Nature's Birth

A poem using synonyms by Clint Gardner 2008

******


How fresh is the birth of a child.
Like a breeze drifting in off the Sea.
We welcomed our new son with joy,
The first time his face we could see.

We had longed for the chance to be present,
When his first earthly cry we would hear.
And we thank our great God for his grace & his love
That allowed that we could be here.

For this is a time like no other,
Like the rise of the bright morning sun.
When the Doctor brings forth, and lays in our arms
The infant; our God given son!

Like the beauty of Nature’s first light,
That enlightens a tall mountain peak.
For our eyes they were both filled with awe…
When we took of our child our first peek.

As the warmth of the sun comes alive,
Like a flower that’s touched by the bee.
What a blessing to see, the potential indeed,
That inside of this child there might be!

As the sound of a clear mountain stream,
Trickles on as the waters run by;
I’m reminded by God’s purest flow…
That there’s moments in life you can’t buy.

For here is the essence of life…
A child, so tiny and lite.
But it holds in its soul, the greatest of gifts,
The lantern of God’s precious light!

As morning arrives, and the sun moves across
The meadow…revealing the dew.
You know in your heart, that there’s nothing in life,
That will limit what this child could do.

The flowers that lie in the meadow so bright,
Seem aligned in neat little rows.
And God must be great to have given to me…
This child that came forth from a Rose!

How mighty’s the forest that covers the land,
Its secret: the strength of the wood.
God give me the strength to lead my new son…
Down the path that God’s destiny would.

When I look to the heaven’s in the afternoon sky,
See the sunset, whose beauty we knew.
Then we marvel to think that this small little child…
Is from God, and a blessing so new.

Our new little boy, asleep in my arms,
I scarcely can guess what he weigh.
But the glory of life surrounds us each day,
And I know God will show us the way.

So next time you’re out in the world that we share,
Look around, take a moment or two…
To look at the mountains, the trees, and the sky,
Then, you’ll... see his majesty too.

‘Cause I can’t help but look, at this small little child,
And realize the gift that we’ve won…
A gift that is greater than Nature itself,
Is our child, our blessing, our son!

Meet our new son: Ethan Arthur Gardner




.

Lonely Lake by Joyce Kennedy

It was the name given it on our hiking map. Intrigued,
we followed a narrow, rising trail flecked with autumn,
aspen leaves beneath our feet, young trees leaning across
as if to guard the integrity of loneliness. At the end,
we found the lake, small jewel shining in space, not
obviously frequented, although there was a rickety
dock and on it, a battered rowboat and dented canoe.
No paddles. We sat, one in rowboat, one in canoe,
the loneliness of the lake pared down to bare essentials—
shore lined with thick, dark pine, intense and cloudless sky,
sun flaring on water's changing surface. A hawk dipped
down to startle the peace while two ducks rode the ripples
unperturbed. Stunned by beauty, we reached across—
boat to canoe, canoe to boat—to touch hands,
our own lonely selves connecting as lightly and effortlessly
as the dragonfly wing that earlier brushed against my face.

Why? by Dr. Jack Hyles

Always has been one of my favorite's:

I was in Mansfield. Ohio, sitting on a platform about to speak. The Pastor of the church where I was speaking leaned over and whispered to me that there was a certain lady in the back whose husband had cancer. He asked me to pray for her and for him. After the service, several people came by to express their burdens and heartaches and divulge the loads they carried. I went to my room and thought of the many people in my own church who carry similar loads. My mind settled on one particular one who just a few days before had looked through tears toward me to ask, "Why, Pastor, why?" These meditations caused me to sit in my motel room one Labor Day afternoon and pen the following lines:

I have sat beside a tiny crib,
And watched a baby die,
As parents slowly turned toward me,
To ask, "Oh, Pastor, why?"

I have held the youthful husband's head,
And felt death's heave and sigh.
A widow looked through tears and said,
"Dear Pastor, tell me why?"

I have seen a gold-star mother weep,
And hold a picture nigh
Her lonely breast, and softly ask,
"Why? Pastor, why, oh, why?"

I have walked away from babyland,
Where still-born babies lie.
A mother stretches empty arms,
And asks me, "Pastor, why?"

I have watched my drunken Father leave
Our home, and say "good-bye,"
While looking into Mother's face
I asked, "Please tell me why?"

I have heard the white-tipped tapping cane,
Which leads a blinded eye.
And then a darkened, lonely voice
Cries, Preacher, show me why."

I have caught a fiancee's burning tears,
And heard her lonely cry.
She held an unused wedding gown,
And shouted, "Pastor, why?"

