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This is the limerick and poems page of Val Kolle!

My own limericks (in Norwegian ...) you will find here.

Her name is in full Valerie Jean Kolle. She's got her surname Kolle from her great-grandfather Christian O. Kolle, who was born at Norderhov. Val writes a lot, very often close to the limerick form, but often in her own limerick brand. And she likes to write small sagas in the limerick style. On this page you'll find some of her poems.

Here Val has made a limerick about her father, who is of Norwegian ancestry. He makes delicious cakes decorated with Sugar Shamrocks, Leprechauns, and Pots of Gold Chocolate Coins. The recipe must be a poem, too!	There once lived in Fargo a Laddy, Whose birthday was Isle of Eire’s St. Patty. Although Norski by trait - Irish cakes were his fate - Labeled 'Artie O’Kolle'; my Daddy.

There once was a toddler named Charlee Whose dad liked to watch Guthrie and Farley She’d squeal, clap and giggle, Walk and crawl with a wiggle, As her grandma rides up on a Harley.	Val is a girl with many interests. She signs this limerick Granmaval - "that was my License plate last year", she says. License plate? you ask. Check the last line - Granmaval (= Grandma Val) drives a Harley Davidson!!! Yes, the Editor hears astonished gasps and envious sighs in the background from people who aren't aware that American girls of Norwegian descent are pure dynamite!

Now to one of her multi-limericks. This one contains seven verses, and she has named the poem "7 Wonders". It's written to her childhood friend "Kooks" on her 47th birthday. "Kooks" is one of seven siblings, and Val has made a limerick for each of them. May we call it a collective 'rick? Or perhaps a childhood-rick? Anyhow, Val shows that it is possible to write limericks with themes above the waist.

There once was a young gal named “Kooks”
Who loved sharing stories of spooks
And played a card game called “Spit”
Where on the sidewalk we’d sit
As our shouts of excitement drew looks.

The youngest was nick-named sweet “Lysel”
Whose bleached pony resembled a “Skunk-tail”
She loved to bowl and to play
By the beach and to pray
That the dreams of her life would prevail.

She had a young brother named “Nubs”
‘Cause his hair was shorn shorter than stubs
A fallen angel for the Nuns
As they’d frantically run
To the priest for their “little lost cub.”

“Mikey Mouth” loved to hunt like his father
And found life in Fargo merely a bother
He flew up to Alaska
Many miles past Itasca
And was joined by two sons and their mother

Another sister was sometimes called “Blabs”
She liked to party and avoid friends who were “Crabs”
Her pals Lou and Annette
Were the best friends she had yet
As they hung out drinking Frescas and Tabs.

An older sister we once called “Shazam”
Was a “tom boy”-- “‘cause that’s who I am”
And to our astonishing wonder
Settled in a world of “Down Under”
With the Aussies eating Pomegranate Jam

“Bobbie Jean” was the first to take flight
As a stewardess into the night
With the spunk of their mom
And sharp brains from beyond
She conquered the world without fight.

This time Val moves into a new literary terrain with this story in three stanzas. There we find a couple of lines with double meaning, but the last line reveals that this isn't a story about a random "hello and goodbye". The poem tells about the big and life-long love. The editor became misty-eyed during the reading ...	I once met an all-nighter named Fritz, I felt hopeless the first time we kissed Through his trade he’s a roamer Yet, when his bat hit a “homer” I knew I was in for a 7-night blitz. Nicely-built with solid, mean muscle From his head to a firm-sculptured bustle His tan chest heaved and glistened His bronze arms moved like pistons As we danced to the 2-Step and Hustle. Even now I thank Heaven For each night blessed times seven For no man could compare To the bliss he brought there To my soul — he’s the mate I’d been given.

This time Val moves into a new literary terrain with this story in three stanzas. There we find a couple of lines with double meaning, but the last line reveals that this isn't a story about a random "hello and goodbye". The poem tells about the big and life-long love. The editor became misty-eyed during the reading ...

I once met an all-nighter named Fritz,
I felt hopeless the first time we kissed
Through his trade he’s a roamer
Yet, when his bat hit a “homer”
I knew I was in for a 7-night blitz.

Nicely-built with solid, mean muscle
From his head to a firm-sculptured bustle
His tan chest heaved and glistened
His bronze arms moved like pistons
As we danced to the 2-Step and Hustle.

Even now I thank Heaven
For each night blessed times seven
For no man could compare
To the bliss he brought there
To my soul — he’s the mate I’d been given.

Americans like travelling, and they have a big country to travel in. Here Val tells about quite a journey. The Editor had to put his National Geographic Atlas on the table a follow the route that Val and her three kids (ten, eight and three years old at that time) drove across the continent. Somehow this poem reminds the Editor of Paul Simon ("America"), Woody Guthrie ("This land is your land") and John Steinbeck ("Travels with Charlie"). Yes, Americans like travelling - and make poetry out of it!. Val calls this poem A Traveling G'limerick.

I once drove a blue Subaru 5-speed wagon
Crossing Rocky Mounts like a cowardly dragon.
On level land - such a lady
Year and speed matching ‘80
Surviving a trek which became worth much in braggin’.

