinquain is an unrhymed, five-line poetic form defined by the number of syllables in each line—the first line has two syllables, the second has four, the third six, the fourth eight, and the fifth two (2-4-6-8-2). They are typically written using iambs.

Measuring Time: a double Cinquain

One life

Don’t waste time with

Was yesterday the best?

Will tomorrow fulfill my dreams?

Tick Tock.

 

Today!

‘Time’ doesn’t pass.

We ourselves pass through time.

Be fully present for each “tick.”

Spend time!

My Treasure

 Poem #8 in the Deadlines for Writers group is due today. The prompt is "treasure." I pushed the deadline to the last minute this time and just finished a first and only draft. 

My Treasure

In the quiet early morning

I close my eyes to the flashing lights of Now

And my ears to the cacophony of Hurry.

The clouds above me drift apart, and I see the stars shining behind.

Alone now, I gather the treasures of my life close for comfort and courage.

 

Opening my box of treasures,

I consider, and rejoice in the largest diamond therein: the presence of God -

His grace, His faithfulness, His guidance, His Truth.

His Magnificent creation!

Oh! The beauty I’ve treasured!

The daily resurrection from a good night’s sleep.

The sun, brightly welcoming me to each new day and dazzling me with a display of ever-changing colors to celebrate the day’s ending.  

Sand between my toes and the kiss of the waves upon the beach.

Crisp breezes on my face as I tread a wooded path alone.

The rustle of leaves as walk the shoreline in harmonious company.

 

I gently lift the memory of the relationships that made and make me.

My hands trace the many facets of this precious jewel.

Long-ago reprimands and guidance from loving parents.

Lifetime support and companionship of brothers and sisters.

Long and laughter-filled family dinners – Oh, the joy!

Real conversation with receptive and insightful companions.

A smile received in payment for appreciation.

Little arms around my neck.

Strong arms around my back.

A loving touch on my shoulder.

Affirmations of understanding and connection.

 

I reverently touch the jewel of Purpose and Creativity.

Each facet of the gem reflects the light of the Great Creator.  

Sharing the joy and purpose of my being with words, with colors.

Starting on a new creative project.

Learning something new.

Mixing the perfect color.

Finding just the right word.

Searching for voids to fill, needs to supply, hearts to join.

 

I close my box and greet the new day.

I have a God to serve,

Hearts and souls to nurture.

I have lessons to learn,

Visions to paint,

Words to compile,

I have voids to fill,

Needs to supply,

Hearts to join.

I have life to live. 

DFW Poem 202506 Like

 Here's my 202506 entry in the Deadlines for Writers Poetry Group using the prompt "like." It's a simple 4X4 rhyming ditty.

Behind every “like” on your media page

Is a purpose, apparent or not.

Is the like for the content of the message you shared

Or simply a way to say you’ve been got?

 

Did he like the picture, the message, the theme?

Did she like what the commenters said?

I like you, I hear you, I support you, my friend.

Let’s raise our shared past from the dead?

 

I agree with your political point, my friend.

My like might sway some to our point of view.

My “like” is a bullet I can fire at will

In the culture wars we’ve been conscripted into. 

 

A like is not simply a like these days

It can be many things in addition.

Enjoy the likes you get on your post,

And consider the liker’s intention. 

Fulfillment, a Tanka

 The fifth poem for 2025 is due today. The prompt is "hollow." I wrote a Tanka inspired by a quote by Craig D. Lounsbrough.

Though I feign fullness,

I sit at the world’s table.

Achingly hollow.

Fulfillment is only found

Kneeling at the feet of God.

Get in the Game - A Triolet

 The 4th poem of 2025 is due today. The assignment was to write a Triolet. 

A Triolet: 

Has 8 lines. 

Each line has 8 syllables. 

The 1st line recurs as the 4th and 7th. 

The 2nd line recurs as the 8th. 

The rhyme pattern is abaaabab.

Here is the poem I submitted.

Get in the Game 

The world needs you just as you are!

Get in the game – ready or not.

The night wants some shine? Be a star.

The world needs you just as you are!

Your song can’t be heard from afar?

Just hum if a hum’s all you’ve got.

The world needs you just as you are!

Get in the game – ready or not.

Inner Life: A Sonnet

Poem # 3 of 2025 is due today. The prompt is "undo." Here is the sonnet I wrote and submitted. It is very loosely inspired by the writing of Veronica Roth and Horace Mann.

The self that’s only self will undo self.

Obsession with reflection blinds the eye.

To truly live our lives, we are compelled

To focus OUT, see much more YOU than I.

 

The image in the mirror teaches naught

‘Cept selfish, unkind actions that annoy.

While reaching out in loving deed and thought

To others is the truest path to joy.

 

I choose to turn away “me” and “my.”

