Winter Slumber

Snow falls driven by bitter wind, shaking bare trees and green evergreens. Earth slumbers beneath a white blanket. The sky gray with cloud.

An Autumn Woodland Trail

Cool autumn wind blows softly
Through the bare and leafless trees.
The woodland trail now covered
By those fallen denizens;
Fallen from on high,
Leaving branches naked
Against the pale sky
Of that more distant sun
Waning in the equinoxial Fall.

Sinking slowly into anticipated slumber,
Is the woodland nodding.
Winter sleep beckons
With dreams of spring to come.

But let the autumn linger
Yet a little while,
To dream of summer past,
As I walk another mile.

J. William Newcomer (November 15, 2016; All rights reserved.)

Relative Time

We see time as linear;
That being how we experience time,
Though we know it is relative;
Being realized in the relation of objects
In their relative motion one to another.

We say God is outside of time,
As He would have to be; being creator of these objects
And their relative motion in relation one to another
By which time we see…

So for us who are finite, time will always be,
For only He can encompass eternity…
So be careful how you speak of time;
Of ages past or yet to come.
For one is as a thousand,
And a thousand is as one.

J. William Newcomer, November 2013, Copyright © November 2013, all rights reserved.

As clouds gather ominously. The wind in uncertain gusts makes the leaves dance on the tree. The air hangs humid and hot. A soft rain falls.

Introducing Twitter Poetry

I recently set up a Twitter account. Twitter posts are limited to 140 spaces. Tonight I "invented" Twitter Poetry. The point is to write a meaningful poetic piece using all 140 spaces. here is my first Twitter poem.

The sun has set. The air is still. Sounds of night fill the air in the gloaming of the day. The earth turns. Stars twinkle. Dawn awaits..

Among the Evergreens

Stately they rise majestically,
A top the hill along the road.
Towering on high, we see them from afar;
A landmark amidst the rolling fields.
Through the opened gate we drive
Along the attending juniper heralds;
Back into the palace court where
Stately Pine Lords hold council and watch
Over the stones neatly arrayed in rows,
Amongst both shaded grass and sunlit lawn;
As Guardians of the sacred hill,
Where laid beneath the sod,
Are the family and friends we knew.

A peaceful place this sacred court
Where from blue sky with scattered clouds
The sun shines warmly down.
So we wander through that sacred ground,
Noting a loved one there,
Or there a neighbor found,
Or ancient ancestor of a generation
Long before our life began.
Here they lay, reposed serene,
Among the evergreens.

J. William Newcomer, March 2012, Copyright © March 2012, all rights reserved.

Earth Angst

If blood cries out from the ground
As told in Ancient Writ.
The cry keens loud far above the strident noise
And banter and barter of the world in which we live.
Up to heaven's ear it keens
From the millions and billions,
Over thousands of years, of butchered
Blood soaked dirt of the sons of earth.
Having made fatel choice we live
With the consequence thereof.
Earth groans under the bloodsoaked weight.
Tremors, shivers, quakes.
Longing for redemption's consummation.

(Copyright © March, 2011. All rights reserved.)

Summer

The apex of its ascent now reached,
The sun begins its slow retreat.
Days slightly shorter start to be.
Summer flowers in riotous color we see.

An uncertain expectancy in the air,
While we enjoy the summer so fair.
Change the seasons must, they say,
But for now we enjoy this summer day.


(Copyright © July 1, 2010. All rights reserved.)

To Charlie Brown, B.B.

Why look at me Sir Charlie Brown?
Afraid your next meal may not be found?
With your tail a wagging back and forth,
Like Oliver Twist, “May I have more?”
Soulful brown eyes so sad to see,
Looking up while begging to me.

It was in the pound you were found,
And your health was most unsound.
The Vet we took you then to see,
(No dog from the pound is really for free.)
Doctored and nursed, you soon got well,
Such is the story we now can tell.

Rough life you have holding down the floor,
And chasing squirrels in the great outdoor.
Not one you’ve caught if the tale be told,
While up in the trees it is you they scold,
With your Beagle nose to the ground,
Running like a maniac all around.


A brainless Beagle you always will be.
(Any you have is in your nose you see.)
Why we got you I don’t really know,
But here you are, living in my home.
Man’s best friend you’re suppose to be,
And a friend you have become to me.




Copyright © December 2006. All rights reserved.

The Wood-pile

OUT walking in the frozen swamp one grey day
I paused and said, “I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.”
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went down. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather—
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled—and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year’s cutting,
Or even last year’s or the year’s before.
The wood was grey and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.

Robert Frost (1874–1963)

This is one of my favorites from Robert Frost.

Daffodils

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

(William Wordsworth. 1770–1850)

We had to learn this poem for a high school literature class. For the rest of my life the words of the first stanza have remained etched in my memory. As a postscript, I should mention my mother was the teacher of that literature class. No, I did not get any special favors...

This Field

This field I trod upon.
This field I plowed.
This field I dragged and disked.
This field I cultivated and harvested.

I sunk my bare feet into it’s soil.
I watched
....It’s corn grow,
....It’s wheat turn golden,
....It’s soybeans ripen in the pod.
I mowed it’s hay.
I sweated under it’s sun.

Watched the rain soaked up by it’s cracked ground;
Watched the evening mists rise upon it;
Watched the snow driven by the wind over it’s stubble.

Seeing it’s fence line silhouetted against the moon;
With the stars glittering as diamonds
And pearls against the velvet night.

This field holding early years of my life;
This field where I worked, thought, prayed, laughed, wept.
This field, a part of my life not forgotten.
This field, a part of my heart and being.


(September 8, 1998, Copyright © 1998. All rights reserved.)

The Call of The Lake

I hear the Lake, it's calling
"Come North, Come North to me."
Wild, mysterious, it is calling;
Awesome, majestic, and free.

I've seen Erie and Ontario,
Michigan, Huron, and more;
But none match Lake Superior
Or its wild, wind swept shore.

I hear the Lake, it's calling,
In my heart I hear it's plea.
Mysteriously it's calling
"Come North, Come North to me."


(September 4, 1998. © 1998 All rights reserved.)

The Gloaming

How I love the gloaming,
The twilight of the day;
When the colors of the sky are faded,
Yet linger a while to stay.

The light in the west, it lingers,
Holding the darkness at bay.
And in it there is a promise,
Of a dawn of another day.

How I love the gloaming,
When the sun has finally set.
Yet it’s faint rays still glimmer
Far off out in the West.

It is a magic time of day,
Between the light and dark;
Just before the first star’s glimmer
The night begins to mark.

How I love the gloaming,
At the twilight of the day.
Mysterious and magical,
A precious time to pray.

(August 18, 1998. Copyright © 1998, All right reserved.)

Winter Earth

The earth lies silently
'Neath its blanket asleep.
The wind cuts raw and cold
Into the marrow deep.

Over open meadow;
Over woodland place;
Under its white blanket,
Quiet sleep upon its face.

Days begin to linger;
Sun's rays slanting steep,
Calling to the earth
Under its blanket fast asleep.

Promise of resurrection
In its bosom keeps,
As it lays beneath its blanket,
Dormant, dead, asleep.

(Copyright © February 2, AD 2001. All rights reserved.)

(I was looking through an old journal of sorts and found this poem I had written, but had never published. I thought it appropriate for this time of year.)