I loaded bags, an old tent, and a cooler
At the end of the ’88 school year.
Kyle, Kevin and Kaira
Still young kids in that era
Joined me with joy and “No Fear”.

We reached Teddy’s Badlands for a sun-setting view
Slept in a Miles City Motel for the start of day Two
The first range danced like clouds
Wearing bright snow-capped shrouds
As I climbed down-shifting my stubborn and reluctant ‘Ru.

Like an Angel “Our Lady” with love guarded over us at Butte
Reassurance from above - we’d survive our long route
We loaded up on provisions
Praised awesome views we envisioned
Souvenirs became treasured like the young desperados’ bagged loot.

We skimmed across the pan handle
In the twilight of a flickering candle
Spent a night in Coeur d’Alene
Till Day 3 when light came
Then we crossed Washington State at an angle.

Our next “mapped-out” destination
On our quest across this great nation
Was the bay Puget Sound
And capital grounds
Of Olympia, with much fascination.

We spent a day full of play at the ocean
Running, jumping waves in their hypnotic motion
First time beholding this sight
Of the mass and the might
Of the Pacific and it’s endlessly, infinite notion.

We saw Seattle’s great needle
Thread the sky as a wheel-topped steeple
Took a ferry
To San Juan isles’ sanctuary
Where we camped, hiked and met various people.

Turning East-ward we spied on fields of bright flowers,
Bold peaks with cascading mountain-size showers.
The Grand Coulee dam,
A gold nugget scam,
As we pressed further for many long hours.

Before two more days turned to dark
We reached Yellowstone National Park
Pitched and slept in our tent
And the next day was spent
On to “Old Faithful” and “Mammoth Springs” we embarked.

Our final night was in Minot
‘Cause I figured we were there so - “why not?”
Wash our clothes and get rest
Freshen-up-that was best
And leave early homeward before temps grew too hot.

Now my kids from that trip have grown up - quite a bit
They love to travel both downward and up - not just “sit”
Across the states and to Italy
Crossing mountains and to the sea
Like their mom-discovering sites became their tea of cup
- and that’s it!

There once was a doctor named Emery Who will always remain in our memory For when Josh spoke of a “bat” The kind doctor (named) Pat Listened and treated the young boy like family.	Val writes this about the background history of this limerick: "I gave this limerick last “St. Patrick’s Day” as a “thank you” to my son’s doctor who treated him, possibly preventing an outbreak of rabies." I guess this verse took care of two important tasks - putting an unpleasant incident into lines to be remembered, and giving the doctor an extra (and tax-free!) payment.

A limerick can be used to expressing everything from simple puns to elaborate word-plays, from carefree nonsense to deeply felt thoughts. Looks like Val was sitting in the last corner when she made this 'rick, "written on “one of those days”, as she says. The last line sums up what most of us feel today.	Sometimes I feel like the “Tidy Bowl” man, Drifting on blue water in the tank of a can, Swirling along the parameters of the bowl Destined to be sucked into the whirlpool’s hole Dealing with more “crap” of the world than a body can stand.

To my Ancestral homeland I must say, “I missed my luncheon for Syttende Mai!” The ladies at church to my quest replied, “We were done serving at 1, and there’s only one more piece left of pie!” No more samples of cinnamon, sprinkled, buttery Romegrot, No crumbly, crisp cones of Krumkakke yet to be sought, I must find another way to honor my heritage today, although my work provided me with a meaningful alibi.	Val sent this poem on May 17th, showing the editor how Americans of Norwegian descent celebrate this day. Rømmegrøt and krumkake - odd combination, but absolutely Norwegian food. Not lutefisk, of course, that's a Christmas meal, not May 17th. The interesting thing is that these simple Norwegian dishes have acquired symbolic value for our relatives "over there", giving them links to a distant country and at the same time making it's culture less distant.

To my Ancestral homeland I must say,
“I missed my luncheon for Syttende Mai!”
The ladies at church to my quest replied,
“We were done serving at 1,
and there’s only one more piece left of pie!”
No more samples of cinnamon, sprinkled, buttery Romegrot,
No crumbly, crisp cones of Krumkakke yet to be sought,
I must find another way to honor my heritage today,
although my work provided me with a meaningful alibi.

Val sent this poem on May 17th, showing the editor how Americans of Norwegian descent celebrate this day. Rømmegrøt and krumkake - odd combination, but absolutely Norwegian food. Not lutefisk, of course, that's a Christmas meal, not May 17th. The interesting thing is that these simple Norwegian dishes have acquired symbolic value for our relatives "over there", giving them links to a distant country and at the same time making it's culture less distant.

Val says she knows that these poems are not limericks, but the editor answers "so what? - no problem". This time she has submitted a poem about "my one and only experience of hunting", as she writes. She obviously had only a passive role in this history, and her sympathy is clearly with the pray - a doe. But wait, Val adds something which shows that she has a more practical or culinary approach to hunting: "We also combined her meat with pork for sausage and had some deersteaks." Sounds very tasty!	As we drove round and round - narey a deer was to be found. I drove ahead and sat as a "post" They did the walking; they did the most. The experience of hunting I'll never know - they aimed; they shot; they killed "my doe." Out of the treeline she darted out - desperate as the rifles shout, Her spirit escaped as her carcass lay The hunters gutted their defenseless prey Her doeskin which shielded her from the Northland's weather - sold for mankind's gloves and leather.