And give to others trust that they deserve.

I know that my successful inner life

Depends on finding ways to see and serve .

 

Projecting ever outward, self restrained,

I disappear and only God remains!

Sunrise! a Cinquain

 Poem #2 for 2025 is due today. We were to write a Nonet or a Cinquain. I had never heard of a Nonet. It is, as it sounds, a nine-line prescribed poem. I went for the simpler Cinquain. 

Morning,

Fancy-dressed in

Garnet, topaz, amber,

Sprinkles joy like bright confetti.

Sunrise!

Sea Treasure

I am beginning my 6th year of monthly poems. Poem #1 of 2025 is due today. The prompt is "Shell." I have written a free verse poem. 

 

Sea Treasure

Locked in space and time.

I stroll the quiet shore.

Sand between my toes,

Infinity on the horizon.

 

Glancing down I see

A long-forsaken castle

Holding forgotten stories

In its nooks and swirls.

 

I bend and gently take Eternity into my hands.

The time-lock broken,

The pearly jewels of generations,

Glitter in the gentle grace of spiral lines.

 

The space-lock shattered,

The music of the deep

Whispers peace

As I hold the fragile treasure to my ear.

The Bridge of Repentance

 The last poem of 2024 is due today in the Deadlines for Writers group. I don't intend to continue this challenge for another year. I did an incomplete year in 2019 and have completed every month since. This poem is my 63rd monthly poem. The prompt is "forgiven." 

The Bridge of Repentance 

I journeyed with you through the days, months, and years.

Our paths converging and true.

Until one day, a boulder stood in my way,

And I needed a boost to get through.

 

I reached for you and only touched air.

Behind me, the Earth split in two.

There yawned a chasm deep and wide,

Keeping me from you.

 

The only path between us now,

As you stand on the other side.

Is the rickety Bridge of Repentance,

So I swallow my fear and pride.

 

I crawl back to you, confessing my sin,

Risking it all to regain “Before.”

Like a true friend, you take my hand.

That rickety bridge is a challenge no more!

 

Hand in hand, we press onward again,

Heads high, hearts warm, goal-driven!

We’ll get there together as we always planned.

From the past to the future. Forgiven.

Noel by J.R.R. Tolkien

I've never been a Tolkien fan. The Hobbit and all the related books just never appealed to me at all. I was totally taken by surprise recently to discover that Tolkien also wrote a beautiful Christmas poem that was basically unknown and "lost" until 2013. It had been published 1936 in an obscure literary publication, received little notice at the time and receded into oblivion, not coming to light even after Tolkien's death in 1973. I regret not ever having heard Noel by Tolkien. It is written in a traditional ballad form with a regular rhythm and rhyme, a feature that I strongly prefer in poetry. It has a strong metre of alternating 8 beats and 6 beats per line, with regular rhyme, plenty of imagery, and poetic devices like alliteration that appeal to the ear. It is 5 stanzas of 8 lines each and is a beautiful tribute to the amazing salvation brought to the weary world in the birth of Jesus. Although it was republished in September of this year, it is not very easily found with Google yet, and I have copied it into my blog for my own convenience.

Noel

by J.R.R. Tolkien

Grim was the world and grey last night:
The moon and stars were fled,
The hall was dark without song or light,
The fires were fallen dead.
The wind in the trees was like to the sea,
And over the mountains’ teeth
It whistled bitter-cold and free,
As a sword leapt from its sheath.

The lord of snows upreared his head;
His mantle long and pale
Upon the bitter blast was spread
And hung o’er hill and dale.
The world was blind,
the boughs were bent,
All ways and paths were wild:
Then the veil of cloud apart was rent,
And here was born a Child.

The ancient dome of heaven sheer
Was pricked with distant light;
A star came shining white and clear
Alone above the night.
In the dale of dark in that hour of birth
One voice on a sudden sang:
Then all the bells in Heaven and Earth
Together at midnight rang.

Mary sang in this world below:
They heard her song arise
O’er mist and over mountain snow
To the walls of Paradise,
And the tongue of many bells was stirred
in Heaven’s towers to ring
When the voice of mortal maid was heard,
That was mother of Heaven’s King.

Glad is the world and fair this night
With stars about its head,
And the hall is filled with laughter and light,
And fires are burning red.
The bells of Paradise now ring
With bells of Christendom,
And Gloria, Gloria we will sing
That God on earth is come.

Ode to the Human Spirit: a Sonnet

 Poem #11 of 2024 is due today. The prompt is "taste." I began to write reflecting on a quote by Leonardo DaVinci. 

“An average human looks without seeing, listens without hearing, touches without feeling, eats without tasting, moves without physical awareness, inhales without awareness of odour or fragrance, and talks without thinking.” 

Ode to the Human Spirit – A Sonnet

 

As life moves on from day to day to day

We mortal beings sometimes lose our way.

