‘Octave’ and Other Poetry by Bruce Dale Wise The Society August 20, 2015 Beauty, Culture, Poetry 3 Comments Octave By Erisbawdle Cue There’s always something going wrong the pessimistic person thinks. One moment one is going strong and then one’s on the blink…and blinks. There’s always something going right the optimistic person feels. One is alive; one sees the light; one gladly plays the hand fate deals. Lines Composed on Salmon Creek, 25 May 2015 By Bud “Weasel” Rice “The blossoms/ Are fragile and motionless…” —Henry Reed, Naming of Parts A light rain falls upon the Western Hemlocks growing tall. The alders by the flowing creek range towering to small. The white clouds overhead are thick and traveling along. I think of dad and mom who tried to teach me right and wrong. I turn my eyes from outside to the mica counter top; and to my slender, silver-hued computer; my eyes drop. I turn it on and watch the screen light up blue, green and white; and electronic’lly I’m typing sentences—quite bright— against the backdrop of the stories on the Internet. I click my mouse upon the image of a fallen jet. Yemenis claim they have shot down a Saudi F-16, which had conducted raids against al-Dailami airbase. They shot it from the sky as fighting rages on the ground. The Houthi rebels celebrated th’ aircraft they had downed. Today’s plane crashed, as Saudi warplanes carried out airstrikes; since March one thousand non-combatants dead beneath those skies. This news appears as backdrop to events in Syria; four hundred women and their children killed in Palmyra, which follows execution of three hundred soldiers there. Destructive, vicious IS murderers create despair. I look outside and see the grass tops touched with silver dew. Ground cover all around the house is green and white and blue. Beside the branching maples, salmon-berry stickers rise. The swallows are enacting Battle-of-Britain dive-bomb fly-bys. Alyssum flowerets and red geraniums fill up white oval planters on the railing near a coffee cup. Memorial Day is a day of peace, away from work; but not away from all events that round the earth occur. As Candide noted, “we must cultivate our garden,” for to cultivate a happy life requires more than war. My Grandma Was Correct By Claude I. S. Weber My grandma was correct to tell me fairy tales, like Cinderella, for, that is what life is like. Civility and kindness, each frequently fails, and lives amidst the viciousness of hate and reich. The generous is next to avarice and vice; the virtuous goes riding by upon a bike. Beside the cruel is the gentle and the nice; and sorrow’s ev’rywhere, ubiquitous and deep. The bitter and the sour scour sweetest spice out of the peaceful and the happiness of sleep. A Little Anecdote By Acwiles Berude Once during the Olympic Games, an old man came to watch, but could not find a single place to sit. He worked his way around th’ entire stadium, but not a soul was willing to give up his seat. When at the last he came to where the Spartans sat, all of the younger men, and some old ones too, stood to offer him their places. Th’ whole crowd cheered at that. As he sat down, he shook his head and sadly said, ‘It is a tragedy. All of the Greeks know what is right, but only Spartans will do it.’ Th’ ancient Greek writer Plutarch tells this story. Through his fame, this little anedote down centuries has spread. Bruce Dale Wise is a poet living in Washington State who often writes under anagrammatic pseudonyms. Featured Image: “Sunset on the Oregon Trail, 1867” by Albert Bierstadt. NOTE: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who disrespects you. Simply send an email to firstname.lastname@example.org. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Please see our Comments Policy here. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) 3 Responses NealD August 21, 2015 Octave strikes a chord with message as well as music. BDW – please continue this. Reply Dawn Easel Larrill September 24, 2015 A Grandmother’s words might be heavy in the burlap sack meant to hold a plump chicken Where she held her sewing supplies…….. Her apron Rocks for wolves…..Must have been received once in the German tongue….. And well delivered to young boys in Grandmother made Jammas Reply elizabeth henry May 2, 2016 As an optimist and Utopian, I love ‘Octave’! Reply Leave a Reply to Dawn Easel Larrill Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.