Val says she knows that these poems are not limericks, but the editor answers "so what? - no problem". This time she has submitted a poem about "my one and only experience of hunting", as she writes. She obviously had only a passive role in this history, and her sympathy is clearly with the pray - a doe. But wait, Val adds something which shows that she has a more practical or culinary approach to hunting: "We also combined her meat with pork for sausage and had some deersteaks." Sounds very tasty!

As we drove round and round -
narey a deer was to be found.

I drove ahead and sat as a "post"
They did the walking; they did the most.

The experience of hunting I'll never know -
they aimed; they shot; they killed "my doe."

Out of the treeline she darted out -
desperate as the rifles shout,

Her spirit escaped as her carcass lay
The hunters gutted their defenseless prey

Her doeskin which shielded her from the Northland's weather -
sold for mankind's gloves and leather.

A ring in his hand: a heart on his sleeve bestowed upon his future wife, Crushed, disappointed: watching bereaved the diamond's shimmer shattered in strife, As she jetted away on a silver bird, He never forgot her parting words, Piercing as a knife: in shock he received "Thanks for the memories, and have a good life!"	Someone has said that all writers draw on their past and present life - conciously or not - when creating poems or fiction. Some conceal the autobiographic stuff more or less cleverly, other let bits of their life and pictures of their dreams show up in their writings without blushing. Which group does Val belong to? Well, at least her poems seems to be made from authentic experiences, like this one - about two people who have come to a crossroad with no common ground beyond it. Sad, but so are most un-happy endings.

A ring in his hand: a heart on his sleeve
bestowed upon his future wife,
Crushed, disappointed: watching bereaved
the diamond's shimmer shattered in strife,
As she jetted away on a silver bird,
He never forgot her parting words,
Piercing as a knife: in shock he received
"Thanks for the memories, and have a good life!"

Someone has said that all writers draw on their past and present life - conciously or not - when creating poems or fiction. Some conceal the autobiographic stuff more or less cleverly, other let bits of their life and pictures of their dreams show up in their writings without blushing. Which group does Val belong to? Well, at least her poems seems to be made from authentic experiences, like this one - about two people who have come to a crossroad with no common ground beyond it. Sad, but so are most un-happy endings.

This time Val has something to celebrate, and to make the occasion perfectly clear she adds: "Good job, Dr. Kyle Joseph Roos!". She calls her poem a gradlimerick, and it certainly resembles a true limerick, but not the indecent kind. Wait a minute, there are more to celebrate than a grade: You may spot a "boy meet girl"-story and also the result of it, now three years old. All in all, a typical Val poem – "a slice of life", as P.G. Wodehouse called one of his short stories.	My son Kyle has now reached a horizon, As a Doctor of Pharmacy NDSU Bison. He tried being a UND Fighting Sioux, Then to Florida he flew, for a year maybe two, Returning to Fargo to meet Jaci, his love and liason. Throughout his studies he became a new daddy, A role he welcomed whole-heartedly and gladly. Charlee Jean grew to be three, With much support from Jaci, And the studies resulted ... not too badly! Now as we gather here to give cheer, For this family we all hold so dear, We say, "Well done! We're so proud!" And, "Congratulations!" out loud, For we want the whole wide world to hear.

This time Val has something to celebrate, and to make the occasion perfectly clear she adds: "Good job, Dr. Kyle Joseph Roos!". She calls her poem a gradlimerick, and it certainly resembles a true limerick, but not the indecent kind. Wait a minute, there are more to celebrate than a grade: You may spot a "boy meet girl"-story and also the result of it, now three years old. All in all, a typical Val poem – "a slice of life", as P.G. Wodehouse called one of his short stories.

My son Kyle has now reached a horizon,
As a Doctor of Pharmacy NDSU Bison.
He tried being a UND Fighting Sioux,
Then to Florida he flew, for a year maybe two,
Returning to Fargo to meet Jaci, his love and liason.

Throughout his studies he became a new daddy,
A role he welcomed whole-heartedly and gladly.
Charlee Jean grew to be three,
With much support from Jaci,
And the studies resulted ... not too badly!

Now as we gather here to give cheer,
For this family we all hold so dear,
We say, "Well done! We're so proud!"
And, "Congratulations!" out loud,
For we want the whole wide world to hear.

Johnny Holm did the Dirty Bird the night I turned 18, I was a lifeguard, a looker...but not a beauty queen, Bucknite at the Starlight Party in the Moonlight Carmikes, music, movies on a Giant silver screen. Tossing Frisbees at Gooseberry Park Midnight swimming after dark Bikini Biking Hitch-hiking Skinny-dipping on a Lark. Our youth was swept away in college Amazingly absorbing knowledge Between the seasons For countless reasons We passed the tests and gained an edge. Now that time has come and gone Johnny Holm with friends play on To Baby Boomers, And late bloomers, With daughter Jordan and her song.	Val calls this a lyrical limerick, and lyrical it is. She has a great gift for putting old memories into new verses, giving her readers vivid pictures of years gone by, without being too sentimental. A non-American may not understand every idiom she uses, but reading poetry is always a hunt for hidden meanings. If a poem says everything "loud and clear", then it is a shallow poem. But Val lets us guess and wonder.

