Songs of My Heart

Songs of My Heart
1973

             Across the still waters, atop a wooded hill, A bird takes flight   
The  sounds of night are ushered in.

My heart sings. 

Waves end at the shore of their new beginnings,
The setting sun throws its warm rays across my back

Shadows gather in an ever-changing design of gold-touched gray
on the slopes leading to the lake,

My heart sings.

“Be quiet, private thoughts”, “be still, selfish goals and ambition.” -
God is moving in and through His wondrous works.

I stand in awe of His creations

My heart sings. 

God is here – I feel his presence.
Wonder is all about me – my voice is silent, I cannot speak.

beauty,  wonder,  majesty,  greatness, smallness
SILENCE

God hears
He understands with no words uttered

And my heart sings.

July 21 A Piece of Driftwood

A PIECE OF DRIFTWOOD

As seen at Marco Island, Florida 1972

Hidden, discarded, tossed about, on the far-stretching, blinding sands,
A scene of desolation; not made by human hands.
Beyond the distant edge of sea, the green-blue waters still,
Beyond the heavens sun-lit rays, the tempestuous clouds to burst at will.

Those restless waters closer by with troubled, white-capped surf,
Rolling endlessly to reach the shore of glistening, sandy, turf.

A towering pine between the surf and I, – driftwood at its base,
Broken, bleached, and scarred by time – scars that nature can’t erase.
I viewed this gnarled starkness, seeing what God might see,
And knew that what I’d been before, no longer would I be.

My life had been a raging surf, obtaining changing goals,
Joining each new larger wave, with constant, crashing, thrashing rolls.
My life was once a tempestuous cloud, with darkness and despair,
Which overflowed with ugliness, a life in reckless disrepair.
Most of all my life was like the driftwood by the sea,
Broken, gnarled, and scarred by sin, all hope gone out of me.

But then I saw the sun-lit rays, and lifted up my face
And knew that God who made the world, could all my sin erase,
The raging surf and tempestuous clouds, and driftwood by the sea,
Had preached a mighty lesson on the plan of God for me,
I knew that as I left those shores I had a brand new start.
And all that God had taught me there, had really changed my heart.

Four Little Boys

Four little boys to clean, feed, and dress,
Four little boys all making a mess.

Four little boys, oh what mischief they made,
“Go play in the backyard, my nerves are all frayed.”

Four little boys, grown up, gone away,
Their wrestling and laughter still linger each day.

The memories so precious oft’ times make you sad,
And then you remember the ruckus you had.

Now each little boy is no longer a lad,
Sometimes how they please you, sometimes make you mad.

So when you’re unhappy and they can’t hear you shout,
Send one to the corner, and just let him pout.

Ritchie Hale, December 1999

***This poem was written for Grandma Hale, who claims she was often in tears before breakfast! 

Grandma’s Porch Swing

Though the picture is blurry, it is indeed the actual porch where Grandmommie planted thousands of seeds each year and enjoyed a colorful harvest growing all around that ol' porch swing.

GRANDMA’S PORCH SWING
Sitting on the porch swing down at Grandma’s house,
We push off from those old weathered floorboards.
High we go,
higher and higher my sis and I, till almost
our toes touch the ceiling.
Then back down, to push off once more.

The rusty hinge on the porch screen door squeaks out its raspy voice,
the spring twanging, like a taut bow as it releases an arrow.
We are on instant alert about approaching peril.
A grown-up will chide us and run us off the porch,
so we drag our feet, till the swing barely moves.

Grandma’s anxious face peers around the corner.
“Thought I heard a commotion out here. Ya’ll okay?
“We’re fine, Grandmommie.”
“Well, don’t ya’ll be taking that ol’ swing too high.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” we reply in perfect unison.

In that quiet lull as we sway back and forth, swatting an occasional sweat bee,
swinging like old people after a hard days work,
half-dozen or so hummingbirds appear
among the morning glories on the lattice at the edge of the porch.
We don’t move a muscle; we don’t even scratch our noses.
We stare unblinkingly at this great mystery of aviation.

The rusty hinge speaks out again.
The old screen door slams,
- a signal.
The hummingbirds move on,
and we, my sis and I
one more time
push off from those old weathered floorboards.

 

The Forest

The stately cedars whisper,

The rustling, tarnished leaves dance.

The sun pierces the forests density,

And I am at peace. 

October 1999

The Healing

The Healing

Sad Days…
Sad Days… Good Minutes.
Sad Days,  Good Hours.
Sad Days… Good Days.
Good Days, Sad Hours.
Good Days, Sad Moments
Good Days,
Painful Memories
Good Days,
Precious Memories
Good Days…

 

Ritchie D. Hale - copyright 1996 

My Boy

MY BOY
(written to my son, John when he was a little guy,
now to be enjoyed as he watches his own two little guys, Jack and Sam)

   Gooey jelly sandwiches, messy table spreads
Spilled cups of koolaid, rumpled, unmade beds.
Shoes are  under furniture, blocks are in the drawers,
Constant jabbered talking, and endless banging doors.
Toys  in the bathtub , Drawings on the walls,
Muddy footprints in the house,
horses stamping down the halls.
Trucks and bears are in the bed, blankets on the floor,
That’s what little boys are, but oh…they’re so much more.

 

The “Jesus loves me” often heard from such a little man,
Reminds me in the midst of this….
God must surely have a plan.
From these “very small beginnings” his self esteem will grow,
His love for God and fellow man will someday surely show.

 

So…when you find his butter sandwich down in the toy box,
And he pours the shampoo you just bought
all over shoes and socks,
And he’s dumped the bowl of “krispees”
and drawn with it a face,
Remember all the precious times that ne’er can be replaced.
I thank you God for my little boy,
He is my pride, he is my joy,
He is a mess, he is a dear –
I thank You, God, You sent him here. 

