Author: melgrieves

In the May/June 2021 issue of Ovation Nation, we printed a “crowdsourced” poem about beauty. Many residents contributed to it, and it was very tough to use only parts of the work that some submitted. We thought you might like to read some of the complete poems that were sent in. We have such talented, beauty-loving folks here. Enjoy!


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Where I See Beauty
By Gina Roen

I see beauty

In the plant thriving on benign neglect on the bathroom ledge,
In the bounty on the shelves of my pantry,
In a dog-eared book ready to fill a lazy afternoon,
In the kindness of strangers.

I see beauty

In the chaos of scent from the spice rack,
In the orderly columns of numbers on my bank statement,
In a tattered frisbee sailing on the breeze,
In watercolor brushes jumbled next to an unfinished painting.

A still lake, a blushing mountain top, a sleeping child:
Symmetry, completion, closure.
A falling tear, a tangled web, a missing puzzle piece:
The imperfect perfect of hope

I see beauty

In moss-covered stumps in the preserve,
In undulating notes on manuscript,
Or the dust gathering on the mantlepiece,
As I take a moment to ponder

Beauty.


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Where I See Beauty
By Kris Sather

Itchy fingers 
Scratch the dirt
Seeking affirmation of 
Spring

Dew drops dangle
Pregnant with promise above the
Anticipating seeds


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Where I See Beauty
By Beth Mooney

A haiku

In mossy forests
birds sing farewell to frost
Daffodils?  It’s Spring!


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Where I See Beauty
By Sue Drummond

I see beauty in the smiles of friends.
I see beauty in the card that says I’ve had my 2nd Covid shot
I see beauty in neighbors who really DO care 
I see beauty in every wrinkle.  I earned every one.


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Where I See Beauty
By Donna Crabbe

So many questions –
Where was he born?
Where has he been?
Where did he work?
What changes has he seen?
Did he raise a family?
What makes him happy?
What makes him sad?
What has he learned from life’s experiences?
Faces of the elderly are so beautiful to me!


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Where I See Beauty
By Sally Grant

In the love of family and friends 
The smile and joy of a child
The care of others in need
The loving eyes of a pet
Sunrises, sunsets, storming clouds 
So many different shades of green
Autumn colors and Spring flowers 
Vast oceans and snow-capped mountains 
A snowflake, a glistening raindrop
Millions of stars on a clear night 
Absolute magic.


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Where I See Beauty
By Miriam Hewitt

Anticipated beauty slides between my gloved fingers 
as I fill the pots and loosen the roots
then gently settle the buds into their new home.
Small Daphne in the too-big pot
will fulfill its promised beauty soon.


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Where I See Beauty
By Nancy Bushore

I see beauty everywhere from skies to earth to sea:
I see it in the friendliness of neighbors close to me,
I see it in the seasons which bring colors of their own,
I see it in the rainbow – the promised hope it’s shown.

I see beauty in the oaks and the variety of evergreens,
And now purple crocus blooming everywhere are seen.
I watch red-orange sunsets as the sun meets the horizon,
And a man delivering packages from a truck labeled Amazon.        

I see yellow daffodils by a hiking trail near me
And a majestic mountain 14,000 feet above the sea.
I see the soft brown color in the eyes of fawn and doe,
And birds flying through the forest, chirping as they go.

I see Japanese maples with their red leaves sprouting soon,
A clear nighttime sky filled with stars and bright moon,
The agility of a Sheltie catching Frisbees in the air,
And neighbors helping neighbors in households everywhere.

Beauty can be colorful or just be something that we share –
It’s in nature, or an art form, or showing others that we care.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder no matter where you go
And it thrives here in Ovation through rain and sun and snow.


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Finally  
By Gayle Wilhelm

Got a call from my son,
 “Mom, I need you to come.”
“Son, is everything okay?”
“Mom, I wish I could say.”
He’s waiting in the drive
watching me arrive.
I step out to my son
And brace for what’s to come.
Says, “This hug’s waited too long
for my vaccinated Mom.”


