Wandering Words   Under The Poem Tree With Ron Purtlebaugh   GOD BLESS AMERICA  ST.AUGUSTINE NATURE  LOVE & BEAUTY  POEM TREE LEAVESNONSENSE & HUMOR MEANDERINGS  MEANDERINGS TOO COMMENTS & LINKS BRANCHES AND TWIGSABOUT THE AUTHOR INDEXTABLE OF CONTENTS    Thoughtful flings as arrows slinged travel far and wide,  deep inside, the paths traversed, interspersed with rhymes and verse meander through my mind. Would that it had been so from the very, very first. but alas, the jewels of age are sweet and very kind.                                                         Ron Purtlebaugh           ELUSIVE WORDS   I've come a purpose on this day, carefully and quietly with words to phrase, knowing my elusive prey might see me put my pen to ink then deem escape the only way to save itself, in fear of being put to page and choose to flee or seeking suicide, to steal, hiding stealthily concealed to my tongue, a place to leap, aware that here I have no grip and make it's way out to the tip.   I'm mindful it not flit away, my quarry be not scared. The captured word imprisoned while in limbo time seeks a place to live and breathe, in it's singularity, an index or a glossary, a literary magazine, a poem's line, "Whose woods these are I think I know," as they were, they are now, well spoken often for all time, a word's preferred and heartfelt home. Or proudly in a lexicon, center aisle all alone, a library in the Ivy League,  Arlington, engraved in stone, sprayed graffiti underground, the flash card of a learning child, glimpsed on a blimp, Yankees at home,  racing through space on Voyager One.   The trapping tools I keep at hand, paper, pencils, pen and ink, to capture furtive words and rhymes, but oftentimes my plans fall through, as plans seem prone and wont to do, forcing me resorting to, blocks and bricks, boxes and boards, admittedly, at least a few were caught and held in palm of hand or temporarily written in sand. But lacking a multifarious vocabulary, I feel it fair when sans a word, lost or escaped or never yet learned, the thought deserves the same respect, and free it as a just reward.   Ron Purtlebaugh           Words   I like my words soft as a candle flame flicker that rises to breathe, first stronger then weaker diving aside as they whirl and they spin,  lifting to heights as they swirl themselves in. I like my words close and weaving as wicker strong and supportive, as brother lifting brother, well varied and sundry, fulfilling their meaning then broken...their constraints...sent fleetingly fleeing, then born...perhaps anew word...anew look...anew view... does it work, I try it on, yesterday, I said I love you, today, I lay me down, I lay me down, for only you.   Ron Purtlebaugh.                   TRUNCATED MAN    I am truncated man, I differed from the plan, a spiral cut off sharply to a flat, my apex seems but gone, my ending hither yon, all the while my is belies my at. A whirligig unending, floating, lending, sending, free to write about the tides of life, adherence to the form, until it serves no more, away, away, then gone, the staircase sliced.   I am truncated man, with words to juxtapose, beginning at the mid word scrabbled board and if it serves to be, a window showing me, this poet comes to share syllabic hoards. So choose you as you will, come take you all your fill, and shudder not to read me all the more, with you I've come to share, to open my soul bared, please fill me up by drinking, I implore.   RON PURTLEBAUGH              I Am The Poet Man   Ascertaining everything pertaining to the dawn, I batten down the fasten snaps, strap the dusk and darkened places, locking those who shun the light of bright and morning sun. I see the stars are put away in never land with hopes and dreams, roosters roost, bats alight, 'neath the bridges, in the barns, hanging in their proper place, wrapped in wings and upside down, pigeons find their gabled eaves. I lead away the voice of night leaving limbs and leaves of trees, felled by winds as witness to, lest man forgets how small he is. Tide has changed, rearranged, pools and rills for crabs refilled,  still of morning has a place to celebrate another sun, returning dawn, to light the way, this the work that calls each day for sentences of crocheted lace of silken words to rhyme away, away the night, assist the day to find a place, a space to stand for starving minds to understand I will, I can, the power that a poem plays, I am the poet man.   