We look around yet somehow fail to see

The beauty and the grace in you and me.

 

We listen to divergent surface sounds

And do not hear the need in those around.

We touch and know the outer shapes of life

Not feeling others’ needs, and aches, and strife.

 

We sample this or that but do not taste -

The present moment’s flavor gone to waste.

We sniff the air but do not smell the rose

We miss the poem and only breathe the prose.

 

Let’s not forget that many a wrong is wrought

When words are spent before engaging THOUGHT. 

SMILE - an Acrostic Poem

 Poem #10 for 2024 is due today. The assignment was to write an Ekphrastic or an Acrostic poem. I don't care for either of these as a poetry form, but I wrote an Acrostic. 

SMILE

 

Softens stone walls and Settles fears.

Mimics a hug, and is Medicine for tears.

Invites a stranger to be a friend. Ignites a fire for a heart to tend.

Lightens neighbors’ heavy load. Lifts many a downtrodden soul.

Evicts the grief of unvoiced groans. Engages the human need to be known.

Final Childhood

 Poem #09 for the year. The prompt was "moments." 

The child encounters life with joy!

The world, not yet reduced to inconsequence,

Looms as an immense mystery.

 

The wandering brook in the backyard

Needs no label;

It is as big as the Mississippi!

He fords it with daring and

Emerges a conqueror.

 

The dead willow nearby

Needs not be cleared away or disregarded.

It invites exploration.

He climbs,

Perches in the crook,

Surveys his kingdom below.

Finds a hole,

Secrets away his treasures.                                                                                                              

 

The child has no need for public acclaim.

He has the sky!

The masses, self-presenting and petty,

Conduct their insignificant business far below.

While he finds humble comfort and concord with nature.

 

Now growing old, I draw near to childhood again.

Outside my notice,

Public players, foolish and tedious,

Fill the world with discordant noise.

Empty souls boom, loud as kettle drums.

Strident sound by people who dread the silence.

 

Returning to childhood,

I learn to pray again.

I retire to the world God made,

To the memories of people who’ve gone before.

No longer attending the croak of the unnatural frog,

Fat and ugly and unmeaning.

I rest in the lapping of lake water on the shore

And the laughter of children.

 

 

Inspiration by:

Psalm 43:4

Anthony Esolen “The Final Childhood”

 

A Walk along the Ridge

 Poem number 8 of 2024 is due today in the Deadlines for Writers online group. I wrote free verse which began with the prompt "Nine Months," which morphed as I thought about it into "The Passage of Time."

A Walk along the Ridge

She strolls the wooded path in celebration of Fall.

Brilliant colored leaves swirl - yellow and red and gold -

Catching leaves in her hands and dividing them with her steps,

She spots a low-hanging tree branch and stops to rest.

 

The tree, having lost its youth, trembles in the Autumn wind,

And she knows,

Even as Autumn leaves swirl around her feet,

She knows that

Just a few steps around the bend,

Winter waits.

 

She watches as the late light plays on the fallen Autumn leaves.

Closing her eyes to better hear the melody on the breeze,

Sunny Spring and Summer seasons fill her memory.

 

Those were carefree days

Vibrant greens and blues danced in the sunspots along the forest path

Long into the tardy sunset.

Just minutes ago, it seems, the grass was green

And pregnant yellow-green buds,

Bursting with unborn life,

Filled the branches overhead,

The embodiment of wonder waiting to be discovered.

 

In those fruitful Spring and Summer days,

The Sun stayed high in the sky long and warm!

And children played late in the meadow!

 

She shifts her unsure seat on the sagging branch

Which seems somehow to signify her very being.

Seasons have come and gone!

Come and gone!

Come and gone!

Like fingers snapping.

Winter!

Spring!

Summer!

Fall!

 

The seasons have flowed

And flown.

Magic memories of Spring and Summer persist…

And their joy and beauty remain clear and pure.

Spring was hope and anticipation.

Summer was good and fulfilling!

And now the Fall of life is waning.

Winter is just around the bend.

 

Still she whispers, “Yes!”

“Winter can be beautiful,”

She reminds herself.

She rises from her Autumn resting bough

And walks into her Winter with Joy and an open heart.

(Inspired by "Seasons" by Deborah Malone. 

The Cowboy's Cowboy

 In 2014, my granddaughter, Natalie, had an assignment to write a poem related to "the Wild West" since her class was planning a field trip to Booth Western Art Museum in Cartersville, GA. Teachers from around the region would choose a few of the best poems from their students to enter in a contest. The winners from each school would read their poems at the museum on the day of the proposed field trip. 