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Where I See Beauty
By Mel Grieves

When I was young, beauty meant only the skinny girls,
Mostly ones with blonde hair and mascaraed eyes.
It took a special man, sometime in my thirties,
To convince me he saw beauty in character and thick thighs.

I didn’t see it myself, but I was grateful he did.
Sad that kids learn beauty can be claimed by so few.
Girls, especially, short-change themselves
By wasting true beauty to please the mirror’s view.

At some point, if we’re lucky, we come to know
That beauty transcends body and is in all that we see.
Nature’s beauty spills over us, manifesting in love.
Beauty is in the differences; maybe even in me.


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Where I See Beauty
By Mike Grant

Yosemite Valley, viewed from the West,
A spectacle considered among the best.
My mother seated on the viewpoint wall,
A vision of beauty, a sight to enthrall;
Granddaughter held on her knees.
Memories are made in moments like these.

Your newborn
Still wrinkled and wet
Wrapped in a blanket
For its mother to hold
Nothing compares

For some an idyllic land or seascape
Others an artwork or meticulous craft
We can appreciate their beauty
Their dimension and depth
But consider instead a confident smile
That both invites and rewards

Impressionist paintings
A daughter’s passion
Evidenced on her fridge door
Monet, Monet everywhere
A wife’s passion too
For her, Van Gogh
Grateful that he lost an ear not his eye

Is there beauty in a sound?
Surely a child’s laugh
Any laugh come to that
What about Mozart?
No, not his laugh
All the wonderful music
You want to play me some hip-hop?
Sorry, there’s a train going by

That which transports your mind
To a better or more peaceful place
Full of wonder and possibility
Sailing into the heart of Venice
A fiery sunset on a Pacific horizon
Many sights on a cruise vacation
Also, chocolate night on the pool deck

Everywhere you look you can find it
An optimistic state of mind
A kind word, a friendly smile
Strangers helping one another
Children sharing a game
The empathy and loyalty of your dog
Or your cat …. No, wait.

Visions of mountains and water
On a clear sunny day crossing Elliot Bay
Or the narrow road from Fort William to Mallaig
To reach the ferry to the Isle of Skye
The view from the rim of Vesuvius
Nightfall on Mauna Kea, freezing cold
They stir the soul. Yes, a cliché
But if you are there you have to agree
The world is a wonder
Let’s not destroy it

Somber clouds grumble above, as if to say, “You can’t ignore me!” The arms of firs whisper in the wind, a hollow tune in a minor key. Broken branches punctuate the path, laying bare a storm’s passing. Defiant patches of icy whiteness echo winter’s cry, “You can’t defeat me!” Camouflaged deer hunker down, their eyes willing, “You don’t see me.” Twittering birds challenge the squirrels: “You can’t catch me!” Fleeting shadows mark the passage of time and place as the conversations among the oaks harken a long-awaited change. Daffodils peek through the sodden leaves and proclaim, “You can’t stop me!” Spring!

A couple of months ago I decided to give up my bowling career. The season was long, and league games at night started to cut into my sleeping hours. The question now was what could I do with a custom drilled urethane covered red, white and blue striped bowling ball, a matching bag, and size 10 matching shoes. I looked pretty sharp on the lanes. My game wasn’t.

I took the plunge and drove down to Sparky’s Pawn. He must have seen me coming because he had all kinds of excuses on why my offering was really an unsaleable item for them. I pondered my next move and Eureka! the answer was standing in a corner of the shop all by itself. I put on my best horse-trading look and brought a relatively loaded golf bag to the counter.

“How about an even trade?” I asked Porky the proprietor’s son.

“He gave my trade-in the once over, saw what I had grabbed and said I would have to chip in an extra five bucks to seal the deal.

I walked out of there with visions of a brand new retirement sport career. I came home and proudly displayed my new purchase to my wife. 