Ron Purtlebaugh                 MY CROSS, MY PEN   For many years I've kept the keep I sally forth to take the field My honor though be dented, dim A passion's fire hot burns within My paper field, my steed my hand Does battle with my lance, my pen If honor's mine I'll take my place Amongst the ranks, tho' fallen those Who heretofore have sat this space I seek to guard the drawbridge gate Knock me off, my standard's raised My battle cry be loudly spake I call you out to test my worth With girded loins, my steed I sit Come all who will to know my fire Come feel the heat of my desire The day I write my soul not bared The day I walk away from here.     RON PURTLEBAUGH             I say vase, you say vas, but it's still spelled vase or I know, I know, I'm jus' kiddin' or How to make enemies with poetry   The breadth of a simple circle, belies a circle's height, A word well chose and fairly spoke, true, makes a sentence right, A poet's score of worded song, as versed in lines of rhyme, Adheres as well the followed arch, began as one straight line. To break and clip, then spiral flip, then juxtapose a line With context ripe, to thawed and trite, then...shock...to reach sublime A nomer...mis, when comes to names, to be known as poet's rhyme I give you this, which does exist, then onward, to Frost's own line:     She lay by the window in her crepe dress she wore the night before the boards of the floor uneven beneath her the light flooded through the window and lit the hair across her brow I slammed the door knowing I would never return. And I think she lay there.                                                Author alive (in deed, if not in word) shall remain anonymous                                                     and I should think...appreciatively   See what I mean? This is published, award winning poetry?   "WRITING FREE VERSE, IS LIKE PLAYING TENNIS WITHOUT A NET"                                                             ROBERT FROST   Ron Purtlebaugh                 WORDS GOOD ENOUGH FOR ROBERT FROST ARE GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME   Wish I would have thought to think to put my words to paper, inked, before the sage of wisdom spoke, albeit, somehow, by instinct, telling me this line or that must needs improved, was surely broke. Second guessing put to rest, blessed with spontaneity, disregarding rules of men, "No poetry that rhymes...Ahem!" I clear my throat and speak my say, "Free verse has constituents and who's to say it's least or best if put to page poetically and captured well, the thought translates? What greater use could used words be to paint a picture, rhymed or free? "Whose woods these are, I think I know, his house is in the village though," So, judge you these because they rhyme? The words of Frost have tested time and passed it well, at least for me and this the thing that sets verse free. Freeing verse is poetry. Words good enough for Robert Frost are good enough for me."   RON PURTLEBAUGH               JORKEN'S BOOKS ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA   Used, well used, and broken books, Jorken took the time to say, these books were treasured time afore, forsook the shant be, haps another comes a day seeking words well read, and should, they stood against the sands of time, the elves, the helps, romance and long forgotten times. Rhyming lines and dictionaries, row on row, where history keeps it's family tree, lined as children, kept well cared, waiting for a chance to live again, again, to live again, and breathe to share another's hands and waits it's turn upon the shelf. Were it somehow giv'n to me, chance to be a written word, no gaudy perfumed travel guide or in a limestone edifice, but in the serfdom of the shelves, Jorken's Books. So mark me lightly, bend me not my back and ears, I long to live another day, like words inspired given here, watered well, a thousand tears, in my heart, grown and nurtured, tended to, in saving words, that you might know from whence it came, the beauty of the written word.   RON PURTLEBAUGH           RHYMES IN WAIT   Waiting for the winds of rhyme as fleeting lines of words abate, far past the time they want to spend, to know their fate. Appending those of dimmer wit, the pushed aside, discarded as they happen by, and sighing, move to fill the space, wait their turn to satisfy and satiate their purposeful and urging need, to prove their worth upon a page, to come of age, when patience pays another time, and slips the line, sine qua non, perfect for this place in time. A melody in poet's rhyme, a song of words in paper time.   