06.30.08
Posted in Musings, Poetry at 9:52 pm by Administrator
For a moment, just for a moment, read the few lines below, out loud. Listen to the words and see the imagery. Poetry is meant to be spoken.
“Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.” - Emerson, “The Snow Storm”
We are hard-pressed to find the same kind of poetry that was written in the 19th century - the kind of poetry that gives us wings. I love to read the poems in old journals of the past two centuries. The poetry has a certain cadence and a definite meaning. It is not just a mumble-jumble of words, senselessly strung together, meaning nothing, or else, something so obscure that the message is known only to the writer.
“The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the house mates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of Storm.” (same poem)
Imagery in poetry, as in quilting, is everything.
Patricia Cummings
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03.22.08
Posted in Poetry, Reader Mail at 7:41 pm by Administrator
More poetry from Bob Rotruck:
An Angel’s Love
I’m a very lucky person you know,
I have been blessed by an angel’s glow.
How you ask, can I know for sure,
That angels even exist all glorious and pure.
Trust me, I know, I have seen one in action,
An angel that gives love for pure satisfaction.
This angel has tended her husband for years,
A guy that occasionally brought her to tears.
An angel that raised two wonderful boys,
They’ve become fine men and her greatest joys.
But angels are more than just mothers and wives,
They go above and beyond in the living of their lives.
They take on a task that no other would take,
And do it out of pure love, no pretense or fake.
Such as tending a Mother that was frail in years,
Many times their relationship brought her tears.
But she would go back, day after day,
Because she knew that love was her pay.
She watched this tiny woman so frail,
Day after day she began to fail.
It got real bad down near the end,
But the love of an angel can never bend.
For the one thing that an angels got,
Is the backing of the Father for their lot.
An angel only knows how to share God’s love,
When you’re an angel, God fits like a glove.
Now God has rested this angel dear,
He has taken her Mother to heaven it’s clear.
This angel can rest, she has done her best,
There is no doubt she passed God’s test.
I’m a very lucky person you know,
I can boast I have an angel to show!
God bless you my angel dear,
You are my angel, it’s clear.
Rotruck – ‘02
This poem, as you can see, is dedicated to Bob’s wife. Every woman should have such an appreciative spouse! Thanks for sending this one, Bob, and Happy Easter!
Patricia Cummings — See more of Bob’s poetry in past blog entries and on this website: Quilter’s Muse
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03.15.08
Posted in Poetry at 8:52 pm by Administrator
Like many other creative artists and writers, Bob Rotruck believes that the words of his poetry come through him from a Higher Source. I take great pleasure in sharing his poem, written in 1994.
A Misty Morning in Canada. Photo by James Cummings, 2007.
“Mist in the Morning”
I awaken and look at the fresh new day
I seek the bright sun and its first ray.
But this day a pale mist hangs over the east,
It is a beautiful quietness for my eyes to feast.
What is it you see that quiets the mind?
What is it you seek for your eye to find?
A shroud of gray mist covers the land,
It is as though nature has put out her hand.
And yet the earth is coming awake.
I wonder how long it will take,
For birds and bees to look for food,
For the moisture on a leaf to do some good.
See how the mist makes the earth glisten?
Pause for a moment and just listen.
Hear the droplets of moisture fall down,
Kissing the earth it will never be found.
Maybe this drop will make a green thing grow
Perhaps it will grow to be food for a doe.
Or perhaps a tall tree it may become
To cast shade from the sun where heat comes from.
Someday this tree may push clear to the top.
And on the morn the fog it will stop,
And gather the drops of a gray mist,
It holds them there no drops it insists.
It waits for someone to listen I know,
The gray mist waits to display its show.
ROTRUCK - ‘94
Please see more of Bob Rotruck’s poetry on our website by accessing the word search function on the front page. There is also a file about his grandmother and her quilts.
Patricia Cummings, Quilter’s Muse Publications and Virtual Museum
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