“Look honey, and I got them cheap.” I exclaimed.

“She stared at my marketing coup and said, yes they do look cheap.”

I was a bit disappointed she didn’t share my enthusiasm of the tools to start a new chapter in my life.

I took my equipment out into the garage and inspected each item.

The bag was a little torn in a few places but duct tape fixed it right up. There were some zippered pockets, one with the bottom missing, some clips for some gadget, and a strap for the bag. The strap was a different color than the bag but I figured that was the way it was supposed to be.

I took out the sticks. There was seven of them. Each had a number on the end. I looked them over. One had a three stamped in the end. It looked like it was made out of wood. Three of them had a number seven engraved into the end. One had a number nine on it, and two didn’t have anything at all stamped anywhere. They were a different shape and looked like paddles. I was set.

My wife said I should take lessons first. Now I probably could have conquered the game of golf easily but I decided to humor the old gal. 

I contacted a woman named Kelly Donahue. She was highly recommended by the service counter boys at a nearby golf course. I made arrangements and got ready for a new adventure.

We met at a large meeting room in the new fire station down the road. There were twelve of us.

Kelly instructed me to bring a seven iron and a yoga mat. I assumed an iron was one of those with a seven on it. They were all different. All of those in the bag were stamped with a different name. There was Callaway, Wilson, Taylor Made, Bridgestone, Titleist, and so on. I grabbed the seven with Walmart stamped on it. Couldn’t go wrong with that one!

We introduced ourselves and got right down to business. The yoga mat was spread out and we went through various contortions. She said it was important to loosen up before we started. 

Hell, loosening up before I went bowling was a pitcher of beer. What had I gotten into?

We stood up, did more dips and stretches and then it was time for the good stuff. 

“Grab your seven, and interlock your little finger on your right hand with your first finger on your left hand and hold loosely. Don’t grip too hard.” She ordered.

She walked around and adjusted people’s hands. She came to me. And stared.

“You haven‘t had lessons before have you, Bob?’ she questioned.

“No, I said, but I’m excited to be here. Why, am I grabbing the stick wrong?”

I thought I saw her slightly roll her eyes.

“First of all these are called clubs, not sticks.” she said and spread her arms out to the expanse of the other students, and second of all you need to see how the others club grip look.”

I quickly turned the instrument upside down so the heavy part was on the floor. 

We took gentle swings back and forth and I listened intently to all instructions. After all this was costing me money and I wanted to get things right.

One half hour later we were ready to set up for a real swing at an imaginary ball. I set my stance as instructed, stuck out my butt, bent my knees slightly, adjusted my hand grip and started my back swing keeping my left arm straight. 

Kelly grabbed my upper torso prodding me to keep twisting back to the right all the while looking down at where the ball would be laying.

“Okay now Bob, nice and easy swing forward keeping that arm straight.” She commanded.

I didn’t move.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“My back went into spasms, I can’t move, I said as I winced, and it won’t unwind.”

It took some time to get loosened up again but I didn’t try that exercise again.

“Now, I want you all to get an actual round of golf in before our next class.” She said and waved goodbye.

I played eighteen holes of golf two days later.

The garbage men just took away those weapons of mass destruction this morning.

I’m thinking about buying a corn hole set. Now I am of a certain age that corn hole meant something different than throwing beanbags into a hole in a board.

But I don’t have to take any lessons to play that game.

My best friend Bradley and I were Cub Scout participants.  It was a wonderful program and we learned so much about ourselves, our abilities, and developing friendships. Advancement was a big part of being a successful scout. During our last year of the program, at age 11, we decided we had enough knowledge to go on a solo camping adventure.

Bradley lived on a farm about seven miles from our little town in central Montana. It was a flatland farming community. Acres and acres of crops such as wheat, barley, durum and oats covered the country side. His family raised a few cattle to supplement their income. Farmers were at the mercy of Mother Nature in that part of the world so hedging a bet with cattle was not uncommon. 