RON PURTLEBAUGH             AND WITH THE RAIN A DIFFERENT WAY   The tickle of the breeze relieved the air it's brazen drought, scorched the darkened shoulders burned the workers building houses, tarring hot atop the roofs, mowing, raking cul de sacs.  When rain a'sudden floods the marsh, pares smooth the rippled sand fulfills the lees and tidal plains, rejuvenating, bringing green, replacing brown. And in the town down avenues of neat lined trees,  wilting flowers straighten out,  fresh is in the air again, So I prepare to write me down the words I know will come to shout, to squeeze their way into my brain and seek a way upon my page, plainly, as they have before at other times, to rend a phrase a thousand ways, articulate a single drop and splatter in a thousand parts, of common words, for common people just like me, who might enjoy a different way to look at things for a change, like nature does, when drought recedes to summer rains.   RON PURTLEBAUGH                 A WRITER'S BLOCK   When I fall between the words and the spaces turn to blurs and the rhymes all seem to slip between the lines, when meanings get all tangled as careening thoughts are mangled and the nouns all seem to need an extra verb, or adjectives get slouchy as the adverbs quit their jobs and articles appear as widened blurbs, I'm up with bended knee, a place to set me free, the cooling shade my own sweet poem tree.   RON PURTLEBAUGH                 A SIMPLE KITE    I here give flight with what I might to send this literary kite to soar upon a breeze, with hopes to lend and there append to one who values what I lend and never pray offend or rend, to useless bits another's plan, but rather mend in healing need, if where it land's in need, indeed, or perhaps to sprout anew, a brand new seed or see a new found fire lit, or see a poem tree take root, that where it sits, gives shade and comfort to a friend, or if a friend be there in lack, to start a friendship there anew, these words I do in fervent hope pray, don't lack in breadth or scope or fall into a boring hole but rather go, to do what they're intended to, fall into another's hands and if those other hands are you I'm glad to be a friend to you and hope that you find comfort in, and knowing that, you'll be calling me friend too.   RON PURTLEBAUGH                A Poem Should Be Poetry   They've railed out long, 'gainst poet's songs, 'same meter-mongers'. 'wits are dead', from Keats to Yeats, Walt Whitman, Frost, even penned The Poet, himself.  I concur, most loudly too, would to God, a poem could step right off a shelf, to free itself, it's man made hell, and would I know, enact a law, this trash be quit, that it might sit upon a shelf proud to be a one of few, of quality, and something new. No rambling thoughts, where nothing's sought, upon a line, a rhyme with something worth the say, a poem with a job to do, poetically, with quality. Wish to God it were that way.   Ron Purtlebaugh               A Poem   Rivulets of rhyme, flowing 'tween the margins wide, avoiding spaces, words in traces talk between the lines.  Hanging from another that has sat hisself above,  makes a place for brother, minding commas, not to shove Look out now! Time to stop!  End of line!  Signaled by the comma's friend, a solitary dot. Now gather close, it's time to group  drawing near, a verse appears. to parcel out the lot. Here comes space to find his place, always bigger than the rest, rhymes and words are unconcerned because he has no depth, no words to sport, and very plain, his meaning much the less. Now the stream meanders ever flowing toward a point,  slips and feathers, grazes, gathers, joins, anoints still ever breathing, leaving undercurrents weaving seeking for a depth to slide, but always step by step.   Ron Purtlebaugh                    WAITING FOR A POEM   I'm waiting for a poem here, one of high regard. One on hand to share with friends, a poem meant for all who read and those who don't, to plant a seed, to read a line and go inside, delve into the poet's mind, for passages of poet's lines, and stop to find me waiting here, just for them, just in time, just to see what I am like. Who am I, Could I be them? Could you be me? Could you be reading, waiting here, for a poem just like me?   