itm.. By Jimmy Hatlo
POET'S
CORNER
AIN'T MOTHERS
dRAWP.'THEYRl
Sun., April 2, 1963
ALWAYS THERE
WHEN VOU
ASPRAINEP WEEPEMAWP
ANKLE AMC EVEN WHEN
MOT BEIWSABLE I YOU PONT-.
TO (SO ON THAT J AIN'T TH6V7
50-MILE HIKE
THE BOOK CALLED
"MEMORY"
WE PLANNEPf
There is a book called memory,
Ana mere s writlen on every
page.1
Things that happened recently,
And memories covered with age.
There's a memory of a girl,
So young, so bright and fair,
And of the boy she married
For he had learned to care.
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There's the memory of those ear
ly days,
Before the children came,
When each and every day to them.
Was one big happy game.
And then the game was ' over,
Life grew very hard,
He started to drink and gamble;
Depending on the turn of a card.
There's the memory of the chil
dren.
That came along so soon.
And of the toil that seemed to
last
Morning, night and noon.
Thirteen children came along,
O'er the many years,
Somehow they raised them,
With sweat and struggle and
tears.
There's the memory of the little
one.
As precious as the rest.
Who was called to that Eternal
Home.
Because God thought it best.
There s the memory of the later
years.
When the children have gone
away,
And again there's just the two of
them.
Old and wrinkled and grey.
They think of the days, so long
past,
When their marriage stood the
test,
Of all the bitter days they knew,
But those memories too, are
best.
And now the old man is also
gone,
The woman's left alone.
To wander through the empty
rooms,
Of the once so busy home.
She sits and looks out the win
dow, Wondering why the kids don't
write,
The days grow longer and long
er. But not half as lung as the night.
Her dreams must come to a close
now,
Her memory book is full-
As she looks bark o'er the pages.
She knows it was never dull.
Mary Bertram
MAY
It's almost May
And the leaden gray
Of the snow cloud hangs o'erhead.
The ground lies white
In the morning light
As I struggle from my bed.
I try to smile.
But all the while
I think of the lilac bud.
That tries to bloom
In this awesome gloom
And I feel my spirits thud
To a brand new low
As I view the snow
And think of the spring just fled.
I face the day
As best I may.
But I wish this winter dead!
Mildred L. Brashier
GEORGE WASHINGTON
Countrymen take courage
Victory will be ours
Twill be but a little while
Till spring and budding flowers.
Thouch winter winds are whis
tling
The woodlands cast in gloom
Still the birds are singing
Their throaty, warbling tunes
Thouuh men are craving, hun
gered
And dying by the score
We needs must keep on fighting
Til we can fight no more.
What can we tell our dying
How can we face our dead
But that our nation stroncer
Since her gallant sons have bled
A mighty nation risen
Our heritage so proud
Because our hearts were cowed
Full many times I've watched
you
An infant yet in arms
Struggling for your freedom
Concerned for your alarms.
I see a michtv nation
Stretched forth from sa to sea
A mighty new creation
Of earth born men and free
Trusted men of vision
Who placed their faith in r.mt
Men of humble spirit
no oy His Brace endow l
To tnumph o'er secession
Iniled take her stand
Old glory waving over
A Iree and golden land.
Ly Tabert
i THE DKSJ'RT
Land of the goiden sands
j Where rains of winter foretell
Blooming carpeu of rarest burs
in oiossoming lingers sublime.
T. H M-Valin