I call this: HE HAD SUCH BEAUTIFUL FEET - written 8/12/1992 @ 11:12 p.m.

I wrapped him once in swaddling clothes

and now I wrap him again in death

I wrapped him special to keep him warm

I wrap him carefully as he takes his last breath

I hold him close

the cloth is too short

his feet will be cold

Oh my God - help me

please!

I've kissed those toes so many times before

I watched him crawl on

wee chubby knees

I've prayed on mine today

bruised and cut

like his face

our blood now mingles again

now

as I hold him

in this final embrace

If only I could cover

his trembling feet

please help me find more cloth

Such long toes

weathered

still so very sweet

his muscles lean - straining

going limp

his wet hair - matted

could someone help me dig the grave

that holds him now

so warm

and find me a scarf

the one

I dropped on the way?

We'll wrap his beautiful feet together and forever in all

men's hearts he'll stay - I promise

you one day they'll cherish

what you tried to say...

I promise you, my son, you'll

live years beyond your time

and all that you've done will be legend

in song

in prose

and in rhyme.

Yes, all mothers will sing

kiss their children's faces as I

kiss yours

and cover their tiny feet with bootkins;

sandals

as they walk the many shores

by many oceans - on grass

and soil

and though they sweat

in the pain of birth

and toil

they'll kiss their sons

all their children

..their fingertips and nose

holding their babes - eternal

Eternal and Delicate

is my

beautiful ROSE

The thorns that have cut my fingers; the thorns that

have crowned your head

each will I pick out carefully

carefully as once

I laid you in your bed!

I fold your hands across your chest

and remember when you waved good-bye

I've wrapped my son

again

carefully

so your feet and hands will stay safe

Dry - safe; from head to toe

dry and warm you'll always

stay

dry - wrapped again in your

'swaddling' shroud

One day from the manger mansion you'll arise....

"...now you can take my

son

away."

I call this NUMBERS DO COUNT - I wrote it in memory of the TWA FLIGHT #800 - July, 1996

The Indians once asked how

saying hello I think was their motive

Now I see burning candles - all sizes

tiny - squat - they call them

votive

Why is the curiosity summary

awaiting explanation

from the child

who grows up to salute

a nation

what is for the out-come

or definition

of answers and

recognition

who also - as the owl

who croons while

the evening's quiet

in the midst

and balloons rise

with air so buoyed

and dolls or trucks

are orphans

now that their

owner is

dead

When the quiet is because its owner

has not returned

so it becomes a 'loaner'

to the neighbor or charity

carrying on its legacy

fragile little parts of stuffing

loved inanimate dragons

puffing

and now they go

puff

as the smoke upon the waters

are not but

debris there is

once a part of an inventory list

when that vital person packed up all their

cares (not woes) and moved to their

new home

the precious framed memory of the

NOW THAT WILL BE MISSED....

Who, what, why, how, and the now - precedes

when the time has come to say good-bye

and it was never expected

that a loved one would die

not in the arbitrary due time of nature's course

coined are our phrases, thoughts with never

choice

This does come as a sad surprise

the surprise if our loved one

suddenly

dies

as a result of error; design - carelessness

or evil - a tragedy

unforeseen

tragic always -but with enormous terror

we now must deem it

obscene!

It's insane and anguish that's impossible to define

when or if it's one close to you

or you say

"at least this tragedy isn't mine"...

No? Not yours? Yes, it really is

only if you can shut off your compassion

or shutting out awareness

can you avoid the questions and the quiz?

Delivering some report or letter

struggling to make that widow somehow

feel so much better

or our child died bravely

in service of their flag

concluding that somehow you'll carry a heavy medal

about which you still

can brag?

No one wants to hold anything

other than a living and loving hand

and no one wants to line up in that tribute

with some blaring marching band!

The dismounted mount

absent

and a lonely single horse

bridled; decorated

its gait never off the chartered

course.

Photos - pages turning slowly; tears

dropped on protected pages

each heart - reaching and touching

searching for comforting words

written by poets

and departed sages!

Feeble seem our gestures

yet as feeble as they be

the enormous love and dedication

all show at times of death

their caring is what moves me!

And by the passing of a life

still the spirit of that person is the angel

who continues so alive

reminding others to cherish each day

and to do more than

'just survive'!

This blessed 'tickler' spirit

is on the calendar each hour of every day

helping us to contribute and positively extract

to family, neighbor, and who is living

near

and far away!

Bound still - alive; in some breathing form

memory of that loved one

keeps now

more than just

its small family

warm!