Ron Purtlebaugh               To Write Upon The Wind     I want a pen that writes the wind, the syllables I write, to fly the beams of lighted stars in true galactic flight, I want a pen that writes the tide, the pounding surf and shore, the beating heart of phrases born across the vastness, earth. To carry to an unfound friend the gift that words are for, hanging on the icy threads of loneliness, forlorn, torn asunder, waits in need  knows not who I am, still daily checks the clouds they're sent for words upon the wind.   Ron Purtlebaugh             Only One To Give   Born to see a thousand deaths these weary eyes to live,  yet, when all my years required I've only one to give. Born to see the fears within the little children's tears, born to feel the hunger in the homeless that appear, born to live the loneliness with loved one's close and near. Having not a martyr's wish my only will to write but something was, when came my gift that opened up my sight, when I laugh I'm made to cry, I'm given life with hopes to die,  would that I, a blindful sight, the pain of hurt, the death of life.   Ron Purtlebaugh                 A Book, The World On A Leaf   Hop aboard and take a ride upon this falling leaf, it's big enough for you and me, because you see this special leaf is from the poem tree.   So grab a stem or hold to me, we've just begun, the world to see, for once you hold you won't let go, this lifetime ride is free.   See the East, the Orient, enchanted ruins of Italy, upon the Great Wall you and I shall have our ginseng tea.  The bulls and Matadors of Spain, smell the French perfumes, the Himalayas and the Urals, in India, the looms.   The Rockies, Caucasus and Alps, in Pakistan, the brass, in Central America, Panama, where ships can freely pass. In Holland, windmills, wooden shoes, Berlin's fallen wall,  the panda bears in Peking's zoo, finest of them all. Atop the worlds Tibetan roof, Australia's own Great Coral Reef, Seattle's needle standing tall, Venice with her water streets.   Hold on tight, this flying leaf may seem a  book of dreams, But dreams come true so read, read, read, and let your mind go free.   Ron Purtlebaugh              Yes, Walt Whitman, I Think You're Right and that doesn't matter at all   May leaves of grass in summer green Be a comfort for your head, to lie upon Now down the sun, in dark of night That now you see, your star, your one, I pray a passion burning bright And winter's call, the brown of fall, What it was, it so shall be, Rejuvenation's resting call. Green of spring, the nicest part When showers bring, flowers to the new thawed ground And robins sing to everyone, and lovers more, That you shall know, within your soul, Leaves of Grass grow evermore. RON PURTLEBAUGH                BEAUTIFUL IS     Like as two words, adored the more both as concrete twixt the two yet soon the two will both unmeld one says something beautiful one a beautiful thing to say one is beckoned down the hill seeking refuge in the rift one is homebound 'long the cliff joining waters in the rill both as one, a point in time differently the same names be put to neither one beautiful is as beautiful will.   RON PURTLEBAUGH                    O' Count Me Blest   O' count me blest, count me free if from my heart, my tongue, my pen can spin a solitary line, a single word a poem or a story a bit of time on God's green earth to lighten one, a lonely mind or smile to grow from sodden lips a quip, a tic, an anecdote one blind to laugh a dreary path a staff that slipped from happiness upon this weary road of life. O' count me blest, count me free if I can help a single one to see the world I see.   Ron Purtlebaugh                Horace, Thank You    Horace, how I hug to you and envy too, words you spread so evenly, never seem to spill a thought, drips your wisdom and your strength  so constantly,  with a rhythm, with a rhyme, they beg to me, listen closely, here are words you have not heard, words that more than plead the time for gentle thoughts, or bang me with a shock sublime, whispers not, but grabs me as the stone that's hot, on which I've stepped, says, get thee off! And I do jump! And were it not for my respect, I'd hold it most offensively, excepting then is when I look, to see the face of one who spoke, to see the one I know as you. I see I'm in the Master's house and in that perfect point in time, I thank you for allowing me to touch your words, my poet, host, thank you for allowing me to be with you and thank you, Horace sharing words, with the likes of me.   