Johnny Holm did the Dirty Bird the night I turned 18,
I was a lifeguard, a looker...but not a beauty queen,
Bucknite at the Starlight
Party in the Moonlight
Carmikes, music, movies on a Giant silver screen.

Tossing Frisbees at Gooseberry Park
Midnight swimming after dark
Bikini Biking
Hitch-hiking
Skinny-dipping on a Lark.

Our youth was swept away in college
Amazingly absorbing knowledge
Between the seasons
For countless reasons
We passed the tests and gained an edge.

Now that time has come and gone
Johnny Holm with friends play on
To Baby Boomers,
And late bloomers,
With daughter Jordan and her song.

Val calls this a lyrical limerick, and lyrical it is. She has a great gift for putting old memories into new verses, giving her readers vivid pictures of years gone by, without being too sentimental. A non-American may not understand every idiom she uses, but reading poetry is always a hunt for hidden meanings. If a poem says everything "loud and clear", then it is a shallow poem. But Val lets us guess and wonder.

Val loves writing poems and she loves people, so she writes a lot of poems about people she loves. A few days ago she sent a collections of "loving poems", most of them about friends who had passed away. This kind of orbituaries resembles some of the old broadside ballads – "skillingsviser" in Norwegian – that informed the audiences about dramtic happenings. Val's poems, too, contain a lot of drama, but mostly she keeps her pen in a low-key mode.

No more comments from my side – read them in undisturbed silence!

Val has colorized this old photo of the three siblings Warren, Mary and Harold. You'll meet Mary and Harold in this poem.	(Mary passed away last March 2006 — she enjoyed 3 reunions with her brother, Harold, who passed away January 2005.) "Tribute to Mary" Nearly a teen, as she helped when her mother bore A child with blue eyes that reflected the sky. Schoolwork set aside with each household chore, She boiled his diapers and hung them to dry. She helped with his seizures the best she could try, There was never a time for the young girl to cry. He became her son, a "golden child" in her care, Without needed supports to keep him with her, He became too much of a burden to bear. The mother had moved him to an upstairs apartment Where an office was situated below. There was a man with a boy who gave him such joy, And told him stories with "Angelic glow." Safe, secure in his lap, he slept and dreamt of a life Where the man, like a father, would take him in tow. Unfortunate for this child, that was not his fate. His sister wrote letters, but the plea was too late. A system too large and too rigid to give any grace. The young child was moved to a very large place. An older brother became a father too young, His child and young bride were moved far away. He visited not knowing their last songs had been sung, As he left for the Service, the boy's life turned more grey. In a final attempt the sister and mother drove up hoping to take him away, From the large institution the nineteen year old was forced to stay. They bid tearful goodbyes and as theirs pleas were again turned away, Unaware of the future that was yet to come into play. Just before the untimely accidental death of the mother, For some unknown reason, she passed word on to the older sister and brother, That a letter from the large place was said to have arrived, Stating the nineteen year old had supposedly died. The letters stopped coming and dreams took their place. The hope made him run, but the years took on a slower pace. An old man moved out of the very large place. A lawsuit opened doors so all of the people could have their own space. The old man told of a family he had been trying to find. It had been years, but he missed them, and they had been gone for such long time. With help, he searched in his Archives and within just a week, He listened to his sister on the phone she did speak. Time flew, an old man walked up to his sister, She hugged him so strong as he reached up to kiss her. She held him back for a moment to search for his eyes, She remembered the blue that reflected the sky, For family melts years lost when love mends its ties. Val J. Kolle 7/15/2004

Val has colorized this old photo of the three siblings Warren, Mary and Harold. You'll meet Mary and Harold in this poem.

(Mary passed away last March 2006 —
she enjoyed 3 reunions with her brother,
Harold, who passed away January 2005.)

"Tribute to Mary"

Nearly a teen, as she helped when her mother bore
A child with blue eyes that reflected the sky.
Schoolwork set aside with each household chore,
She boiled his diapers and hung them to dry.

She helped with his seizures the best she could try,
There was never a time for the young girl to cry.
He became her son, a "golden child" in her care,
Without needed supports to keep him with her,
He became too much of a burden to bear.

The mother had moved him to an upstairs apartment
Where an office was situated below.
There was a man with a boy who gave him such joy,
And told him stories with "Angelic glow."
Safe, secure in his lap, he slept and dreamt of a life
Where the man, like a father, would take him in tow.

Unfortunate for this child, that was not his fate.
His sister wrote letters, but the plea was too late.
A system too large and too rigid to give any grace.
The young child was moved to a very large place.

An older brother became a father too young,
His child and young bride were moved far away.
He visited not knowing their last songs had been sung,
As he left for the Service, the boy's life turned more grey.

In a final attempt the sister and mother drove up hoping to take him away,
From the large institution the nineteen year old was forced to stay.
They bid tearful goodbyes and as theirs pleas were again turned away,
Unaware of the future that was yet to come into play.

