Selected Non-Western Poetry by Clark Crouch The following are some personal favorites of freeform verse, some of which are from two books, Voices of the Wind and Reflections, published in 2002 and 2003, respectively, by iUniverse. The books contain family legends, events, experiences, and biases gained from life in Western Nebraska during the Great Depression and the years following. Pause the cursor over a poem's title for a brief statement. All of the poems are copyrighted and permission is required to reproduce or distribute them in any form. For permissions, please send us an email request by clicking here. A Few New Haiku Stories have three sides my side, your side, and the truth - someone is lying. (after Robert Evans) Journeys upriver jetting against the current - there is life upstream Radioactive uranium elements - fuel for anti-nukes Water, land, and air environmental terror - regs by E.P.A. Nature has no laws, no rules which are not enforced - is man then wiser? Vote on the issue of centerfolds in Playboy - the eyes do have it! >>> Back to Top <<< Somewhere in Time Somewhere in time, I wonder …a dream or reality? Though years have passed and so many memories dim, it is there I still see your flashing dark eyes, smiling lips. We fashioned dreams together, our future bright and lasting. We were young and together, and time was without meaning. Our time would last forever and nothing could interfere. But it vanished…disappeared and age has taken its place. How can we know we were there as memories dim and fade? Youth has gone away from us but somewhere, some place, it lives. One day we'll surely return, to that time so long ago, and recover that moment when we were so very young. Wiser now, but back again to where time has no meaning. We are together again in the place our dreams began Somewhere in time! >>> Back to Top <<< Living Story Sticks The elders waiting, lives filled with the past, future uncertain. Just waiting, waiting, waiting; cautiously living, whittling away time, living just this day, elders, sitting and waiting. They are sought out and asked for their view as they sit, whittling. Their eyes brighten then again. They sit up straighter whittling forgotten offering advice… elders, their roles well defined. With ancient insight each finds a story from the days of youth, strong again for the moment, voices firm, certain, living story sticks telling their story again. Young men move away… not from disrespect, not from tired ears, but knowing now is not then. Elders, stories told, problems solved again now wonder what cut will bring life to their whittling. When one slips away to a life beyond, elders notice as a younger one takes his place sitting and whittling. New wisdom offered, read from a new stick, as the young men ask again. >>> Back to Top <<< A Concrete Ending Tall native grasses pushed back by humanity -a concrete ending Land of the People for thousands of years and more -our ancestors mourn An Indian Chief, head embossed upon a coin, impressing a child >>> Back to Top <<< The Voices of War (1941) On December seven, Nineteen forty one, a distant voice of war spoke… of a sun-kissed plane diving for the kill, roaring defiance, laying a perfect pattern of bombs to burst on the docks the voice of war was screaming. Speaking in reply, 20 millimeter guns sought retribution, lighter guns punctuating the demand for payment, together taking their toll. Not for the docks destruction or for the sunken ships was this voice shouting… no, not for physical things but for those now gone, for mothers without their sons, for wives without their husbands, for fatherless families, for generations that would never be and descendants never born for the wasted lives of war the voice of war was crying. >>> Back to Top <<< The Reign of St. Helens (1980) On this spring morning everything seemed quite normal. The earth did grumble a bit, and sent tell-tale wisps of smoke from fissures on the mountain many miles westward. But here, dawn was bright and clear heralding another day… Sunday, a day of leisure, one to be enjoyed; a day of worship, one for which to be thankful. The early morning bursting with voices… birds singing their songs; muffled voices of neighbors, heard but indistinct; the sounds of traffic, from the highway to the south; a lawn mower starting up; a dog barking right next door… normal voices for Sunday. Then a deadening silence seemed to swallow up the earth. The voices were silent and the air was quiet, still, no whisper of wind. Birds were not flying nor were they singing. The dog hid under the porch. Dark clouds moved in from the west, covering the sky, bringing an eerie darkness. Udder-like appendages laden with volcanic ash hung below the clouds, sifting out fine ash to cover the landscape and burden the roofs of homes. Mount St. Helens had spoken, pushed aside man's monuments, and declared her sovereignty. >>> Back to Top <<< Realities of War (2003) the shifting realities of a war environment of battles fought on tv forcing emotions up and down like a yoyo moments of euphoria hours of despair coaxed into smiling by absurd situations then slammed into tears by graphic pictorials fearfully watching eternally wondering what images will be next dreading the tv for what it reveals then embracing it for the possibility of seeing the one they love the odds forgotten as they scan each face the shifting realities twenty-four hours a day have replaced stability and comfortable well-being as emotions swing through hope and despair in endless repetition >>> Back to Top <<< Remembrance (2003) When we are apart I can close my eyes sensing your presence, feeling the touch of your hand and the moist warmth of your breath. I can hold your hand, enjoying that touch and reliving the moments we were together in reality. Yet moments of remembrance are much too fleeting, although so very real my eyes open to see you, and the moment disappears. But, still, when we are apart there is a certain magic that can bring us together. I just close my eyes again and you are with me. >>> Back to Top <<< Poetry Index A Concrete Ending (Haiku) A Few New Haiku Living Story Sticks Realities of War Remembrance The Reign of St. Helens Somewhere in Time Voices of War Copyright ©2004-2005 by Clark Crouch.