Ron Purtlebaugh             Young Poet     Hold  your verse, young poet, mine! Words cheaply bought or sought from rambling, do not make a line. Wait the clime, saving words, keep your lines, know you, for the words you toil, truly, never spoil. Increase in worth, taking girth, filling out to fullest measure, blossom over time. Nothing's lovely as a rhyme,  rightly put, a story told, a thing to say, if said in such a way, with assonance and resonance, a spoken voice in rhythm time, of surety, sublime. Does not a plumber know his tools? The draftsman, know his rule? Shall the poet be the fool? I dare say not!  Use your tools! Know your trade. Or, do the poets one small favor, practice, read and school.   Ron Purtlebaugh             Mr.Dylan And Mr.Frost   Remembering old Yogi and the Mick, Searching for my place, my worldly worth, While unbeknownst, a light, Would soon depart this earth, A blight upon my young and tender life.   Had he been a neighbor or a friend, My spirit tempered by his weathered hand, A close and well known touch, To pour his wisdom sand, I shouldn't miss him nearly now as much.   Lovingly, my Lord chose not, to let me  waste, My life, my words, He gave to ease my way, He changed my worldly pace, With Mr. Frost away, Mr. Dylan, in behalf, to take his place.   Ron Purtlebaugh       The Poet Clown   A happy frown, the poet clown, his carnival of smiles and grins, in paper towns, his circus rounds electric Midway runs. Hawking loudly, jumps and spins, Come one and all! Twirling on his candy apple cotton candy keyboard pen,. phrases, lines and sentences, wafting 'cross the internet, on roundy rides of letters sent. His midi tone calliope  bass drum booms in spondee beat, as organ pipes reverberate to cymbals crashing metrics out, searching for the rhythmic rhymes  of voice and sight and sound "Throw it in" the similes The ring slips past, the bottles free, a hard thrown baseball misses three, "Ring the bell" the metaphors "Win a doll for Mama, Sir" (whispering,'don't use your hands, but arms and legs and knees) In the background, stands the clown, pen in hand to write it down, the internet, his circus rounds, thinking, he were me.   Ron Purtlebaugh         THESE THE THINGS     These the things I put in words these the things I write to share, tiny things that seem to me eternally, to last and wear. Sentence weaves of crocheted lace, a capillaried spider web, sits a corner, silky, gloss, near the home on frozen pane, Jack Frost in the winter time, tiny lines that intersect, never touching, swirl effect.   These the tiny things I see, these the things are clear to me, a poet's voice within a rhyme, smell of hay from long gone times, circle marbles in the grass, a four leaf clover, I was nine, mumblipeg in summertime, whose words these are, my dear friend Frost, a loss that never leaves my heart, still never is it lost on me, so swear it now, shall never be   These the things, I shed a tear, these the things are dear to me, a piece of past, a love that lasts, a past love's long last look to see, did I look, does she care, if she doesn't, will I cry? These the things I put in words, these the things I write to share.   RON PURTLEBAUGH          Poetic Impropriety   How I misprize minutiae, free verse in a vague disguise. Decries the art with ambling words in rambling thoughts, mis-connected lineage, bearing disconnected words, half sought. Needless of a paper penned, or reprise, or frame, deserving not the string or nail to hold it up, as if it could, taking space, a hanging rail. Looking for a picture, but displays an empty wall. As with any poet, real, this the bane of poets, true, effrontery to poetry, this the scorn of poets, all, audacity to call it free, this the shame of poets, still, the nerve and cheek, poetic impropriety always has, always will,  unfreed verse, called free.     Ron Purtlebaugh        Giving Is The Rhyme   Bereft of the ability to love what life bestows, indisposed to know the joy, a martyr only knows, unaccepting happiness, for things that I might own, in words, I find the harvest reaped, with seeds I've planted grown.   Might it be, that what I see, so differs all the more, or needlessly refuse to fly, where others seem to soar, could it be, the failure feared, the din of patron's roar, when blest with sight, the apple peel is stripped away to core?   Plain to me, o r in word, as, i m writ in time, or I, M, words, like monorhyme, come racing through my mind, for I'm to see in word and time, a reason and a rhyme, foreignly subliminal, to me they ring sublime.   