Just before the untimely accidental death of the mother,
For some unknown reason, she passed word on to the older sister and brother,
That a letter from the large place was said to have arrived,
Stating the nineteen year old had supposedly died.

The letters stopped coming and dreams took their place.
The hope made him run, but the years took on a slower pace.
An old man moved out of the very large place.
A lawsuit opened doors so all of the people could have their own space.

The old man told of a family he had been trying to find.
It had been years, but he missed them, and they had been gone for such long time.
With help, he searched in his Archives and within just a week,
He listened to his sister on the phone she did speak.

Time flew, an old man walked up to his sister,
She hugged him so strong as he reached up to kiss her.
She held him back for a moment to search for his eyes,
She remembered the blue that reflected the sky,
For family melts years lost when love mends its ties.

Val J. Kolle
7/15/2004

This person passed away 2 weeks after his close friend above – last February.

His Friends Called Him “Butler”

With eyes magnified with thick bifocal glasses
He carried himself more assured than wealthier classes.
With aides to assist hearing in both of his ears —
The man showed us wisdom with each passage of years.

He’d point up to Heaven to ask all who would hear —
When he would join Jesus, his mother, “Lassie”, and ask,
“Are there televisions up there?”

He loved Waltzes and Polkas of accordion players;
Lawrence Welk, Jimmy Jenson from the days
Of vinyl records and players.

He would ask everyone, “Do you know what my favorite thing is to eat?”
Then he’d start to converse about a man in California he flew down to meet.
The answers were “Pizza” and “Mr. Bob Barker,”
The “Pizza in the Hotel Room,” and the show —“Price is Right.”
To Butler it was just yesterday that he took that flight.

Butler bowled, played Bocce, enjoying many “Special O’” sports.
He competed more years
Than the ages of pro-athletes who play on the courts.

He rode to Evergreen United Methodist Church on a bus,
Where he would teach everyone about his friend whom he called “Jesus.”
He, Harold, and friends looked forward to
“Potlucks” and community fellowship --
Participating, listening to the sermons, messages, music and worship.

More highlights took place at Thrifty, Duluth, South Dakota,
And the Senior Citizen’s Center —
Where he worked, traveled, played Bingo, and found more friends
Each time as he’d enter.

For friends called him “Butler,” and now —
We celebrate the lives he fulfilled.
Whenever we faced stress he’d smile,
And we all hear him still
Quote “Don’t Worry; Be Happy,” a phrase he alone could re-coin,
Causing our tensions to melt,
As our smiles, and our sense of joy would rejoin.

With perfect hearing, he responded to the sound —
As the Lord called out, “Erwin Butler, Come on Down!”
Good deeds were tallied beyond seventy-eight years of his age.
Butler saw Heaven clearly as he danced up and shook Jesus’ hand
Upon a brightly lit stage.
The wheel of his life spun to one hundred percent;
A number given to Butler on how his life had been spent.
The showcase was a trip up to his mother, and the treasures of Heaven.
The Lord said,
“This is now yours to enjoy for the Eternal Life you’ve been given.”

Val J. Kolle
February 11, 2005

This person passed away last August.

Cherish the Moment

A jewel of a lady with a soft-spoken way,
Eyes that sparked with her smile as we listened closely —
To hear what “gems” she’d reveal in all that she’d say.

When I first met her she still lived in Fargo and worked at DWAC,
She’d already lived quite a life —
Of which she fondly looked back.

She was closest to a brother, who remained a constant friend all her life.
She recalled a large family, the farm —
Which she had loved throughout all those good times and strife.

As she traveled out West to Medora and its beautiful hills
Far from the Red River Valley, in contrast so flat —
Upon the question of who sculpted, carved, and created such beauty, into the landscape,
Alice claimed, “I did!” so assuredly and so matter-of-fact.
To this day, whenever I travel through that region and back,
I’m reminded and almost believe the reply that she spoke,
For she had said it so brightly and so calmly—it hardly seemed like a joke.

Alice loved going for vacations, seeing “Annie,” and the largest American Mall,
The simple pleasure of “new shoes”, and such sights, and I also recall
How she thought we should move into, stay, and live forever in the hotel,
How she thought the night lights on the buildings of the city were so pretty and swell.
She expressed gratitude all of the way home to us with her hand resting on my shoulder,
Saying,”Thank you, so much, ladies!” over and over.

Yet, Alice lived “in the moment” for when she was back at her home,
You’d think she had just stayed there, as she claimed,
Like she’d never been gone, nor had she roamed.

We will all really miss our dear Alice—her smile and her wit,
How all the times she had fallen, and how it didn’t stop her from trying —
Not one bit.

She appreciated all that everyone did for her — of that we will cherish,
She made working and caring for her, and being friends with her,
And our memories of our time with her,
Extremely wonderful, and forever enriched.

Val J. Kolle
August 7, 2005

This person passed away last November.

“Allie” – a name she recalls, “They used to call me when I was a very, little girl.”

Just yesterday, a fine, eloquent lady
Celebrated her age, an elegant “Eighty.”

She graciously joined other “Octogenarians”
As she smiled with a sparkle and a grateful glance,
Walking, cautiously forward with her light-footed prance.

Her father was a minister of Lutheran regards,
So she has high morals of spiritual standards,
And her Norwegian heritage is reflected in her inflections of words.

