Poems by Rick W. Cotton

The deep blue says it is autumn.
The sky is never this color
Except for days of cool, clear breeze
And leaves falling one on another.

The gold leaves say the year is ending
In its wild-hued conflagration.
The gentle season of harvest time
And happy fall celebration.

The orange says Halloween's nearing
And Thanksgiving's not far behind.
The heat of the summer is waning fast,
And a peace fills my heart and mind.

The colors of fall are all calling,
And my heart hears their song so clear.
Gray wintertime waits, but let's all celebrate
The brilliance of this time of year!

In the summer of '32
A little boy, 6 years old,
Separated from his Mama
In a five and ten-cent store,
And he cries as he tries to find her.
At last, he runs to her arms.
As she holds him close, he says, "Mama, take me home."

Take me home, take me home.
I'm so tired, take me home
To the place where I am loved, where I'll never be alone.
Take me home, take me home.
I'm so tired, take me home,
I'm leaning on your arms to take me home.

In the winter of '44,
In the war-torn town of Bastogne,
Shivering in a foxhole,
The young man waits all alone.
All his buddies have fallen around him,
Their blood spilled red on the snow.
As the bullets fly, he prays, "Lord, get me home."

Take me home, take me home.
I'm so tired, take me home
To the child I've never seen. Lord, I want to watch her grow.
Take me home, take me home.
I'm so tired, take me home,
I'm leaning on Your arms to take me home.

Well, the years go by, and God does not fail.
The young man and his family grow
'Til the day he's a grandpa, telling his grandson
'Bout his wartime days in the snow.
"Grandpa, weren't you afraid they would get you?
When you wanted to hide, where'd you go?"
Grandpa smiles and says,
"Boy, to the best friend I'll ever know."

In the Springtime of '05,
A man full of years, grown old,
His body is swiftly failing,
But his family is safely grown,
And his wife has gone on before him.
He knows that his time has come,
He smiles and says, "Lord, when You're ready....take me home."

Take me home, take me home.
I'm so tired, take me home
To the place where I am loved, where my loved ones all will go.
Take me home, take me home.
Lord, I'm tired, take me home.
I'm leaning on Your arms to take me home.
I'm leaning on Your arms to take me....home.

I heard a soft sound, like wind through the trees,
But there was no wind, for the air was still,
And the forest stood waiting, silent and strong,
Trees standing guard as they always will.

The voice kept calling me, calling my name
As I walked in peace through the still, cool green,
Wandering, wandering, into the deep
Where the silent deer walk, and the path is unseen.

Birds all above, singing their songs,
The rustle of leaves underneath every step,
And the sweet smell of pine, sweet perfume to me,
In the forest so deep, so purely kept.

"Who are you?" I asked, "Why call me?" I said,
But the voice said only, "Come closer, my child."
"I would speak with you, come," was the only reply,
Yet the peace grew stronger, there deep in the wild.

And at last, I stopped, for the voice then said,
"I am here, cease wandering," and I lifted my eyes
To a small, quiet clearing, where a fallen tree lay.
"Sit down," the voice said, in voice ancient and wise.

Many things we spoke of, the voice and I.
All the things my heart found too heavy for words
The voice and I spoke for hours, it seemed,
But the only sound made was the song of the birds.

"I understand, child. Let me take that from you.
You've carried it now for many a year."
And I felt the love like a blanket wrapped 'round,
And I felt myself, like a child, held dear.

"But, I am to blame, I have done all these things!"
"I know," said the voice, "but that means nothing now."
Then the love and the peace grew yet warmer still,
For the very life of me, I could never say how.

"Go in peace," said the voice, "you have miles to go."
As I smiled and turned to walk the green sod,
"I love you, my child." "I love you, too," I said.
The forest...my church...the voice...my God

My dear wife studies Calculus.
She says it's fun; I think she's nuts.
She's solving x and y and z.
I struggle with just 1, 2, 3.
She's got these weird and strange equations,
Mathematical madness machinations,
Exponents and integers.
Not many brains are wired like hers.
She can do it, get solutions.
For me, page one is mass confusion.
Words are my thing, heaven knows,
And I can fling some witty prose.
I rhyme without the slightest reason.
Poems penned for every season,
But give me numbers? Oh, I'm lost!
My brain becomes a salad tossed!
So I'll just stick to poetry
And not advance past 1, 2, 3.
While Sweetie does her sums and graphs
And antiderivatives...just for laughs.

You eat too much salt, the doctor said,
And your blood pressure's way over here in the red
You're way too fat, gotta cut back the food
Can't eat a thing that's tasty or good
And exercise - you need way much more
To feel really good, you gotta get sore
How do you sleep? Like a log, says I,
The moment the news comes on at five
I meant in the bed, she says with a frown
The wife says my snoring could wake the whole town
What about fatigue? Are you always worn out?
I'm 59, doc, I know what tired's all about
Been tired for awhile, since I don't know when
Since my kids grew up, since 2010,
Since I got that recliner that just fits my rear,
And that big screen I see even though it's not near
She writes and she thinks, and then writes some more
And writes a prescription for my local drug store
Hmmm, she says, with a thoughtful grin
Guess you're in good shape....for the shape you're in.

You were there in ’41 when the bombs came raining down
And there in 1945 when victory came to town.
With ticker tape and bands and speeches, loud and raucous cheers,
We all gave thanks to You that day, some through stinging tears.

You were there in 1950 in a far-off frozen land.
At Inchon, at Pusan, wherever we made a stand.
And ’53, when peace came, the young men came back home,
You were there among them; they never fought alone.

In 1963, on a bloodstained Dallas street,
Flags everywhere at half-mast, a nation stunned in grief.
A tiny boy’s salute that brought us all to tears,
A solemn march to an eternal flame, yet You are still right here.

In ’68, in Memphis, on a hotel balcony,
You were in the heart of one who died to set his people free,
And Your voice was in the echo of a thundering broadcast.
Though one shall pay the price...all are “free at last.”

Through Vietnam, through Watergate, foundations of our land
Were shaken badly to the core, but You alone still stand.
Our innocence was lost it seems; why did You go away?
You never really left us; it was we who went astray.

In Munich, 1973, when evil raised its head,
Black-hooded assassins, eleven athletes dead.
Where is justice? Where is God? Why did they have to die?
Yet, Your voice, calm and quiet…"Be still…you’ll get by.”

September of 2001, need I even say.
The burning pain inside us upon that blackest day.
Satan laughing with delight at all the evil done,
But we, who were divided…rose again as one.

Why is it that we only think of You in time of need?
Are we so deaf and blind? Why can we not see?
And you, Osama, you great fool, if you really want changes done
Why can’t you follow Gandhi, and King….and Jesus….THEY all WON.

You were aboard Titanic, Lord, when she sailed out on the blue,
You were aboard Challenger, and on board Columbia too,
In a plane over Lockerbie, Scotland….in a London subway train.
Though evil swells from the depths of hell...in the end, You still reign.

I heard a verse long ago about footprints in the sand.
When the years are good, two sets of prints, we walk, Lord, hand in hand.
But darkness comes; we look behind, one set of prints we see.
These footprints are our history….the prints belong to Thee.