And query you, how words and rhyme, have part in life bestowed? Or wondering, reflecting how, the joy a martyr knows? How can words take part and stock, in what a person owns? Because, you see, so plain to me, as words are truly free,  when I give a word away, it always comes back home, and giving, most importantly, the greatest thing I've known.   Ron Purtlebaugh       Free Verse Free   The customary habitat of eloquence in rhyme a verse's sine, a poet's line, with assonance and resonance, a voice of choice in sound of course in beat in metric time. Estranging names in worded game sees content lost and gone, of babbling thought with nothing caught enslaving verse once free. Free verse free that it might be a part of something grand, that has a hand, a leg to stand, purposeful yet free. Formed or free's the same, you see, but still the rules apply, a thought that's sought then deftly caught  makes you a part of me.   Ron Purtlebaugh     Tiny Words     Tiny words that strain to rhyme, steeping in the cauldron of a broken hearted poet's mime,  reach to learn to teach one's self this hell that must have seemed at once eternal, 'cepting for the spirit's will to live, it's resonance, calls to say, Alive, Be Free! Come and walk a mile with me,  walk my path, enjoy the bath,  cleansing words of freedom's laugh to find a true sincerity when two as one as two can be. Come sit my garden bench of love, receiving what you're giving of. Come show the words a part of you as blooms the rose in morning's light as fresh as morning's dew. Come let your syllables roam free, come be with me, come see, come see if sharing simple words of love with kindred spirit set's you free.     Ron Purtlebaugh       Experimental Poem #1 Hard And Soft, The Breeze, The Butterfly, And Me   Capturing the hardness, an emphatic swift held 'No!' The butterfly, light slips the sky and on a day as watching, I, Wallowing in Apathetic's, 'don't care, I don't know,' a summer breeze that lifts away takes it hither, yon to play, Disregarding prejudice in Bigotry's lost soul from sepal to a petaled leaf. to please itself, it pleases me. Capturing a withdrawn hand that Apathy's bestowed, Then o'er a limb it rounds my head and not as other flying things, Tantamount a rainbow ride, a moon less midnight bow. instead, I stand me still, so still, hoping it will round again. These are things that seem so hard, at least to me, I know, For well I know of all the things that God upon this earth doth bring, Looking for Impossible, in what seems isn't so. there is no softer entity, the breeze, the butterfly and me. Does it work, I just don't know, take a look and see.   Ron Purtlebaugh     Poet's Prayer   The liquid history of time,  melted rocks of poet's rhyme, some behold a warming cache of fire and energy and heat, some explode and separate, fall to earth as dust and ash. While others, some, do well endure,  live to breathe, perform a feat, encouraging what we should be,  serving with a tender word idyllic possibilities, syllables of saving love, wisdom and the more absurd, visions of the heavenlies, nature in it's delicacy, land and sea that lies at feet,  the very heart of man. This, the lyric poet be, no greater dream be ever dreamed, my death be near undone, if I, a lyric poet be, named so just by one. May windlestraw be not my song, but bless the children's ear, no gold or riches do I long, but only shed the poet's tear.   Ron Purtlebaugh       On Withered Knees   Silent piled nomadic clouds whisper by their window shrouds between the waiting limbs and boughs, my lonely poem tree.   Illuminating rhymes in times of quietness and peace sublime upon the gnarly withered knees  and oaken feet in leaves.   As I wander through the din of silence where a thought has been, harvesting between the leaves the emptiness where words begin, where dreams and notions come to me as what I know and what should be, I extricate the simple lines and syllables without a rhyme to save them for the cloudy times, when rhymes and words of poetry coming not so quick and free will be there as a friend to me, be there as a cooling drink of saving grace to take their place. Freed of solitary curse among the wilderness of space to place a'time at my behest the confines of a verse.   