“Fancy-work” is the name she gives to her embroidery with a needle.
Her memory is sharp as a tack, going back, from now to the cradle.
She’s a prize-winning baker, and a sweet-hearted hostess,
As she serves “sot suppe” and “romegrot” into bowls with a ladle.

She has sisters and friends who grew up in the days —
Of tea parties, church gatherings, and Bible Camp plays.

Most of the ladies—they still keep in touch.
When their group gets together it is never too much,
Sharing memories of their families, topics, and teachers, and old “such-n-such,”
How “so-n-so” always fixed “such a fine spread” and delicious lunch,
They’re longevity is a Blessing and the years aren’t a crutch.

So, I wish, “Congratulations!” to an excellent lady,
Who is still spry, young and vibrant at the grand age of 80!

Val J. Kolle
April 26, 2005

The following were written for staff of whom who we lost to cancer.

David’s Soul

Little children climbed up on his lap to whisper their wishes for their gifts to be placed under their tree
A camp counselor mentored more children each summer during his vacations when he was still healthy and free.
He enjoyed watching his children, and grandchildren, their activities, their accomplishments, and hockey.

His sense of humor grew more alive as he met challenges in his health and well-being.
“I Feel Pretty!” from West Side Story became a theme song with attitude he unabashedly started singing.

Once, when I was lunching out with a couple of ladies to Santa Lucia,
He stood up tall in his overalls, slightly used, which were frequently worn,
His broad smile, even brighter than the top of his head recently shorn,
Announcing, that he was joining us, followed by a play-act of rejection, and “See ya!”

As I returned with the ladies, I told him his attire would have actually fit in,
For a toddler in overalls with a head lacking hair, resembling him,
Was with a family, at the restaurant, as we dined there within.

I know he was worried and wanted to grasp any possible Hope of a chance,
But no matter what, you knew, whenever he looked at you -- you could read in his glance,
That whatever his future was going to be -- he accepted God’s plans,
His Spirit was strong enough to face it all -- and dance.

Val J. Kolle
August 3, 2005

The Silver Lining

Oh my, we will miss you — our dear, sweet Mary.
Your heart was so full, it poured out loving memories for all of us to carry.
Everyone’s life you have touched feels more important because of your gift.
You've added to our lives, with you -- our spirits would lift.

Each and everyday, as I would walk away
I would think with a smile of all of the wonderful things you had to say
Embellishing your words with your kind and gracious way
How happy you helped people feel throughout some tough and difficult days.

You had a strong sense of inner peace of which I will always admire,
For your faith in God helped you meet any challenges in your own life that may transpire.
You were so proud of your children and their younger generations,
In this world of constant change you endured everything with such patience.

I cannot express enough to all that you have given
To the lives you have touched through the years of your "Earthly" living
Yet, I know there was always a space reserved up in Heaven
For the “Angel” we’ve known and will always believe in
As we strive to remember your words and the manner with which you spoke them.

Thank you, Mary, for being our friend
Your love has sent ripples which will never end,
If Heaven had an e-mail I would add “We love you” and push send.

Val J. Kolle
2/23/06

"Bluebird of Happiness"

Verona once asked me, "I wonder what kind of poem you're gonna write about me."
I told her that I would write something very special and as precious as she.

How she loves to plant flowers in a garden to bloom --
And how she chose flowers to decorate her room.

How much she enjoyed visiting her old church, her sisters, family, the farm and her friends.
How she treasured her lost loved ones with a fondness with their passing she'd send --

Greetings to Heaven as she spoke up at each of the services of prayer.
She spoke "from the heart" for everyone to listen to her as she'd share
Her blessed, fond memories and how much she cared.

For she saw what each friend had brought into her life --
Yet we all saw how her heart and her love brought countless rays of
sunshine throughout their years of strife.

I cannot finish this poem without mentioning the many talents God gave to her --
Such as; the music she played on her keyboard which she had taught to herself "by ear,"
And her collages she pasted on shoeboxes and in cards in her own personal way --
As she clipped pictures of whatever she saw would fit in with what she chose to say.

Sometimes when asked a request she would say, "Oh, I suppose!"
And sometimes she'd smile and giggle at something clever she knows.

Sometimes she would shrug her shoulders while looking at her hands and
her fingers bejeweled with bracelets and rings,
As she shyly listened and spoke about bothersome things.

There is so much I admire about you, Verona
It is difficult to express everything about your persona.

I will think of you at times when the birds sing in the trees
Every March and when the flowers and blossums sway in the breeze,
As I sip Cappucinos and hear some whistling or singing one of your favorite songs
Because all of these things I took notice of as you survived, persevered, and stayed strong.