Laughter sings; not only for joy close-by

aching - crying - tired

one - or many now

will sigh

sometimes with relief

sometimes with sorrow

...grief...

Storm - terror - make it

brief!

Let the angels drop petals of belief

because one day we'll become that angel

and we won't be the consoling or loved one

holding

another close

instead we'll have no awareness

so while we can, we spoon up the love

and give it a whopping

'dose'...

filled with sunshine - only we can give as one - unique and single solution

we tell to others while we live

because after we can no longer share a thought

what remains resident

is merely what we've taught!

Tiny mortal teacher

without title or certificate

don't set any watch or mark on the calendar

any date you've set

when you took your first breath

and cried

somewhere on this earth,

another person died

and only people matter; living creatures - flowers - trees

nodding while babies slumber

and there is no need to count the hair

there is no need to 'number'....

there's no tally sheet - nothing to delete; or deplete

just be certain that everything is

replete

only the opportunity to participate

make great each and every day

you greet

and even if you don't shake the hands of Father-Time

or set down your recall

with any reason or rhyme

your smile and kindness makes its mark in history

when you become another's loved one - another

memory

if no one could remember

or hear that tree that fell

history still would record it

and only time will tell

what is the sound of Time's voice

has anyone ever heard it

no doubt it's heard inside

those silent while

they fondly reminisce

About the angel's kiss they miss.

So make certain that the kiss

they miss

is imparted - be it by action

some gesture of

thoughtful selection

pile them on with true affection.

Make certain that later they have an ample supply

be sure you've wrapped up packages of hugs -

just in case you die

Wrapped up affection; packages of 'arms-around'

...likes 'bows' of living ribbons

as the 'ends' flutter in the wind.

Now you've wrapped up all your cares

that ends those woes

so the numbers really will count

and when news of that bitter end

brings another message

and you have to send

the numbers that died;

the numbers that mattered

be careful how you carry them

so no more lives are

shattered

like the glass - the splinters; and as they weep

with unbearable hurt

Help them with your loving words as they dry their

eyes on your favorite shirt!

IN MEMORY OF THOSE THAT DIED IN THE TWA FLIGHT #800

I call this one: FATHER REFLECTIONS - written July 6, 1983 while traveling in the mountains - Diane Stirling-Stevens

Praise ye Father, Sun and Holy Ghost

so I

praise the night as a loving Father - snuggled in an enormous black

holey old quilt;

creating light passages that

reflect upon the many pieces of heavenly rock

upon which a church

could be built

Yes, we experience this 'nightly' and it soothes

those who lie awake

coping with their guilt

The Sun is like a mother - she radiates and nourishes the

trees

she wakes up each morning to glow and shine

while many of us pray

on our knees

which is of course, why our knees get dirty

and sometimes we put holes

in our knickers

but mom just makes patches - fixes them up

and reminds us to laugh and my

brother snickers

The Holy Ghost of the many comets

whispy

light - trailing tails

join the clouds like many angels

flying in the sky

ships of streaming sails

seem to bring the bounty

distribute the ever-lasting joy

and dust the heavenly orbs

the stimulation and activation

building up water

it rains and the earth

absorbs

giving birth to oceans - life to plants

returning again - cycle complete

we're cleansed by these showers

fed by the fruit

we splash in the cold river

that cleans our soiled

feet

The lightening is music - like the 4th of July

it's the heart-beat of nature

it's the crack that splinters the sky

It's Father's alarm clock

it's Mother's reminder

That nature might be a bit rowdy

and sometimes we think she should be

kinder

to those below who have worry and fears

who don't like winds that gust

and thunder that hurts their

ears

The Clouds appear like 'Ushers' -

Guardians-in-Motion

They move these events across land

escorting them to the ocean

out there they play - have their frolic

and tackle waves

water spouts turn about

and for a time seem like

slaves

as they rise and swirl

unable to escape

with fluid strength

they rise tall

so rainbows can manifest

inside their foam; suddenly they're released

freedom - and they make

their way back

home

There is no anger or death-ward purpose

in the play of Nature and its extraordinary

changes

it is only a normal day in the galaxy

it is the SONG SUNG OF LIFE

in unlimited ranges

From low to high

its frequency

is heard by our internal awe

it's documented by the human species

who likes to make record of what

'he saw'....

Man uses his fingers for pen; chisel and high-tech key

little letters jumping and poked

history saved for humanity!