We picked up knowledge from manuals, other group adventures, and listening to our leaders and older members of Scouting about camping. 

We decided we were ready. The handbook told us to make a list of essential items for successful adventure. We did that. Bradley’s dad had a pup tent. We kind of knew how it set up. Check. We found some old binoculars in the garage and although only one lens worked we decided it would suffice. Check. A compass, we didn’t have a clue how it worked but read where it was an absolute necessity in outdoor trekking. Check. Matches. Check. A scout knife. Yes, I had just gotten one the year before for Christmas. Check. We had our own sleeping bags, pillows, and a change of clothing. We had learned to be ready for any change in weather so we packed a couple of winter parkas, just in case. This is Montana, in August, where the temperature is about 85 degrees. You never knew. 

Now food. This was an open subject so we decided to bring packable and easy prep items. We got some carrots and two big potatoes from his Mom’s garden, and some beef jerky from the pantry. A quart of milk, an apple, and a couple of Clarks Bars. We would not starve. We wrapped the vegetables in tin foil and dumped all of our supplies into a large paper bag. We were off. Wait! The manual said we should have some kind of shovel for digging latrines, and fire pits. It showed a picture of a folding backpack tool. We looked around and decided the snow shovel leaning against the back of the house might work. It was quite large and cumbersome but a shovel was on the list of things to bring so we dragged it along.

We debated where we should camp. The farm had 80 acres of hilly pasture land south and east of his home. He had hunted gophers in that area so he knew it would be an easy hike. He did mention that there were occasional coyote sightings up there and they could be heard at night. We decided, after much thought, of setting up camp about fifty yards from the house. We nestled and wrestled our tent up between two rows of caraganas. They were hardy bushes that served as wind breaks for most farms and ranches in this windy dry region. We felt like our set up was well hidden and private. 

The excitement was great, as we were on our own in the wilderness. The first order of business was to build a fire in a safe area. The snow shovel wasn’t exactly easy to use, but we cleared a fire break area about six feet around our chosen site. The plan was to dig a fire pit in the center. That’s what the manual said, so that’s what we did. The actual digging of a hole in that ground was difficult. The shovel was really worthless at this point so we found some old dead branches, sharpened them to a point and stabbed at the earth to loosen it up. Success! We had what we wanted in about an hour. 

There wasn’t an abundance of twigs  and kindling to get our blaze going so we walked up to the barn and grabbed some dried out boards that had, in years gone by, been some kind of a shed. The fire wouldn’t take off as we struggled to get a flame. We had to think on our feet as we were intrepid explorers so Bradley ran back to the house and found a stack of newspapers. We bunched them up in the hole, covered them with small pieces of wood and struck a match. We were down to the last bundle of paper, crouched around the pit and lit our last match. A piece of wood had actually started burning. We were cooking now! 

We added fuel until we had a substantial blaze going. We talked about the fact we should have had some marshmallow or hot dogs. Maybe next time. The bed of coals burned brightly and we moved the embers to the side of the hole, buried our wrapped vegetables and covered them with the hot coals. We decided it would take a while to cook so we went on to other things. 

The farm reservoir was a short distance from our site so we walked over to it. There was something wonderful about a body of water. The water was anything but clear and beautiful. The cattle came in the far side for drinks and sloshed around in it during the hot days. Cattails, water lilies, and other unidentifiable plants adorned the edges of the water. We threw rocks at different targets, waded into the murky liquid, tried to track down a couple of croaking frogs, and talked about getting a jarful of the water and boiling it to drink. We read that in our scout books too. We didn’t do it. Too much work. It was time to eat.

