Rolling Walnuts

The Last Walnuts

I roll up the last walnuts

As the days dwindle.

We watch our shows on the new large screen.

You beat me at the word games most days.

We laugh at the strange letter combinations.

There is music live and recorded.

There are stories told and heard.

We Facetime with tiny grandkids on tiny scrreens.

We pursue our causes on social media --  

Some days in the streets or at the polls.

Charlie and Gary and Cleve are gone. 

Beth and Mama.

Elaine and Janet and Sharon. 

Bo and Quillian.

All the givens are now uncertain.

I guess they always were.

Friends and lovers.

God, the Republic, liberty itself.

The earth at our feet.

The next Spring.

I plant bulbs, 400 daffodils and 150 tulips.

Who will see them bloom? 

by Terrell Shaw 2025

Robbed of You

 Robbed

Did I know, in flush of youth,

Meeting you with careless kiss,

Speaking love as gifted truth,

holding you in carefree bliss?

Did I know, mindlessly sure,

When we were lithe and strong,

Assuming health would long endure,

Pretending life could not go wrong?

Did I know, till robbed of you,

You were my breath, and beating heart,

Soul of my soul, my body's truth,

All my wealth, all my art?   

by Terrell Shaw (2025)

PTSW: Do Not Go Gentle

Poem

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

by Dylan Thomas

PTSW: It's When the Earth Shakes

Over forty folks -- metaphorically bloodied, horribly disappointed, and saddened after working for week on end joyfully, tirelessly for small-r republican values -- met in the little storefront on North Broad Street in Rome that has been our coordinated campaign headquarters. We commiserated as we shared food and drink and hugs. And a bit of inspiration from Kevin Aronhalt, Shawn Harris, Allen Babcock, Bishop Norris Allen, and Vincent Mendes and others. Vincent closed the meeting with this poem. I knew immediately that I would want to share it here. Much thanks to the poet, Chelan Harkin, for permission to do that.

It’s when the earth shakes

And foundations crumble
That our light is called
To rise up.

It’s when everything falls away
And shakes us to the core 
And awakens all
Of our hidden ghosts 
That we dig deeper to find 
Once inaccessible strength.

It’s in times when division is fierce
That we must reach for each other
And hold each other much
Much tighter. 

Do not fall away now.
This is the time to rise.
Your light is being summoned.
Your integrity is being tested
That it may stand more tall.

When everything collapses
We must find within us
That which is indomitable. 

Rise, and find the strength in your heart.
Rise, and find the strength in each other 

Burn through your devastation, 
Make it your fuel. 

Bring forth your light. 
Now is not the time
To be afraid of the dark.

by Chelan Harkin 

Used by permission of the poet.

Chelan Harkin's book The Prophetess, The Return of The Prophet from The Voice of The Divine Feminine. Is available on Amazon. It’s a book for these times. 

Art by Mikko Raima
Image shared from The Cosmic Dancer

PTSW: If I Could Tell You by W.H. Auden

If I Could Tell You

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

by W.H. Auden

This is an example of a villanelle. He takes a couple of liberties with the form in the last verse but that's what it is.. That pleases me because when I try formulas like this in my poetic efforts, I usually find a way the break the rules just a little.  It works awfully well here. I can never read it just once, and if there's no one about I read it aloud.

PTSW - My Own: My Present Poem

 

Lillian's birthday will be here again Saturday. One of the things that has plagued my mind since childhood is the cruel truth that even the most hateful experiences have consequences that force the most moral of us to wonder if we would change things if we could.

All Things Work Together: A Daughter is Born

to Lillian

If Daddy hadn't died, would this poem be?

-- A bull through china, the ugly thought crashes --

Would his longer thread in the mesh

of years obstruct by chance

that one in a trillion accident of love,

coincidence of sperm and egg?

-- The breakage, unmanaged, scatters and

scratches! --

Could his garden bugs these years have fed

a nest of wrens to send a wanderer to my window?

And letting a living poem sleep,

might I have written, instead, the wren?

-- Bull-headed I sweep the debris --

If Daddy lives, must the poem vanish?

I weep for my Daddy;

I mourn the wren that never was;

And welcome you to my heart, my present poem.

by Terrell Shaw

PTSW: Drive-In Picture Show

It was wonderful to share an evening recently with a group of kindred spirits at the home of our friends Stan and Lynelle Stewart. Good food, good conversation, and lots of laughs.  Just an hour and a half before we gathered the big news of May 30, 2024 had broken: the world's most famous malignant narcissist had just been held accountable -- unanimously by a jury of ordinary citizens -- for 34 felonies involving trying to undermine our democratic system in 2016. The conversation of the group of friends gathered on that comfortable screened porch ran the gamut from celebrating our legal system to sharing stories of wild airplane rides, run-ins with traffic cops, embarrassing moments, to our writing. Lynelle told about writing the following poem and we persuaded her to recite it for us. We all had a good laugh. So here is this week's Poem to Start the Week.