Precious notes; journals - books and symbols

prose, poetry - acting out in mime or rhyme

History allowed to repeat itself and made

eternal

because someone decided to take the time

to make the time

to create the time

moved by the joyous spirit

and aren't we all so forunate we have

ears that can really hear it?

Remember it's not the ears that hear audible sound

it's the ears inside us

the knowing and belief we've found

We thank the Father of the Night

the Mother-Sun of Day

the Holy Ghost of Comet Angels

this exciting trinity that loves to rally

in what I define as

'NATURE'S WAY'.

Diane Stirling-Stevens

"Elena, My Mother's America" - for Mildred who was conceived in Germany; born in the USA! - 8/21/1989

Golden-haired; over 80

smiling blue eyes

thin - like a reed

charming - kind

what is this lovely lady

'Mildred'

now my newest friend

I find...

She told me how her mother came

to America years ago

on a boat

that she'd fled

so she wouldn't be dead

nor her baby growing

and Mildred was

glowing

as she told me this

when Elena told her

daughter

about what she

'aughter'

do and scolded her

bad

reminding her of her freedom

and all she had

Elena said Mildred had

better 'watch her talk'

showed her the 10 Commandments

wrote them on a black-board

with some crumbling chalk!

Mildred said she fought back

challenging Elena about 'free speech'

Elena heard her daughter

and some type of agreement

they tried to reach.

"What would you know about freedom;

you were riding in my womb...

I took you across the waters

incubated

in that tiny

'tomb'!"

"I brought you to America

so you could be born into a free and better land...

I watched you learn your first steps

on the seashore of the Pacific sand!"

Anger was in Elena's heart

but love was guiding her as well

she knew her daughter had the right

of speech

and she loved that thought of that

Liberty Bell

Suddenly she realized that because she'd made this trip

she'd brought her precious unborn child

who was growing up and now had been quite rude

..full of questions - even 'flip'

Yet her daughter was exercising the very right

she'd longed for her child to have

because both could debate and disagree

and so Elena

forgave!

Elena forgave her daughter, but her daughter saw

Elena's tears

Suddenly Mildred realized her mother's efforts;

dedicated for these many years

With head bowed - her handed extended

Mildred reached to her mother

and so the quarrel

ended

This quick exchange that day

in their quiet back-yard

while the flowers were smelling so sweet

Mildred realized it hadn't been hard

so each held the other

looked toward the sky

each showed understanding

knowing the reason why

the clouds were blue - blue in the Flag

red-blood of kinship

they walked back to the porch

for a rag

to wash off the soil

from their wooden lawn-chairs;

the 'dirt-FREE' country

where all citizens care

Where dads kiss the moms - and all the kids too

Where we all learn to cherish, the

red, white, and blue!

That night the sun kissed the trees; the moon kissed the night

Both were glad this spat had ended

--there was never a 'fight'

There was never a doubt

their thoughts were 'said and out'....

With the light of freedom's candle

there's no problem in this country

that one can not

handle.

Note: Essentially this was what Mildred (just not in a poem) told me as we had lunch in Laguna Beach, CA - 3 hours - a beautiful day in America.

Diane Stirling-Stevens

I CALL THIS ONE: "OH MY MAJESTY" - I WROTE IT 2/6/1997

Your crowning spires

your towering glories

of glass

brick

and steel

you have stolen

the deer that roamed these hills

before you leveled them to make

roads of concrete

You've sired the ghettos

and molded men into vagrants

their ladies

are now roaming the streets

looking for recyclable trash

or pinning notes on doors offering

to clean the offices

to fluff the carpet

for your expensive shoes

to walk on!

Walking to your desk

phoning to make another

deal to develop

more human waste

Your deal with those who will give

the nod much like the

wild mustard nods...

nodding to me this morning...

it agreed that it was perfectly fine for all

the tiny Finches to nest

in the near-by willows.

It nodded that it heard the

trees crash when they

fell

It nodded that it did hear

the crack of the

eggs the birds had laid

and it

nodded that

that 'yes, it's sad' there's no

picketing

when the abortion of their babies takes

place - no controversy, as to

whether it was legal

moral, or right

to kill

unborn Robins!

The token playgrounds;

the basketball poles

the nets that hang

still hang while you

hung

the homeless

at the same time!

The nets swing - rotted from rain

and sun

the wind blows the truth

it shreds the cotton

as you shredded the lives of so

many now

displaced!

Chain-link walls are twisted; bent - backs are broken

like the bottles from the near-by bar

where the unemployed spend their checks

and welfare dollars

because they'll never make

enough to get out

so why not watch the bubbles

take their troubles

up to the sky

like smoke spirals

from your

industrial chimneys!

