Lakeside Living at Bunganut Lake
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Cathy Genther is a free-lance writer who lives in Gorham.
This article originally appeared in the Portland Press Herald.
Lakeside at Bunganut Lake, by Bob Berry
Please stay tuned; article planned for Spring 2004.
God's Blessings by Eva Darrington Rule
God loves me. How do I know?
He gives flowers in spring,
And the sun's golden glow.
He gives me hills clad in green, glossy coats.
He gives sweet, gentle music
In the bird's liquid notes.
He gives me trees, both rugged and tall,
Laden with fruit, both summer and fall.
He gives me my garden, both fragrant and fair,
And snow white lilies that bloom by the wall.
In winter he gives me pure, white snow,
And bright candles burning
While the yule logs glow.
He gives me both family and friends
To cherish and love, while peace wraps my heart
Like the wings of a dove.
I am the flag of the United States of America - Author Unknown
I am the flag of the United States of America.
My name is Old Glory.
I fly atop the world's tallest buildings.
I stand watch in America's halls of justice.
I fly majestically over institutions of learning.
I stand guard with power in the world.
Look up and see me.
I stand for peace, honor, truth and justice.
I stand for freedom.
I am confident.
I am arrogant.
I am proud.
When I am flown with my fellow banners,
my head is a little higher,
my colors a little truer.
I bow to no one!
I am recognized all over the world.
I am worshipped - I am saluted.
I am loved - I am revered.
I am respected -- and I am feared.
I have fought in every battle of every war for more then 200 years.
I was flown at Valley Forge, Gettysburg, Shiloh and Appomattox.
I was there at San Juan Hill, the trenches of France,
in the Argonne Forest, Anzio, Rome and the beaches of Normandy, Guam, Okinawa.
The people of Korea, Vietnam and Kuwait know me as a banner of freedom.
I was there.
I led my troops, I was dirty, battleworn and tired, but my soldiers cheered me
And I was proud.
I have been burned, torn and trampled on the streets of countries I have helped set free.
It does not hurt, for I am invincible.
I have slipped the bonds of Earth and stood watch over the uncharted frontiers of space
from my vantage point on the moon.
I have borne silent witness to all of America's finest hours.
But my finest hours are yet to come.
When I am torn into strips and used as bandages
for my wounded comrades on the battlefield,
When I am flown at half-mast to honor my countryman,
when I lie in the trembling arms of a grieving parent
at the grave of their fallen son or daughter,
or in the arms of a child or spouse who will have to go on
without one who gave their life in a national disaster
to save the life of another, as so many did at the Pentagon
or the World Trade Center Towers on 9/11/01.
MY NAME IS OLD GLORY, LONG MAY I WAVE.
September eleventh, two-thousand and one,
United We Stand by Genie Graveline
Unspeakable horrors took place.
And the world looked on in sheer disbelief,
As Americans started to face.....
The reality of the crisis at hand,
The thousands of lives that were taken,
As terrorists blacken the skies above,
And the core of our nation was shaken.
Each of us grieved, as we watched the reports,
Of the sorrow that spread through our land,
Vowing that moment, that we would unite,
And take a definitive stand.
Our brothers and sisters would not die in vain,
And "undaunted" we always shall be,
For this country we love will never succumb,
And our flag will forever fly free!
The Final Analysis
People are often unreasonable, illogical and self-centered;
Forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives;
Be kind anyway.
If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies;
Succeed anyway.
What you spend years building, someone may destroy overnight;
Build anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous;
Be happy anyway.
The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow;
Do good anyway.
Give the world the best you have, and it may never be good enough;
Give the world the best you've got anyway.
You see, in the final analysis, it is all between you and God;
It was never between you and them anyway.
- Kent M. Keith -
Chick by Alexander Brechner, age 7
Chirp! Chirp!
Goes the baby chick after hatching.
I'm free! Yipee!
But... I'm wet, so I'm upset.
But... It's my first birthday!
So I'm...
Happy!
Yipee!
© Alexander Brechner
Watching and Waiting by Joyce E. Breunig
Sitting by the river bank
watching and waiting
always fearful to go too deep
who would save me if I begin to drown?
Sitting by the edges of life
watching and waiting
always fearful to go too deep
who would save me if I begin to die?
Sitting by the side of you
watching and waiting
always fearful to go too deep
who would save me if I begin to love?
© Joyce E. Breunig
Dirt Roads by Paul Harvey
What's mainly wrong with society today is that too many Dirt Roads have been paved.
There's not a problem in America today, crime, drugs, education, divorce, delinquency that wouldn't be remedied, if we just had more Dirt Roads, because Dirt Roads give character.
People that live at the end of Dirt Roads learn early on that life is a bumpy ride.
That it can jar you right down to your teeth sometimes, but it's worth it, if at the end is home...a loving spouse, happy kids and a dog.
