poetry

Percussion

                          The percussionists from the band

                           Did not get a lot of sleep last night,

                           And neither did I.

 

                           They started entertaining

                           About one in the morning and

                           Continued until six.

 

                           The opening movement

                           Consisted of low timpani slowly

                           Building to the staccato booms

                           Of the bass drum.

 

                           The second movement

                           Spotlighted large cymbals crashing,

                           While snares put together

                           Their relentless rhythms

                           On the roof, trees, and ground.

 

                           And the final movement

                           Featured the gradual

                           Retiring of the snares,

                           One clang of the small cymbals,

                           A silver tinkling of the bells,

                           Then three slow booms on the big bass drum,

                           And a gentle pom,  pom,  pom, by the timpani.

 

                           The early morning sun

                           Revealed a sparking world,

                           Gleaming in rain soaked trees,

                           And silvery grass.     

 

                           But, as I said to begin with,

                           The percussionists from the band

                           Did not get a lot of sleep last night,

                           And neither did I.

                                                                                                                      Cerita M. Hewett

                                                                                                                        April 2014

Purple Poetry

                                       Poetry is the royalty of written language,

                                       So it must be purple,

                                       Purple circles strung together,

                                       Like a tangled silver slinky

                                       Stretched unintentionally by a young child,

                                       Revealing itself over time

                                       With repeated vocal readings,

                                       Untangling line by line,

                                       Giving a fresh display of insight,

                                       Still depending on the eye that is searching,

                                      The different ears seeking the pleasure of sound

                                      Over time, over time, over time,

                                      Unmasking views and truths,

                                     May you find it every day,

                                     Wherever you go!

                                                                                            Cerita M. Hewett

                                                                                            Revised Oct. 2014

Composting

                                       Ed’s little family can
                                       Eat half a watermelon
                                       In nothing flat!

                                       They chew all the pink off the rind,
                                       Leaving just a little white
                                       Next to the dark green shell.

                                       What Applejacks the pony gets is pitiful,
                                       Still he eagerly gobbles the leavings and
                                       The chickens snatch anything he misses.
                                                                                                Cerita M. Hewett

                                                                                                August 2011

So Here I Am

Responding to family and suggestions from religious leaders, I am creating a facebook account and a blog. This will be an interesting journey for one who has lived three score and fifteen years. Since all that is posted on the internet seems to remain eternally, I will consider somewhat carefully what I post and yet I want to be true to my best self. Some of the pieces chosen were written long ago and some are recent.

A day without poetry is a sad day, yet I do not sit down  every day and read a volume of poetry. Rather I notice it as it occurs naturally around me in phrases of children, songs, hymns, books, magazines, and the speech that surrounds me. And yes, I do take time to read poetry along the way because I love its sound and how it helps me perceive the world around me more clearly.

I really do not consider myself to be a poet, rather someone who enjoys shortened text. If something I write turns out to be poetic that is a pleasant surprise! I write to record, to remember experiences, and to have the deeper meaning of these happenings exposed to view.  Looking back on what I have written through the years, the rich blessings received and the optimism of my life is quite evident.

My hope is that something here will bring a smile and will remind someone of the greatness and vitality of everyday life here on earth as children of a loving Heavenly Father. That we will all find greater joy as we we travel along together learning, laughing, crying, and appreciating the importance of our common Earth life and God given experiences.

Cerita M. Hewett                                                                      October 9, 2014

After the Storm

                                        The morning after the big storm,
                                        While pine tuffs and sweet gum leaves
                                        Still laid torn and green upon the ground
                                        Where the hail had shredded them
                                        From tall and growing trees,
                                        The ants are already rebuilding.

                                        Each ant struggles upward with a grain of sand,
                                        Then scampers down into the hole for more.
                                        Builders where nature has torn down,
                                        Unflinching at the work before them,
                                        Their unity of purpose,
                                        Collaboration and energy,
                                        Their optimism in the face of an enormous task,
                                         Is contagious for all who pause to watch.
                                                                                                 Cerita M. Hewett

                                                                                                  April 2011