We found we had left the foil wrapped food a little too long. The potato was quite black and the carrot did not look like a carrot. No hot food tonight. We covered the fire pit with dirt and poured enough water on it to drown an elephant. A proper scouting move. The jerky was good and it was cool to drink milk out of the carton without being yelled at. We took turns chomping on the apple. It was a contest to see who could take the last bite. Needless to say only the stem remained in that game. I lost, but didn’t have a bunch of apple seeds in my belly. The chocolate bar for dessert and we were set to roll the sleeping bags out. 

We had to haul straw from the barn to use as a bedding cushion because we had set our tent up on a rock pile and needed something to make things more comfortable. We looked for cattle and coyotes with our monocular and dug a three inch deep moat around the tent in case a monsoon of rain might hit us. The canal would sweep the water away from our domicile. 

It was time for bed. We wrapped up in the sleeping bags and tried to out burp and out fart each other. Each attempt of quality noise, of course, was followed by giggles. It wasn’t dark out yet but dusk was fast approaching. 

Sometime in the next hour or so we had run out of jokes and scary stories. I went to sleep.

Suddenly I was awake. There was an animal at the tent entrance. The coyote had come to drag us away. I heard some noise that I thought was deep growling. I was terrified.

“Tippy, get out of here!” Bradley yelled.

The family dog apparently had come up to see what was going on at the camp. 

The ten o’clock hour came and my camping partner and I were snug and warm and safe in our sleeping bags. A plush pillow cradled my head. The floor of the living room was soft and cushiony. I went to sleep.

 Their first Thanksgiving celebration took place on November 25th, 1976. Two settlers had arrived nearly a month prior on the Queen of the Skies from Heathrow to LAX. Unlike their countrymen who had preceded them by 356 years, they had escaped the ravages of scurvy, but suffered rubber chicken instead. One settler was with child and happy, after ten hours, to leave her cramped accomodations. 

Moving south to Newport Beach, the settlers made their way to the Marriott, Fashion Island, site of an encampment known to the locals as an upscale mall. Here they found clothing hanging on racks in spacious arrangements. This is strange they thought. Surely, clothes should be stacked in piles on a waist-high counter. They wondered how the merchant could make money from such a sparse assortment. They looked at a price tag and understood. 

When recovered from a malady called jet lag, they embarked upon a search for a homestead. A helpful agent inquired if they were seeking a pool or air conditioning. They knew not of these things and declined. The agent conveyed them in a fancy carriage to view various properties and it was decided that they would purchase a rambler in the settlement of Mission Viejo. It needs TLC they were advised but they did not understand. They were told of the crumbling drapes and yellow circles in the shag carpet. They knew of shag and again were confused. 

The settlers went about their appointed tasks; the husband creating a place of manufacture and appointing local citizens to work therein. Meanwhile, the wife arranged for medical assistance with the birth of their child. She and her husband held hands, seated on pillows in a circle with other couples, while a coach directed them to exhale in rapid succession. 

After three weeks had elapsed, they received a generous invitation to a spectacular feast with some local natives, much as their forebears had done. A roasted turkey was brought forth in a manner they found familiar. The patriarch of their family in the old country was an artisan of repute and his precise dissection of the turkey was greatly admired. They were alarmed as their host attacked the turkey with great ferocity while wielding an electric carving knife. His wife brought out a dish of sweetened yams covered with marshmallow. This did create trepidation in the settlers who were unfamiliar with this concoction. 

While consuming this bountiful feast, the settlers learned that they were celebrating a successful harvest. They agreed that this was a worthy cause and remarked upon the fact that turkeys could be obtained without charge if other provisions were also purchased. This had caused them to rejoice that this indeed was the promised land. 

The settlers have remained friends with their native hosts to this day and each family celebrates Thanksgiving with their three children and many grandchildren. 

I was ten years old when the circus came to town. It was quite an event for a community of 300 people.

The tent seemed just as big as the big top circus I had seen on television.  I was enthralled at everything I saw. A clown even talked to me.

I wanted to try my hand at the shooting gallery. The air rifles at the booth were exactly like the BB gun I owned. I had become a pretty good shot with that old Daisy so I felt confident.