Natalie had not previously written poetry and mentioned her anxiety over the assignment to me. When my grandchildren were in public school, I had made it a habit to read whatever literature they were assigned to read and keep up with their school progress in other ways, so one day I sat down to think about what could be written related to "the Wild West." I had in mind sending her a few ideas to help her get started.

I wrote a very rough first-draft light-verse poem about "'ol Hank." A couple of days before Natalie's poem was due, she told me she had not come up with anything, so I sent her that rough draft as a starting point to help her get started writing. That was probably not as good an idea as it sounded to us at the time. Instead of igniting a new idea in her, it seemed to confine her to just adapting the poem I had started. Deadline came too quickly, and she just turned in the poem that we had more-or-less cowritten. Of course, it won!

She was now locked into reading it aloud at the district Western Art assembly. It has bothered both of us ever since. She felt like she had cheated by turning in a poem she saw as mostly mine. I felt guilty because she felt like I helped her cheat and because she didn't see the final poem as truly hers. I also felt bad that I had apparently caused her to doubt her own ability and integrity. This incident became an embarrassment to both of us over the years, and the poem was mostly forgotten/unmentioned/hidden. 

I recently found an old copy. At this point neither of us is sure how much either of us had to do with this version or even it this is the final copy that was entered in the contest. Neither of us has felt comfortable claiming authorship. But I think it's a cute poem, so here is the, I guess, cowritten poem about 'ol Hank. 

Ol’ Hank was a cowboy’s cowboy –

That feller knew how to live.

Any case that came along,

Hank had advice to give.

 

Now, he warn’t no shoddy blowhard;

He didn’t talk no bosh.

But when he’d meet a greenhorn,

He’d fill their ears, by gosh!

 

“Hey, Dude!  Hey, City Slicker,”

Ol’ Hank was known to shout.

“You’re all hat and no cattle -

That’s not what cowboyin’s all about!

 

Now, being a real true cowboy

Takes a bigger man than you.

If you don’t wanna get your plow cleaned,

Here’s what you gotta do.

 

Don’t never squat with your spurs on.

Don’t drive black cattle when it’s dark outside.

Don’t dig for water near the outhouse;

Don’t get in the saddle ‘less you’re ready to ride.”

2014 by Natalie Davis (Akins) (with Joan Turrentine)

Who?

I submitted this very incomplete poem to the Deadlines for Writers site this morning. The assignment was right in the middle of my wheelhouse and should have been a piece of cake for me - using rhyme, alliteration, and/or assonance; I just didn't work at it until the last minute. 

Which me am I today? I ask.

I really need to know.

If I’m the me that hates to cook,

How will dinner go?

 

If I’m the me who always does

More than I have to do,

We’ll feast on caviar and prawns

Like kings, and counts, and dukes.

 

The me who likes the finer things

Will wear an evening gown.

The me who lives for comfort will

Slouch unkempt into town.

The Estate Sale

 The 6th poem of the year (in the Deadlines for Writers group) is due today. The prompt is "tempted." I started there and ended up somewhere very different. Writers are commonly advised to "write what you know", and what I know right now is the settling of my parents' earthly estate. Here's the free verse poem I submitted. 

The Estate Sale

The long-empty driveway fills with cars and trucks.

The homeplace, alive again just for the day, braces for one last invasion.

Not the hordes of children whose excited voices once filled the yard with joy.

Not the recent lines of workers laboring to give the place a modern appeal,

The old house, instead, braces for one final invasion of strangers.

 

The front door, unalarmed, snubs the knocks of unknown visitors,

And they walk in as if visiting the corner store.

The back porch steps creak restlessly as the curious saunter up to the open doorway.

The opportunists, with darting eyes and careless hands, fill the hallway with the odor of greed.

The once-private bedroom grieves as a burly man in grease-stained jeans nonchalantly disassembles her bed.

Her pink robe, looking on from behind the door, cringes as the man discards the worn sheets with disdain and begins hauling her bed, in pieces, out the door.

 

Now without her cherished silverware and ubiquitous Blue Willow china,

The bereft dining room sets the table with silence and empty space.

Chairs are scattered and separated from their lifelong sisters.

Though once clustered together around the family table,

Each now stands alone – no longer part of the warmth of the family’s gathering place.

 

An interloper sits rocking in the 100-year-old rocking chair where Great Granny fed her babies.

Where Grandmother soothed the hurts of her toddlers.

The same rocking chair where she sat as neighbors comforted her all those years ago as the hearse bearing the body of her husband, pulled away.

Unknowing, unthinking, the squatter rocks and complains that the asking price for the old rocker is too high.

 

One by one, her things leave their cohorts and their home in alien arms.

A lifetime’s collection slowly reverses course and becomes uncollected.

In the quiet kitchen, where she used to gaze out the small window into the woods behind the house,

The half empty canister of tea stands in the corner and silently consoles the weeping sink,

And mourns too her absence.