I have heard the cancer patient say,
" 'Tis gain for me to die;"
Then look into his daughter's face,
And mutely whisper, "Why?"

I have seen a father take his life,
A widow stands nearby;
As little children say, "Dear Mom,
The Preacher'll tell us why."

I've seen my mother stand beside
Two tiny graves and cry.
And though she's never let me know,
I knew she wondered, "Why?"

I've heard an orphan faintly say,
Who gazed into the sky,
"Tho Mom and Dad have gone away,
My Preacher will know why."

I tiptoed to my Father's throne,
So timid and so shy,
To say, "Dear God, some of Your own
Are wanting to know why."

I heard him say so tenderly,
"Their eyes I'll gladly dry,
Tho they must look through faith today,
Tomorrow they'll know why."

"If now they find the reasons that
Their hopes have gone awry,
In Heaven, they will miss the joy
Of hearing Me tell why."

And so I've found it pleases Him
When I can testify,
"I'll trust my God to do what's best,
And wait to find out why."

Wild Flowers

A poem by Clint Gardner, 2005

Wild flowers of every sort,
Most everywhere you step.
Treasure’s in the Browns Park sun,
Their beauty here is kept.

Landscape drawn in perfect hue
Upon this Douglas stage.
Surrounded by the Aspen trees
And the miles of mountain sage

Yellow, gold, and shades of purple
The bloom of the Biscuit Root
A butterfly goes dancing by…
All seen at a traveler’s foot

Springtime erupts; there’s a lady bug,
Every bloom is a bright surprise.
With flowers bursting everywhere
In every shape and size

Indian Paintbrush tucked beneath
The mountain Sarvis brush.
It silently unfolds its beauty…
With a bold, yet quiet hush!

The beauty of this mountain scene,
Below Zenobia’s Peak.
Will draw you back – and back again…
To partake of another peek.


Wildflowers:

Douglas Mountain

The aspen quake with the gentle breeze,
In a draw filled with grasses green.
Then I sit and stare at this land so clean,
And I see what my Dad has seen.

The miles and miles of endless sage,
Are now caressed by an evening breeze.
The sage is anchored by snarled roots,
And now I see what my Granddad’s seen.

Miles of grasses with seedling tips,
Wild flowers in the midst.
The kinds and colors before me now…
Too numerous to list.

The Indian Paintbrush – bold and red,
Intermittent beside the road.
Always so vibrant and wonderful.
Just as mother…their beauty had told.

The gentle sway of the meadow grasses,
Below the Maddux place.
Might explain the whirr in the trees,
And the awe in my watchful face.

For to visit a place as grand as this,
And experience its peace.
Is something one can never loose,
It’s a love that will not cease.

My Granddad loved this blessed place,
And will for all of time,
And so our thoughts are all with his…
I know it is - with mine.

Clint Gardner 2005

Douglas Mountain Memories

I was too small to have much recollection of traveling up the mountain with Dad. But my older brother and sisters can remember.

When I was a kid and it was time for vacation,
If Dad said "Douglas Mountain", it was instant elation!
We'd pack up the station wagon and head out of town.
We'd turn off at Maybell; Dad knew his way around.

We stopped at Greystone, population 2.
A friendly couple ran the store and post office, and sold gasoline too.
We all used the outhouse located behind the store,
got a cold pop, and visited some more.

We drove a little further and then turned right.
"Douglas Mountain Blvd." was now in sight!
As we crept up the hill, all in low gear,
We kept a close lookout, for critters and deer.

Dad stopped along the way to check under the car,
And we'd stand at the edge of the mountain and see so far.
We had a panoramic view and saw miles away.
Even to Wyoming- and down to the Foote Place.

Then we headed up the mountain once again,
And suddenly, there's The Homestead, as we rounded a bend.
Dad and Grandpa built that they said.
It still stands today, and Dad was just a kid.

There were several head of cattle watchin' us and mooin'.
Some scrambled off the road wonderin' what we were doin'.
So we'd moo back as we drove past.
Won't be long now- we'll see the Maddox Place at last!

Before very long, there it would be!
The neat rustic house framed by mountains and trees.
The bunk house, corrals, and the outhouse of course.
Now we could play cowboys and indians- on a real horse!

We had lots of fun with Norma as she took us all over.
She had her own play house; I could stay here forever.
We'd climb the red-rock mountain with it's crevices and caves.
When we reached the top, we'd holler and wave.

Going to Douglas Mountain was always special and grand,
We're so thankful that we still can!

By Carole Gardner 2008.