Valerie J. Kolle
11/26/06

Take Me Home As Aunt Muriel describes her parents' stay Falling in love with the ocean ... its crashing waves' spray Hawaiian breezes and palm trees' sway The freshness of fruit and floral bouquet Leaving for the Dakotas ... saddened, as they went away. In their house in Buxton to the South and West Lay a large shell we'd hold to our ears upon Grandma's request, "Do you hear the ocean?" she'd ask and describe the rest. As Grandma Gena rose on Heaven's gilded trail, Grandpa Melvin begged, "Tie me to the airplane's tail, No more winters of snowy, icy gales, Take me home to Paradise's songs and sails!" I believe that Aunt Muriel is giving us clues Of her wishes to go back to Uncle Louis. She loves listening to records from old Norway Yet she dreams as the Hawaiian records play, Saying, "Do you hear the ocean? Please listen and stay!" She wishes to go back to where her heart has been beating, Where she traveled on the Lorelei as a young bride, now old with Earthly days fleeting, To the Isles to receive an Orchid lei with a "Welcome Back Home!" greeting, To be closer to Louis, her love, for their Heavenly meeting. For my Aunt Muriel Written July 4, 2007 From her niece Valerie Jean Kolle	If you shall write about people you must be able to read people. And if you're going to write about close relatives, then you'll have to be very keen-sighted and also feel a lot of empathy. Val certainly scores high on both counts, so I'm sure that aunt Muriel took this poem to her heart. Also note that Val spent time writing this poem on July 4. That's her kind of fireworks!

Take Me Home

As Aunt Muriel describes her parents' stay
Falling in love with the ocean ... its crashing waves' spray
Hawaiian breezes and palm trees' sway
The freshness of fruit and floral bouquet
Leaving for the Dakotas ... saddened, as they went away.

In their house in Buxton to the South and West
Lay a large shell we'd hold to our ears upon Grandma's request,
"Do you hear the ocean?" she'd ask and describe the rest.

As Grandma Gena rose on Heaven's gilded trail,
Grandpa Melvin begged, "Tie me to the airplane's tail,
No more winters of snowy, icy gales,
Take me home to Paradise's songs and sails!"

I believe that Aunt Muriel is giving us clues
Of her wishes to go back to Uncle Louis.
She loves listening to records from old Norway
Yet she dreams as the Hawaiian records play,
Saying, "Do you hear the ocean? Please listen and stay!"

She wishes to go back to where her heart has been beating,
Where she traveled on the Lorelei as a young bride,
now old with Earthly days fleeting,
To the Isles to receive an Orchid lei with a
"Welcome Back Home!" greeting,
To be closer to Louis, her love, for their Heavenly meeting.

For my Aunt Muriel
Written July 4, 2007
From her niece Valerie Jean Kolle

If you shall write about people you must be able to read people. And if you're going to write about close relatives, then you'll have to be very keen-sighted and also feel a lot of empathy. Val certainly scores high on both counts, so I'm sure that aunt Muriel took this poem to her heart. Also note that Val spent time writing this poem on July 4. That's her kind of fireworks!

This poem arrived many months ago, but in a busy after-vacation period it didn't make it to this page. Now, at least, its "time has come to shine", as Paul Simon puts it in "Bridge over Troubled Water". And here is something I can't explain: In some way or other Vals poem and Paul Simons text seem to be connected, like two spotlights illuminating the same drama.	Anomaly Almost named "Melody Jule" A showgirl stripper who dropped from school. Feather prancing, Belly dancing, Spotlight illuminating a life darkened and cruel. Given name "Valerie Jean" "Goody two shoes" squeeky clean. Sunday school, Glaedig Jul, Rebeliously divorcing the life it gleaned. Naming her sidestepped prismatic dreams On a tightrope with vicarious lean. Motorcycling, Life recycling, Held in the crevace of a rock between.

This poem arrived many months ago, but in a busy after-vacation period it didn't make it to this page. Now, at least, its "time has come to shine", as Paul Simon puts it in "Bridge over Troubled Water". And here is something I can't explain: In some way or other Vals poem and Paul Simons text seem to be connected, like two spotlights illuminating the same drama.

Anomaly

Almost named "Melody Jule"
A showgirl stripper who dropped from school.
Feather prancing,
Belly dancing,
Spotlight illuminating a life darkened and cruel.

Given name "Valerie Jean"
"Goody two shoes" squeeky clean.
Sunday school,
Glaedig Jul,
Rebeliously divorcing the life it gleaned.

Naming her sidestepped prismatic dreams
On a tightrope with vicarious lean.
Motorcycling,
Life recycling,
Held in the crevace of a rock between.

In the midst of her Christmas preparations Val took a break to mail over two poems to her Norwegian publisher. As usual she writes about people she has met, and sometimes she sharpens her pen. She says this about the poem to the left: "This was written a few years ago for a "Scrooge/Grinch" type of person I once knew." Yes, we can easily understand that! The poem to the right belongs without doubt in the opposite corner. What a contrast!

"Tough"

A chunk of coal is all you get
To warm your toes while you sit.
A chunk of shiny, dark black coal
To warm your cold heart and your soul.

A chunk of coal adding weight to a stocking
For generosity simply lacking.
Reciprocity works two ways--
Getting, giving, receiving, presenting praise.

So pick up your stocking and inwardly gaze
Towards a lump of coal inside where it lays.
This shall not arrive to you as a surprise
A gift inside--you could never surmise.

So upon the eve of our Savior's birth
Move toward enlightenment, wisdom and mirth.
Forget not the gifts He has shared with us all
And the gifts we should share with each other; both meek and small.