Ron Purtlebaugh       A Plumber Knows His Tools dedicated to Art Paul   A plumber knows his tools. Should not the poet know the rules? Startling latitudinarianism, parallels juxtaposed, don't you suppose, a poet droll might best extol broadminded happy from his soul, a word in time, in perfect rhyme, to be a poet, called? And might you think this funny thing, the words he doles, the lines he crows, forsaking not the poem's role, it should at once be beautiful, a voice to sing, with words that ring, not syllables in holes? I do. For this you see is poetry,  heart and mind and soul. Or, might you think that this, pray tell, I like poetry, I like poetry, I like poetry, I just gotta' write, I just gotta' write, I just gotta' write. Is poetry as well? This, my friend, to nothing lends, the pen itself, would best be spent by staying in the well.    Ron Purtlebaugh      Poet's Words   How I love to travel words, to climb atop the nouns and verbs, the adjectives a poet's penned that lends to me and shares with me the suburbs of their universe, strange eclectic rhymes and verse, new neighborhoods of where and when,  to swing upon ideas spawned, a new path not yet walked upon, meld into the melodies and hum along, to sing a song I've not yet sung, return a place I once had gone, to wander hidden holes and lairs,  lures me, begs me further on to see a trace, taste a taste, perhaps to share to shed a tear.   Ron Purtlebaugh       The Old Oak Tree   Hard and shiny roots exposed, lifted lay along the ground, 'neath the cooling shady oak, just beside the High School road,  carved into the hardened bark and juxtaposed another line, 'Here I Slept, Adam Roque' countering in deep grooved script, 'Susan Sarber-Union Class of Sixty-Nine' The well-worn knot beneath the knee, where feet had propped for centuries, seemed to be, finished, polished, nearly varnished where the sneakers, sandals, loafers, feet in love had rested on it, here and there a heart now tarnished, filled with sap and history, dug quite well and some with arrows, decorated, least to me, near my seat well in the lap the old and ever thriving tree. Woodpecker holes of pencil holders handy-made for such as me, daily sitting counting sowbugs, ants and critters, piles of falling leaves that littered 'tween the grooves and softened spaces, filled the roots beneath the tree, a place for me. looking for a line of verse, a word in time of poetry. Perfect made for warm moist summers, cool respite in shaded breeze, This is where I came to conquer, feelings hid and lost for ages, sages bits of history, wisdom sought that time had fought to seal the discourse permanently. This is where I came to write the words that mean so much to me and from the looks of all the carvings, starving love writ with a knife, life that stayed alive forever on the limbs, the old oak tree, these were words would always be there, how I wish that they were me.   Ron Purtlebaugh       Hear The Crier   In a poem hear the crier, if for only one small reason be it if one single moment as a smouldering image lies, waiting to break loose afire 'cross the passages of time, lives the rhythym of the rhymer, in a voice of ink well flowing notions of another time, hear the letters chase emotions, freedom bounds in worded flight, life and love a flowing lotion, motions of a warming tide, in the oceans of the feelings poetry, that nearly slides.   Ron Purtlebaugh         Poetry Or Mime   Manufactured tears besetting, false the "poet's rhyme," birthed within a heart or pen or mind? What could be called less than this, the words upon a line, are they tears that fall, or only mime? Does the graphite drip with blood, tears that never dry, pink and uncooked ink that's lived? Does the life blood flow within or lessons from a dusty book, educated copy and rewrite? Only words untried and lived, relegated to decorate a line? Scattered bits of English Lit., Saved and placed with learn-ed wit, prettily sit quietly, wondering where the heart is all the time?   Ron Purtlebaugh         Were It Not For All Of These Were  it not for loneliness, were it not for love, were it not for patience and the clouds that roam above, were it not for springtime rains, summer bursts as well, were it not for wishes and the snow that lightly fell, were it not for caring, and the mornings wetting dew, were it not for children and a one who cares as you, were it not for sleepy dreams, and waking by your side were it not for you, My Love, who's always by my side, were it not for words that rhyme, and syllables that fit, were it not for writing I would have no life to live.   Ron Purtlebaugh              Home     CONTENTS  INDEX  BACK TO TOP   These are my poems, you can use or reprint them only with easily granted permission ©copyright 2001 by Ron Purtlebaugh all rights reserved UNDER THE POEM TREE©  IS A REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF I02NODESIGNS ron@underthepoemtree.com