We wouldn't have near the trouble with our educational system if our kids got their exercise walking a Dirt Road with other kids, from whom they learn how to get along.
There was less crime in our streets before they were paved.
Criminals didn't walk two dusty miles to rob or rape, if they knew they'd be welcomed by 5 barking dogs and a double barrel shotgun.
And there were no drive by shootings.
Our values were better when our roads were worse!
People did not worship their cars more than their kids, and motorists were more courteous, they didn't tailgate by riding the bumper or the guy in front would choke you with dust & bust your windshield with rocks.
Dirt Roads taught patience.
Dirt Roads were environmentally friendly, you didn't hop in your car for a quart of milk you walked to the barn for your milk.
For your mail, you walked to the mail box.
What if it rained and the Dirt Road got washed out? That was the best part, then you stayed home and had some family time, roasted marshmallows and popped popcorn and pony rode on Daddy's shoulders and learned how to make prettier quilts than anybody.
At the end of Dirt Roads, you soon learned that bad words tasted like soap.
Most paved roads lead to trouble, Dirt Roads more likely lead to a fishing creek or a swimming hole.
At the end of a Dirt Road, the only time we even locked our car was in August, because if we didn't some neighbor would fill it with too much zucchini.
At the end of a Dirt Road, there was always extra springtime income, from when city dudes would get stuck, you'd have to hitch up a team and pull them out.
Usually you got a dollar...always you got a new friend...at the end of a Dirt Road!
© Paul Harvey
Stream by Rebecca Whittemore
In the stream shining blue,
There is a boat docked for you.
Watching a peaceful butterfly,
As it flitter, flutters by.
A stream is a place to rest on peace
A place of beauty for your eyes to feast
Listen to a song birds song.
It will exist in you all day long.
The leaves are a lush emerald tone.
The water sparkles like a sapphire stone.
Watch the clouds go by.
In the bright blue sky.
Now it's time to go home.
Where we are not alone.
We'll go again another day,
To see the stream and play.
© Rebecca Whittemore
Summer Nights by the Shore, by Jessica Dan
'Tis the summernights by the lake are very quiet,
Nothing but the constant boat rumbling by,
And the water splashing against the shoreline,
When you look out the window you see the
Shadows of the trees by the glimmering lake,
And lights of people who will soon
Lay down their peaceful heads.
© Jessica Dan
Summer Nights by the Shore 2, by Jessica Dan
The summer nights by the shore,
The lull of the soft paddle oar,
Fall my heavy eyes, to light sleep,
These memories, sounds to keep.
The murmur of waves, brush on sand,
Kiss the ground, then flutter their hand,
Incessant motion, compliments the tune,
of a dog's lament to the full moon.
A crazy loon's yodel, a bird-song to draw me near,
Over to the window, to seek and peer,
For my eyes to meet, a swift bird disguised,
As it leaps away, it's presence realized.
I tug the latch on the window's door,
Outside's cool wind, within does pour,
I embrace a sweet breath, of pine-fresh air,
To which no city's life could compare.
Brought back to life by the wonder of night,
I tiptoe from my room, downstairs a flight,
Skipping across pebbles, the moon lighting my way,
My foot imprints the sand, soon washed by day.
I come to my place, a rock by the lake,
Surrounded by berries, of one I take,
My feet skim the water, cool by the shore,
I gaze at the sky, this night my dreams soar.
© Jessica Dan
Sands of Time, by Jessica Dan
Winds whisper across the silent dunes,
On the beach, scattering vibrant tunes,
The harmonies of old times heard,
Every breath and every word.
The rune of life in nature's notes,
Subtle music the world's old quotes,
From a child's fancies to a flower's sway,
All of the history is found at this bay.
Melodies sweet, thumbed by seraphim,
From heavens above, hummed by cherubim,
Not all was dulcet - as mortality goes,
In the hills, the sorrow of grief still echoes.
The sun shines down on this sacred place,
Shifting shadows on the sand's solace face,
In this bay, reminiscence preserved in dunes,
The sands composing potent memoir tunes.
© Jessica Dan
Chickadees, An Adirondack Poem
Zero degrees and there are no visitors
At the fancy pole feeder by the kitchen window
Bare today except for a few empty husks.
A miniature gazebo in cedar with finely detailed railing
Shake shingle roof and a copper clad high cupola
We got it years ago on a quiet country road down South.
I lift the top to fill it and bring out more suet cake.
The squirrel's knocked the cover off the seed bin again
And I put it back with a few stout pieces of firewood on top.
Winters they flock together the dominant couple guiding them
To cover and food with signals too subtle for me to catch.
Three or four at a time they keep their distance
Remaining motionless between quick jabs at a striped seed
Between their feet or a glob of frozen peanut mix with fat.