Ode to the Drive-In Picture Show

Candy, cokes and popcorn 

hotdogs with chili to go,

What fun they shared on a Saturday night

at the drive-in picture show.

Listening to cracking speakers

of a worn out movie track 

just sweet sixteen, she sat and felt 

his hand curve round her back.

Gentle kisses, then passions high, 

and soon the windows steam.

The magic of the moment 

fills their bodies like a dream.

But happiness is so short-lived, 

too late they surely know

that one less virgin is going home 

from the drive-in picture show.

by Lynelle Stewart

(Used by permission of the poet) 

PTSW: Starting Over

 This little poem by my mother, Ruth Baird Shaw, was published in the July 1990 issue of Home Life magazine.

I'd like to have another chance

    To live my life once more.

I'd like to take my tests again.

    I'd make a higher score.

I'd like to have another chance

    To use the wisdom gained.

Perhaps I'd then become, in time,

    The person God ordained.

I can’t go back to yesterday

    However poor the score,

But I can have another chance.

    Today, I’ll try once more.

-Ruth Baird Shaw

PTSW - My Own: True Treasures

 

Exchanging Gifts

What gifts will you bring your Papa?

Pure  gold, however they’re made—

Wrapped in sunshine of smiles;

Tied up with love that won’t fade.

What gift will you bring your Lover?

Its rich, whatever you’ve spent,

You’ve  paid thrice in sweat and tears

and my promises, broken or bent.

What gifts can I bring my daughters?

What present is worthy my wife?

Tawdry trinkets diamonds would seem

On these precious true-treasures of life.

by Terrell Shaw

PTSW - My Own: Bipartisanship

 Doggeral built on the play on words that ends this bit have been in use since at least 1952. This is my version.

 -----------------

The Elections Are Over

The elections are over:

It’s time to be friends.

Let bygones go by!

Let’s make our amends

   The battle was tough.

   Fiery words did we say!

   Now it’s over and done.

   Turn-about is fair play.

Let those in the red states

And those in the blue

Stand in unison vigor,

Our friendships renew.

   With bipartisan spirit,

   Letting vitriol pass,

   I’ll hug your danged elephant

   If you’ll kiss my …

- Terrell Shaw

PTSW - My Own: Commitment

Lillian and Jordan seem to me to be kindred spirits. They join their lives officially later this week. I believe they know that love is a choice. 

Here's a bit of verse I wrote a long time ago about the choice and promise they are making. Lillian's older sister has labeled the sentiments in this little bit of verse as "Dad's rant". Despite her teasing she too recognizes its truth I believe  Yes there must be attraction, compatibility, passion, and more. But it is not love until there is commitment -- a promise. 

I pray this will be a joyful, exciting, fun-filled, and love-filled time as we celebrate their love and the beginning of their life together.

Listen, Daughters

To Brannon and Lillian

Listen, daughters.

Be careful what you name love:

It is not so cheap as musk or fate;

It is not so easy as a fall.

Hear the wisdom of age;

Hear your father’s voice!

Love is a promise.

Love is a choice.

by Terrell Shaw

PTSW - My Own: No Whole

 This one dates to my adolescence. I think it was published in our college literary magazine.

 Faces

Floating fragments of memory tease my mind.

Your many faces are arranged

and rearranged before my mind’s eye.

I am never sure who you really are.

But real is an arbitrary root 

over which I stumble like an infant 

over nothing really.

Love is only real.

But you have really never Loved and

God is Love, and Lord knows, 

He’s not in vogue this year in abstract time,

when like a child’s useless toy 

the windup clock is pounding away fractions 

of something that can have no whole.

by Terrell Shaw

PTSW - My Own: Preface

 

Dear Reader

Mind must convince mind that it can wave the same filaments of subtlety, soul convince soul that it can give off the same shimmers of eternity. - Robert Frost

Stroll gently through this park of secret dreams.

I do not often come here with friends.

I want you to stay, 

Through every joy, pain and fear:

to know and be known

to hear and be heard,
each tone and texture,
all scents and every delicious portion.

Can they be mine alone?

Be patient,

Walk softly through my gallery:

Do you hear?

Do you know?

Do you dream too?

by Terrell Shaw

PTSW - My Own: Dedication

I have played with words since childhood, trying to fully tell my darkest fears, wildest wonders, deepest joys --- and sometimes just some silliness. I will store these, my own, here. When I gave a small booklet of verse to Sheila back in the nineties, I used this bit as a dedication.

For Sheila, Brannon and Lillian

The one I chose, who chose me too;

The one we planned, who startles so;

The one for all, who’s most her own—

To find this place, with the three of you;

And all our love!  

  Any foregone woe,

The terrors and tears in years alone, 

I count as only paving stone.

- by Terrell Shaw