I plunked my dime down and was told I needed to hit and knock down small plastic statues three times in a row to win a prize.

The man in the booth pressed a cork into the end of the rifle and stood back. I knocked the first target down with no problem. The second shot was met with the same success. I took my time with the third shot as winning a prize was in the balance. The cork flew out at an angle and missed the target by a foot to the right. Groan.

I was devastated. How could I miss so badly? I walked away dejected. My Dad, a marksman in the Navy during World War II stood beside me and told me to try it one more time. I didn’t have another dime. He took out my entry fee and flipped it to the carnival worker.

Okay, I thought, just aim and fire. Success! I was right on the money with the first two shots. The man pushed a cork into the rifle and I set up to shoot again. My Dad reached over and did something with the cork then encouraged me to sight carefully and knock it down. Bullseye!

I’m sure the prize wasn’t anything more than some trinket, but still the same I had won at a game of skill.

We moved on to buy some cotton candy, and some peanuts to feed the elephant. It was a glorious day.

It was much later that my Dad let me in the carnival scam. If a participant had a chance at winning, the guy manning the booth would push the cork in at an angle, and it would not fire straight.

My Dad saw the scheme and didn’t make a big deal about it, he just gave me an opportunity to succeed and not be a victim of a crooked game. That was my Dad.

The wave of amber grain 

And blue sky meet 

On a sublime autumn day

To feel the sunshine’s heat

The path of dirt and dust 

Leads a way of quiet solitude

Where the crickets play a familiar song

Where no disturbing sound need intrude

And the quiet pall surrounds me

Away from stress and strife

I stay at this place in my mind

A memory of a simple life

An escape from the weight of reality 

In search of days of old

I remember for a time of restful peace

And a glimpse of acts so bold

When living was light and free

Contentment was easily found

Aroused from this dreamy state now 

To search for happiness unbound

I thought I saw a shadow, a glimpse as you went by,

A trick my eyes were playing, I knew, produced a little sigh.

You have been gone from me, but I hear a faint sound there,

The humming of your sweet voice coming from your favorite
rocking chair.

Oh, if I could have one more day to say those things I thought

And take back all the petty things when I became distraught.

The scent of your sweet presence still lingers in the air,

Or am I just imaging, it matters not, for I so care

The memory of our strong love, the fullness of my heart

Will never ever be lost, from my mind, even though we are apart.

It is close to my time to be with you, the distance has been thinned,

Be sure, my love that I will always be

Searching for your face in the wind.

I sit across from you, watching as you stare

At an unknown place beyond my face, your thoughts arriving there

I am a prisoner of your silence, and you the same of me

No words can ease the blade of pain, the tears I only see

That stream down from those lonely eyes, the sadness that must be.

I’ve broken your trust again my love, but words won’t fix the stage,

If you would only raise your voice and let go, some pent up rage.

We sit here playing the same old tune, our dance with so much sorrow.

But I promise you, with a solemn oath,

That I’ll quit drinking tomorrow.

We all live in a world where success is a measure of man

More money, cars, and vacation homes, seem to be the greatest plan

To win is all that matters, no one wants second place

To be looked upon as an abject fool and go home in disdain and disgrace.

Just be the best, the top of the class, the grades to make teachers beam

Forget all else, and always ignore, that there is no “I” in team

Be the cutest, the strongest, most popular, and a star;

To have the most Facebook friends not caring who they are.

To have the perfect wedding, the ring, the flowers, the bride,

And the portfolio of the photographs to show all others with pride

But something happens to our successful man, a stumble along the way,

A mistake, a foul, and errant pass, puts the path in disarray.

I realized, soon, in the world of truth, the way it will always be

Life that is lived, the destiny that I follow is good enough for me.

Yes, I praise the winner, enjoy success, and accept those who disagree

But I love my life, my lot in life, and believe OK is good enough for me.