The young are wary taking a far position.
For minutes on end a strong one has the place to himself
Advancing on a new arrival with high outstretched wings
Until they both are lost in a flutter of feathers
And sharp beaks falling away together off the platform.
Observing the size movement patterns and facial coloration
Of each one I try to place them in the pecking order.
An all white face returns and scares off many times.
February the sky is clear and under it the plump bodies
In sun dart briefly over the fresh snow lighting again
On the lilac bush behind the house always when they return.
In a few weeks they'll pair off some for the first time
Up to the black spruce forest on the big lot
Building their nests far off from one another in dense shade.
Camp, by Martin Schwalbaum
He comes back after the war and builds it one mile up
A dirt road on his Grandad's abandoned farm.
They spend the summer in a tent the brook for water
Cooking on one of those antique kerosene stoves
By the stone fence at the edge of the wood lot.
Years later looking for a place to dig our well
We find the rotted platform covered with forest debris
Just left there the burners and the rusted shell
So brittle it breaks up carrying it away.
We stop at a good flow only ten feet down.
He puts in six bunks a kitchen a fireplace of fieldstone
And brick and guides in season from a tree blind
In the birch forest below Basset by a spring with salt.
They hang the kill on a jack pine in front overlooking
The field still open and a view of Jay in the distance.
Food keeps in an oak basket on the shelf outside.
Nights he cooks it three ways for them mushroom stew
A cream dish and the panfried steak with raspberry jam.
They play cards by gas lights that hiss and wear
Thick malone pants with suspenders till late.
He gets the promotion to Postmaster stays away more
And finds one day tire tracks there and guts from field dressing
When he returns. After twenty years in one of those mysterious
And sudden changes of heart at a bar one night he vows
To sell the place and won't go back on his word.
The day the agent shows it we drive a fourwheeler
And walk in at the farmhouse site through deep snow
That spreads out in loose folds over the fields and woods.
Wet flakes drift down in a shower like stars
And cling together in the new element wherever they land.
Windward in a light breeze the trunks are white
And green boughs bend low with the thick layer on top.
Dead trees hang up on the limbs of the live ones
Next to them and the angle of fall makes a bright accent.
Broken branches and brush poke through the cover.
She has me get rid of the bent hooves for gun rests
From the wall and puts in curtains to cover the bare windows
But we still see the holes where the bone stuck in the wood
On long weekends whenever we can. We bring water inside
With a pitcher pump and move the sink to the front for light.
When he retires he gets the top spot at the Shriner's Lodge
Traveling to Albany and New York and we visit together
On the new porch above the skyline where he was born.
The schoolhouse is at the bottom. He dreams of a ten acre pond
And a campground here with people from all over.
I get the call at the office and his son is on the line
Telling me his Dad was helping out framing the roof.
When it happens they're at the cabin table
Alone together with the pain and confusion of it.
Next trip up the siding's all on and just needs paint.
First good snow of the year I go up with a load of oak.
Over the steep grade wheels slip the motor labors
In the soft blanket and smells hot when I get there.
Stacking new wood on the side porch I feel the weight
And keep it separate from last year's mixed birch and maple.
Following the black line running water makes flowing
Downgrade through tangled brush and frost for a moment
I can still find myself struggling to say the words right.
All the tracks are filled by the time I get back
And next day a strong wind blows it all around.
© Martin Schwalbaum
A Bird Came Down, by Emily Dickinson
A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.
And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.
He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head
Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home
Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.
A drop fell on the apple tree, by Emily Dickinson
A drop fell on the apple tree
Another on the roof;
A half a dozen kissed the eaves,
And made the gables laugh.
A few went out to help the brook,
That went to help the sea.
Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,
What necklaces could be!
The dust replaced in hoisted road
The birds jocoser sung;
The sunshine threw his hat away,
The orchards spangles hung.
The breezes brought dejected
And bathed them in the glee;
The East put out a single flag,
And signed the fete away.
First Robin, by Emily Dickinson
I dreaded that first robin so,
But he is mastered now,
And I'm accustomed to him grown,--
He hurts a little, though.
I thought if I could only live
Till that first shout got by,
Not all pianos in the woods
Had power to mangle me.
I dared not meet the daffodils,
For fear their yellow gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own.
I wished the grass would hurry,
So when 't was time to see,
He'd be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch to look at me.
I could not bear the bees should come,
I wished they'd stay away
In those dim countries where they go:
What word had they for me?
They're here, though; not a creature failed,
No blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me,
The Queen of Calvary.
Each one salutes me as he goes,
And I my childish plumes
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking drums.
Nature rarer uses yellow, by Emily Dickinson
Nature rarer uses yellow
Than another hue;
Saves she all of that for sunsets,--
Prodigal of blue,
Spending scarlet like a woman,
Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly,
Like a lover's words.
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