And where is the land that grew the food

you dehydrate and package

so you can send to the victims

of foreign wars

you started to insure

your energy resources

that fuel our cars, trains, planes, and

future wars?

The baby is in a cardboard box

maybe abandoned

or maybe just a cradle in the corner

of the cold-water flat

The cereal is in the cardboard box

but there are little cartoon characters

to cut out

and a toy to play with

while mom is out mopping

and dad is out sweeping!

The cardboard box carries the paper

and the news

gets printed

on that paper

That paper tells of sorrow

that paper tells of prosperity

that paper burns nicely

when you add a few sticks

so you can warm your hands

by firelight

before you go to sleep

on the streets!

The cardboard box

makes a great shelter

if it once housed a refrigerator

for the appliance store

The cardboard box is my boat if I believe it to be;

my car is my coffin if I don't find a warm blanket

for the night

and no one knows my name!

The birds and I cry; the Golden Rod and I nod together

the mist still seeks me out

though it has to bend and

stretch harder now that

the buildings block its path!

The morning sun is reddened by pollution

yet it glows in my heart

and the music I hear

is not coming from your newly-built symphony hall; the

Art's Center exhibits - no painting as real to me

as the one pervading my pathway

while I walk over

to smell that April violet that somehow found a reason,

and a way

to bloom!

Diane Stirling-Stevens - Nevada

'CRAZY-PURPOSE SEASON' - I WROTE THIS 9/29/1997

Crazy-purpose reason

locomotive season

blind is who

not love

selfish seizin'

economics

ecology

breezin'

wind and rain

shall not remove

human will

internal spirit

simple happiness - nothing

we want to kill

parting the seas and

from our money, honey

slave to save

nature's fits - yet it is not funny

tout

doubt

compare

conquer

divide

saw - saw 'saw-dust'

debate and whine

not intelligence experts

...hide!

No war is real

it is only when we kneel

to the leader

who's appeared to be a friend,

dear 'reader'...

collection of spoils

tho' the common lives

will end

ending so violent

so silent

noise

new toys

shall liberty be

chained to all

those innocent boys?

Shall naive be classified

patriotic - yes, so brave

protect no goverment

who

writes to its citizens in

'form letters'

when it appears to 'respond' to

its loyal working

slaves!

Note: To see and hear a tribute to those that served
in the Viet Nam War (as my husband did), here's a 'touching' link:

http://www.managedmusic.com/Music/PlayBeforeYouGoVN.php

FOR MY FATHER - HIS NICK-NAME WAS 'V' - HUM FOR ME, HUM-V - MY DIANE

A jeep - bro'-peep

never lies - can't stammer

dad with his charming smile

and wielding his ballpeen hammer

a non-glamor pose - smile

that leader's red nose glows

Dad fixed General MacArthur's favorite

cart

dad - Vern - hum for me;

laugh you happy fart

Smile for me

MY DIANE

sum dumb fool

move mai guy pan to

what a canal gal

and the Honey B29

Parody-deliberately

spell it wrong - the fun is

mine

just a pair of dux

ducks in a line

Metaphor and traded bucks

while

Rudolph the red

knows rain dear

daddy writes on pain

here

never flown

passed him by

the sweet bird of youth

that does not fly

but it whimpers

growls - really sings

rusty pole

and Kayla swings!

With joy, she flies - captured attitude

eyes of love

positive altitude

did you think I should change

all those lines around

If I did

would YOU get off the ground?

Either way edit - it's mine; dear author

yet interpretation is thine - and you're entitled to bother!

Sweet flies; youth prevails

happy appreciative heart of love

with might - delight; freedom sails

Like fresh paint and summer sun

Kayla glides in August fun

Yes - she won

the beauty through her words and eyes

"Thank you, Gramps" - and Grandma Lisa

cries...

What's revealed - no Pandora, it is not sealed

FREE BIRD - Styx - pick me up with 'licks'

Chops - brow mops

dancing toes; tired

flops....

Whisks of hair without despair

beauty oh my precious flier

how you'd have lit

Great Great Grandpa's fire!

SWEET BIRD OF YOUTH - would have grabbed him by the middle

unraveling my father's sinister poem;

the one that contained a riddle

With no more quibble, dad would giggle

and his 'gufaw'

would fly with 'Old Crow' - that had rendered dad

a paralyzed 'south-paw'

Dad - Old Crow - this bird carried him through

flash-back fights;

it had flown so fiercely

on those dark, night-marish

'Bourbon' nights!

