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Bischel                                                   Poems by Leonard Bischel

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Please listen* to Leonard's 

Untitled & The Road of Liferecited by Mrs. Edith Bischel.

[ 12/1/1930 - 5/12/2017 ]


Lonely People

 

See the sign?

Like a beacon it shines,

Promising a welcome

With neon lines.

Cocktails we have—

And beer and wines!

 

Come inside!

Be lonely no more.

This is fun!

Just open the door.

(Dark hides the dirt

And sawdust Floor.)

 

Pour your loneliness

Out to us.

We’ll commiserate

And make a fuss!

You’re right, my friend,

Just lean on us!

 

We’ll pour you drinks

All night Long

Provide the music,

And maybe a song

Until closing time;

Then you’re gone.

 

The next day— you’re lonely?

Well, come with me—

Back to the shadows

Where laughter’s free.

We’ll fill you with spirits,

But then you’ll see—

      No amount of booze

            Can help your loneliness!

 

May 11, 2000




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In Memoriam

Leonard F. Bischel, Jr., educator and veteran (AEM3 US Navy & Capt US Army), served in World War II, Korea, and the Vietnam era.  He became a Coordinator of Gifted Children's Programs for Greater Phoenix Mensa and was listed in Who's Who Among America's Teachers.  Leonard held executive offices for the United Poets Laureate International, the World Congress of Poets, the Arizona State Poetry Society, and the East Valley Poets.  His honors include: NDEA Fellow, Fellow of International Academy of Poetry, Poet Laureate Man of Letters, Century Poets Award, and the Exemplary Services Award for World Brotherhood and Peace.   b. September 11,1928.  d. April 9, 2012.

 

Tiny Gardens                                                             Goin’ Home

      

Tiny Gardens on a shelf,                                             The brandin’ irons are cold and black,

Built with such great care,                                           The brandin’ fires are cold too.

Each piece placed so lovingly                                     Cookie an’ the chuck wagon’r back t’ the barn,

By hiker with white hair.                                               An' the steers are gone from view.

 

Memories of an earlier walk                                         The last roundup fer this ol’ hand,

Along a wooded path,                                                   My days of wranglin’ are past.

Along a quiet shore somewhere,                                  Arthritis got so bad this fall

Safe from nature’s wrath.                                             Couldn't close my hands, he last.

 

A granite rock from mountain’s top,                              Couldn’t do what I’m paid to do,

A cone from nearby pine,                                              Joints hurtin’ all the time.

Each a memory of a walk,                                             Cold didn’t help—I knowed that too.

Frozen now in time.                                                       Gonna have ta change my clime.

 

A tiny garden of memories,                                            Goin’ ta live with son at his place.

Of days and events long past,                                        They’re fixin’ a room fer me there,

Each a time of happiness,                                              Won’t have chores ta do each day,

That she hoped would last.                                             Won’t have ta climb any stair.

 

The tiny garden’s left alone,                                           Be able ta do most things I please,

Its owner passed away.                                                  Except the things I want most.

The garden’s now a monument                                      Won’t have my horse ta saddle each day,

To an earlier day.                                                            Won’t dig no holes fer a post.

 

It still holds its memories,                                                Just sit around and watch T.V.,

Though it’s growing old,                                                  An’ ride this old rockin’ chair.

Of those golden sunlit days,                                           They think it’s kindness ta treat me this way.

And their stories told.                                                      ‘Bout more than I can bear.

 

July 4, 2002                                                                          I'll miss the air so fresh an' clean 

                                                                                         Y’were glad ta be alive.

                                                                                         An’ sharin’ yer job with a real fine hoss, 

                                                                                         An’ the pards with whom you strive.

 

                                                                                         Ta do each job so it’s well done,

                                                                                         That made me feel good, too.

                                                                                         An’ ridin’ home at sunset time,

                                                                                         Quietly enjoyin’ the view.

 

                                                                                         I gotta ride my rockin’ chair—

                                                                                         Four walls 'er what I see,

                                                                                         My only chore is makin’ my bed.

                                                                                         Boredom is killing me.

 

                                                                                          I’d give it all fer one last ride

                                                                                          Among them purple hills,

                                                                                          An’ seein’ the sunset one last time.

                                                                                          That’d cure ‘bout all my ills.

 

                                                                                          That’s all I ask, one last ride.

                                                                                          It’s not ta be, I know.

                                                                                          I’ll do that ride in my dreams some night,

                                                                                          An’ durin’ that dream I’ll just –go.

 

                                                                                           September 9, 1999

 

 

Copyright ©. Rights to individual poems are retained. All rights reserved, except as otherwise noted. Reproduction done for other than personal or internal reference use without expressed permission is prohibited.

 

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