My Grandma's Old Rocking Chair

by Clint Gardner 2008

Rocking my son, deep in the night,
He is searching for some rest.
As I sing to him a lullaby…
His vocal chords he tests.

We sit in that old rocking chair,
My family knows it well.
For each of us, if we were asked…
Could find a tale to tell.

A childhood memory where Grandma sat
In this same rocking chair...
And talked to us, her grandchildren;
There’s a story...we each could share!

‘Cause that old chair has been around,
At least as long as me.
For more than 50 years it’s been...
A part, in our history.

My Grandma loved that ‘rocking chair’,
She passed it on to Mother.
From Mother, to my Sister Lynn...
From Lynn, a gift to Brother.

After all the years now past,
My Grandma’s long since gone.
My son’s now rocking in that chair,
His life...just in its dawn.

To think…that he now gets to rock
Where my Grandma used to rest.
Makes me feel a little proud...
Like, he’s an honored guest!

My Grandma loved that rocking chair,
My Mother loved it too!
And now I rock my son to sleep...
A time for ‘just us two’!

Grandma Flo: “Your chair still works!”
At rocking kids to sleep.
And if I think about it long...
My eyes begin to weep.

For I know you and Mom would both
Have loved to rock my son.
So as I rock, I’ll think of you...
And we will get it done!

Sweet dreams Ethan!

Dedicated to My Grandma: Florence Coulson,
Her rocking chair we still use today,
My Dearest Mother Eva Mae Gardner,
And all the children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren
Who have rocked in Grandma’s chair!

A Father's Love

A Father's love cannot be weighed,
In dollar's or in cents.
But as his children tend to grow,
The car begins to dent.

Despite the dents,and cuts,and bruises,
He loves his children still.
And stands beside them 'thick or thin',
And so...he always will.

The good times he encounters,
Far outweighs the gloom.
Though he would really like to see,
That they could clean their room

Father's love their children...
In good times or in bad.
And Dad's the first to be there...
If their face is looking sad.

He'll put his arm around his child,
Push the hair out of their face.
Kiss them gently on the cheek,
Their grief...he'll then embrace.

There's nothing greater in the world,
Than a Dad's undying love.
And though they try to pay him back
They'll never rise above.

So when you talk to Clinton,
And he's bragging oh so loud.
He'll raise his kids the best he can,
And know that he is proud.

And though sometimes they go astray,
And cause their Daddy stress...
You know he'd never change a thing,
And do with one child less.

Written by Clint Gardner 1998

Marta Miles

I worked at the 1996 Summer Olympic Games in Atlanta Georgia in 1996. I worked for the Security Team Program (STP). We were all issued a MARTA card to get free transportation on the Bus or MARTA rail system. I think MARTA stood for Metro Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority...or something like that.

It's out the gate, and to the right,
To a table down the block.
There's people there both day and night,
So we don't have to walk.

The wait is short, it's not too long,
Till you're riding in a shuttle;
The driver's moving things along...
Cause the passengers must huddle.

Shoot the card to pay the fare,
Then quickly through the gate.
Across the floor and up the stairs,
Again...we stand and wait!

It's not too long, the MARTA shows,
And opens up it's doors.
We quickly load, and off it goes,
To take us to some stores.

Sometimes we get to take a seat,
At times, we have to stand.
Inside we're sheltered from the heat,
Above, or under land.

Five Points, Peachtree, Lenox, Buckhead,
These common destinations.
Be careful not to be mislead,
By faulty information.

Whether Dunwoody or Doraville, or just to CNN,
These MARTA miles are adding up...because of STP.
We've used it many times so far, I'm sure we will again,
A very useful service here...on that, we'll all agree!

Clinton Gardner 1996

Good-bye

Written by Clinton Gardner 1998

Good-bye.
There is no good in good-bye.
For good-bye is only the beginning...
of loneliness.
Loneliness has no end.
Today is the end of my joy.

Solitude.
There is no peace in solitude.
For solitude is only the absence...
of companionship.
Companionship is hard to find.
Today I have none.

Desire.
There is no satisfaction in desire.
For desire is only an emptiness...
in my heart.
A void I cannot fill.
Today she said good-bye.

Two Tiny Blue Socks

Written by Clinton Gardner 2008




There's always been this mys-tery
In every laundry room,
How one half of...a pair of socks
Could meet some form of doom.

There never was a sign of struggle.
No blood, no ghastly gore,
Just suddenly, one little sock,
Would cease and be no more.

The standard wisdom said 'just wait'...
One day it will show up,
Its probably underneath a bed,
Hauled off by Rover's Pup.