Dawn - sun - Kayla dear

"V" is humming

loud and clear

Dad, I think the day is coming

can you hear that 'hummer' humming?

I wrote this on 9/21/98 - the day they announced the 'FOR GO-ANYWHERE DRIVER; IT'S A HUM-DINGER!"

This was the 'lead story' on the new Hum-V; written by Jim Mateia, Chicago Tribute (photo of the auto acrobat - 4-wheel-drive Hummer; can go almost anywhere off the road; ride sideways along a 22-degree slope - climb a 31-degree grade, and ford a stream almost 3 feet deep.

SOME PEOPLE ARE CRUCIFIED; OTHERS USE 'DO IT YOURSELF' KITS!

ABUSED OR JUST USED - IT JUST

DEPENDS ON WHO'S CALLING THE 'SHOTS'...

By Diane Stirling-Stevens (c) - 6/15/1990

Alcohol abuse or misuse

love abuse or a ruse

accusing the spouse who's fucking up

the fuck-up

Put to the test

the spouse needs to rest

the spouse has to cry

but 'hey',

the spouse should not die

The spouse gives you love - you

you've been selected

standing by your side

but you - it is YOU

that's defected

Gone to 'Bud' -who's the 'wiser'

sucking on his tit

and if you think that's all you're doing

that's not

the half

of it.

The family's suffered pain

when you chose Mr. Bud or Mr. Jack

the family thinks it would be better

if you'd put that bottle

of "Old Jack"

back

Go out; smell the coffee - put that shit

upon the shelf

and instead, oh precious loved-one

indulge in the

spirit of

yourself!

In the SPIRIT OF SELF

one is not intoxicated

In the SPIRIT OF SELF

one is merely exhilarated

in the joy of your own birth

be a mirror of your worth

and return this gift of love

not as a screaming hawk

but as a gentle dove!

No one is a salamander

unless one is a salamander

No one stays in the gutter

unless they're too

afraid to utter

what is really being free

is making sweet-talk about

what is very right with me!

It's the foolish man who tries to fool

and it's not the same as

what I do

It's not about making poetic words and rhyme

having run-off-at-the-mouth

while running out of time!

The death-bed's your confession cradle

much too late you are too wise

the coffin is the cap - the cork

that bottles you up permanently

death is no disguise

Yes, your downer will be your down

and like some jaded and drunken clown

you'll be sealed up in your tomb

then it's back to another womb

and if there's a new beginning

a second birth of your spirit

this time when some one says "I love you"

do you think you'll really hear it?

Be it boot-straps or be it springs

will you pull up; spring up and sing

will you reach for that shining star

or just be sitting in a bar?

The stool of the dunce

is the throne of the king

the stool of the fool

is the bar stool that stings

your ass is in a sling

your butt is in a wringer

the bottle you rely on

will give you nothing but

a zinger.

Is your back-bone your only brace

and that shoe with the untied lace

is it the quicker-tripper-over

when another death you face?

A walking death; yet you function

playing near to your destruction

maybe you're a carpenter who's daily duty

is hammering up new construction

but you're blowing smoke while being sucked in

the black-hole's the carpet

that you've laid and cast in concrete

the DUI's from the car you drove

the joy ride you should be taking is the

'auto-be-on-your-feet'!

Who's your daddy - who's your caddy

who's caused you all your problem

Is it because you've been spoon-fed

and you don't like the taste of

Pablum?

So put the throttle to the bottle

from the mother's milk to beer

blame everyone but yourself

because your buck's now lost - you're out of work

and your only buck's stopped here!

You say you like it better fishing

watching your bobber float

and even when your body's stinking

you're sinking in that rotting boat

You're without a motor; without a paddle

you said being sober was nothing

but fiddle-faddle

You don't care - you don't see

With 'Bud, the Wiser' - you can't be free

You've played this game and this game's too long

and how many cards did you have to hold

and when you had the chance to bet

you laid down your hand, and said

"I fold"....

Well sweetheart, I can't hold you now

it's curtain-call - take your final bow

and before I leave you - hey, 'nice guy'

I'm glad I won't be beside you

when your liver's 'shot' - and you're going

to die!

Yes I'm bowing out; yes I might be bending

But I don't want to be around

to read the condolences they'll all be

sending

You say you'll never quit

you won't stop drinking until you're dead

Well honey, this round's on me

"Hey, what's the damages - did you say your name was Fred?"