My Girls

My Girls
(written to my daughters)

Tea parties, plastic plates, messy table spreads,
Make-up, Dress-up, Make believe. . .
and rumpled, half-made beds.
Shoes up under furniture, “collections” in the drawers,      
Constant jabbered talking, and endless banging doors.
Dolls in the bathtub, scribbles on the walls,
Girlfriends running through the house,
Pushing strollers down the halls.
Pillows strewn across the room, stuffed toys on the floor,
That’s what little girls are, but oh, they’re so much more.

 

The songs of joy so often heard, the giggles, and the glee,
Remind  me in the midst of this…God is trusting me
 To teach this daughter all I can, and daily watch her grow,
Knowing there will come a day when I must let her go.

 

So…when you find her cupcake down in the toy box,
And she spills perfume you just bought all over shoes and socks,
And she’s used your tube of lipstick, and drawn with it a face,
Remember all the precious times that ne’er can be replaced.

I thank you God for my little girl,
 Her radiant smile, her bouncing curl
She is a mess, she is dear,
 I thank you God, You sent her here.

 Ritchie D. Hale

Great Race! Keep Rowing!

Floating in a sea of other boaters,
I see only eight contenders
they sit at ready -
the boat is set – balanced,
the sun is high overhead.
Knuckles are white,
as sixteen fists
close around the extended oars.

Their faces seem carved from flint,
except the occasional movement of a jaw-muscle
showing the presence of life.
All eyes stare ahead . . .
I stare at the young man in the power seat.
He is wearing a white baseball cap.

There is a sudden movement, more felt than seen,
as the official raises his gun toward the sky -
Out across the water I hear a loud shout from the coxswain,
a small young woman at the rear of the boat -
“Sit at the Catch – Oars buried – 5-4-3-2-1- Set – GO!”

The Oarsmen dig into the water with powerful, synchronized strokes.
Muscles ripple and shine with sweat.
The sun glares down upon their labor,
but they pay no heed.
Their boat moves ahead with steady thrusts
until they have a definite lead.

“Quick 3-4, 3-4. Lengthen, lengthen, we have bow-ball,”
the coxswain shouts into her microphone.
The boat has a full two-foot lead over all others,
and again I watch the young man in the white cap.
He’s pulling with every muscle he has.
He’s giving his best. He’s in the race.

“Power ten! Power ten! 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10!
Stay strong, stay strong.”
As the coxswain shouts these new directions,
the team surges forward,
pushing beyond all previous power strokes,
expending more energy, giving more of themselves.
White Cap, moving like a finely-tuned motor -
seems more machine than man.

The fans around me press forward -
the racing boats near the finish line.
Individual shouts
and words of encouragement blend
until suddenly, all voices become one.
“Row! Row! Row!”

Out across the water I hear the shouts of a dozen coxswains
Each shouting instructions to their team.
“Stay strong! Stay strong!
Pull it out! Finish the race!”

My White Cap is still contending, he’s rowing.
His bronzed body is glistening.
The sun upon his shoulder,
seems intent upon melting his body and the boat into one.

I stand silently in the midst of the roaring, exuberant, crowd.
Above their shouts, I hear the clear voice of the coxwain -
she urges the team to contend to the end.
“Last 300 meters, last 20 strokes, last 10 strokes
10 – 9 – 8 – 7 – 6 – 5 – 4 – 3 – 2 – 1!
Great race! Keep rowing, keep rowing!
Paddle on!”

Though the noise of the cheering crowd swells to deafening volumes,
it is of no concern to me.
I feel satisfaction, joy, peace, and triumph,
as I watch through teary eyes, the young man in the white cap.

My own cheer emerges and blends with the shouting multitude,
“White Cap, my son, Great race!
Nice rehearsal for life!
Keep rowing, keep rowing, keep rowing!”

Wooded Shore

MY WOODED SHORE…1969, On many Saturday mornings, I took my manual Royal Typewriter to the woods along the coastline of Cape Florida.  It was just one of many beautiful beaches that I enjoyed visiting. There was an old burned out and decaying lighthouse, and hundreds of pine trees along the shore.  It was a perfect place for me to get away from the concrete jungle of Miami and to discover the solitude that I so desperately needed.  That love for the beach, the waves, the majesty of the sea, has never wavered.  It is in those isolated places around the world that I feel most at peace.  Time marched on and the Cape Florida Park became Bill Baggs State Park.  The pines are gone after a hurricane.  The lighthouse has been restored, and now there are fences, gates, and tours.  (No one asked me if I wanted “progress” to change my wooded shore.) Though I have no picture of that particular “Wooded Shore”, this picture I took while visiting Kauai a few years ago, is a wonderful reminder of my original Wooded Shore.

Wooded Shore

 Silence in my quiet domain, with only sounds of wind and rain,
Making it a place of peace, City sounds have strangely ceased.

The pines towering high above my head with fallen needles as my bed,
A place of worship changed to be, in these my woods beside the sea. 

I pause to think, to dwell awhile, Looking upward, compelled to smile,
For this great place of solitude, God gave to me this awesome mood.

How great a God, my God must be, to bring such total calm to me.
To leave behind the ocean roar, to leave the peace of wooded shore,

To see no more the glistening sand, I lift to heaven my out-stretched hand, 

I’ll always thank the Lord for this, the chance to know such perfect bliss,
To know my Father cares so much, that I can sense His every touch. 

Going back into the world, Where Satan’s every dart is hurled,
I’ll remember this, my quiet domain, and know always, God doth remain. 

Ritchie Oldham Hale © May 2, 1969