But as time passed, the problem grew,
More socks would turn up missing,
I think its time that we woke up...
And did a little listening.

Our home now has an extra set,
Of tiny little feet,
And easier, this tragic fate,
Twill be for them to meet.

For now, a sock that once was big,
Is now so very small;
So I'm afraid, that once they're gone,
They'll not be found at all.



Think of all the tears ahead,
When a frog sock goes away,
And the frog sock mate, forever now...
Alone, shall have to lay.

The Dragon socks, or the Dolphin socks,
Could also share this fate...
Then spend their life in the 'lost sock bin',
Longing for their mate.

A larger sock might stand a chance,
Of one day being found,
But these poor tiny mini-socks,
Are gone, without a sound.

They leave behind a lonesome mate,
And five cold tiny toes,
And where they went's a mystery
That no one seems to know.



The Shark socks met a watery grave,
Deep beneath the sea,
And the Dragon socks that had a dream...
It's dream, shall never be.

The tiny Cat and Doggie socks...
Were lost in a high-speed chase,
And the Pirate sock will drift at sea...
Its now without a face.

Someone needs to solve the mystery,
Before it is too late,
For all the future lonely socks
That face this same dark fate.

Who will rise to stop the slaughter
Of these tiny little socks,
Whose countless victims stand inside
Yon' laundry door, and knock.

Crying: "Save us from our lonely fate,
Don't let us each be lost,
Imagine what our totaled loss,
In dollars, it would cost".

Like an engineer whose lost his job,
The only life he knew,
These little socks, without their mates,
Have nothing left to do.

So if you see a tiny sock,
Hidden beneath the stove,
Or stuffed under a spare cushion,
Or trapped in a hidden cove.

Pick it up, and take the time,
To see that it gets home,
End its pain and suffering...
Its dismal life alone.

And all the little single socks,
Will give you a salute,
So they can get right back to work,
Inside somebody's boot.

For you will set a prisoner free...
For many future walks,
No longer sad, no longer blue,
You've saved our little socks.

"Thank-you sooo much!"

The Girl Who Lost Her Nose.

Written by Clinton Gardner

Graciela loved to read,
She would read the whole day long.
In fact, it seemed that 'in a book'...
Might be where she belonged.

Graciela, would read at home in bed,
She would read while in the car,
She would read if she was close to home,
She would read if she was far.

Graciela had a brother...Ned,
He was not the type to read.
But trouble was his middle name,
A name he'd earned 'in deed'!

Ned would often sneak around
To find someone to scare.
No one was ever really sure...
When he'd appear - or where!

One day in May, in a cozy chair,
Graciela was reading her book.
But the one thing she'd forgot to do...
Was around the room to 'look'!

And there he sat – behind the couch,
As quiet as a mouse...
Ned was ready to spring his trap,
Right there inside their house.

Graciela...was deep in thought.
She didn't have a clue...
That Ned was just about to jump,
And scream a great BIG BOO!

And so it happened while she read,
She was on page thirty-two.
When Ned jumped out and screamed not one...
But two big great BOO-BOO's!!

You'll never guess what happened next,
Well – besides the frightened scream.
It's something that you'd never guess...
It's a thing you'd never dream!

When Graciela jumped a foot,
She slammed the book in fright.
But in the book her nose had stayed...
It had disappeared from sight.

Well Ned was laughing gleefully,
So proud of what he'd done.
But he hadn't really thought ahead...
Hadn't planned that he should RUN!

Well, Graciela was about to blow...
And let her brother have it.
Then she noticed that her nose was gone...
She simply – did not have it!

Poor Ned had stopped his laughing too,
As he starred in disbelief...
At his sister who had lost her nose,
To some twisted kind of thief.

Ned just stood with his mouth wide open,
Starring at her face.
Wondering how she lost her nose...
Or was it just misplaced?!

Graciela stood there -- stunned.
Gazing at the mirror...
There must be something she could do,
Her eyes now filled with tears.

“Where's my nose?”she cried to Ned,
“Where could it possibly be?”
She looked around the living room...
But it 'twas nowhere to be seen.

Her parents looked – Her brother looked,
The Doctor, he looked too.
But no one there could find her nose...
It was gone without a clue.

When Graciela went to bed,
She opened up her book,
And found out there was still one place,
They'd all forgot to look!

But there it was – a little flat,
Her nose between the pages.
And so we found that it was true,
What we had said for ages...

That Graciela loves to read,
No matter when you look,
You'll probably find she has her nose...
Buried in a book!

And so I guess it must be true,
For now we have the proof...
Her nose is stuck in yonder book,
And that is not a spoof!