The things that you hoard for whatever intentions
Stand in the way of God's blessed redemption.
Selfishness, greed and hurtful attitudes
Bring condemnation--not self-latitude.
Therefore a chunk of coal hereby shows gratitude
For gifts you have given so equally bad and crude
Portraying behaviors so sad and so rude.
You heed not withstanding your brethrens' advices.
You fall spiralling helplessly to your own devices.
If you smugly continue this path despite warnings and pleadings,
You will be betrothed with an epitaph reading,
"He followed his smirk all the way to this grave--
Here lies a jerk--he became Satan's slave."

P.S. Here is the chunk of coal that I gave.

"To Keep an Angel"
By Valerie J. Kolle 4/9/07 Easter Monday

It's hard to keep an Angel
Grounded here on Earth,
Touching many lives each year
Following the celebration of his birth.

With each step which he had taken
Like a feather with a purpose,
With each foot he'd forward lift,
His tussled hair, his freckles, his smile,
And his uniquely falsetto voice...
To each of us...they were his gifts.

It's hard to keep an Angel
Grounded here on Earth
His short time in our presence
Showed us all...his precious worth.

In Memory of our friend, Durand.

Val must have finished her Christmas preparations very early this year. Before the editor of this page could see the end of his pre-Christmas tasks another mail arrived from our trans-Atlantic poet. Please read along, the editor has much to do right now and must leave his office chair for a couple of days.

Angel Revisited

God spoke again to his young Angel with a talent of sculpture and art,
“I have another assignment I’d like you to start.
Remember how we brought together a couple named Lisa and Brett?
Their hearts had been broken and their prayers need to be answered yet.

I had given humans choices and the rights of ‘free will’
So the baby you had helped create for them was not able to be with them still.
Your talents are so wonderful and your results so angelically sweet
I am requesting of you to assist me with a baby girl for the awaiting parents to meet.”

With tears, the Angel again researched focusing on features of the babies on Earth and above,
Thinking, I’ll work on this diligently and fulfill all their wishes for a baby for their hearts to love.
The Angel knew time was important, as she heard so many praying with their heartfelt pleas,
For with each day, week and month, she witnessed the prayer network of friends grow and increase.

I know what they wish for—this girl must be born knowing her role,
Looking into her wee eyes everyone will see
A reflection of wisdom that appears to be
Derived from a maternal and grandmotherly “soul.”

The Angel brought together features of a chin with a miniature tuck in the middle,
Diveted lips to smile with her softly dimpled cheeks,
Tiny manicured fingers, and eyes for her to open and seek,
Lots of hair with soft curls, a nose—this wee one--finely sculpted—will be made dainty and little.

God was much pleased with the Angel’s likeness for the baby, so he added this Blessing:
“Lisa and Brett—for this Angel’s gift, Ella Rose,
Which was the name the future parents will give her without guessing,
It is the name in their hearts and in their minds which they chose
She will drift down on a feather from her young Angel’s wing
I will Bless her life and her soul, the Heavens will send lullabyes and sing,
And the Earth’s church bells will start swaying; sending their chimes in a jubilant ring.”

A young woman who heard of the heartbreak of a childless pair
Knew the child she was carrying was her gift to share,
An amazing young woman who let the couple experience Ella’s arrival on Earth,
Her first breath, her first cry, a miraculous awesome, wondrous new birth.

Another Miracle happened at that time and location
Another Birth-mom who had also given a couple the gift of a child
She spoke of her experience; she visited the new Birth-mom, and smiled
Perhaps God had placed her to be there at that moment and add her Blessing to baby Ella the Angel and God’s newest creation.

A Constellation of Prayers recently arrived up to the young Angel in Heaven
Thankful prayers for the beautiful gift Lisa, Brett, and the Birth-mom, Sarah, were given.
A new life, a new child who will bring all of us peace, hope, joy, and great cheer,
As the Thanksgiving and Holiday Season draws near.

Val J. Anthony
October 24, 2006

At the end of 2008 Val told the editor about her start as a writer of poems, and mailed over two lines of it. Some months later her mother Vivian recited to her the two last lines, so here's the full original poem:	Mother bakes and doesn't measure, but when I eat it ... it's a pleasure. It mostly works with cherry pies ... I think she's very wise.

After that she made her debut eight years old in "Sir Vet", a newsletter from the Veterans Administration Center in Fargo, where her mother worked:

At Work in the Hospital Mother works until it's done Working, working, having fun, Working, working, that and this Doing things she'll never miss, Doing things every day, Telling patients what she has to say, After mother's done with work each day, She tells us what the patients say.

And here a poem from the more mature poet, written for her youngest son – everyone pleasy sit down for a history lesson:

	Joshua’s Tree I never had an interest in History Until I studied Family Genealogy. I have traced several lines of Ancestry Plus, I’ve found many generations in my son’s descendency. The furthest back of the Keeneys, we usually get Is “Sir Thomas,” a Scot, made a Baronet In the 1500’s by a king named James Then fled to Holland when King Charles came. In the 1600’s, a son, John and wife Sarah Cheever were next in line. They settled in a place called Salem Where some Keeneys lived in a time When the “Witch Trials” upset this haven. While in England, John’s son Alex had married Alice Gates. Their son, Joseph, a mere baby, landed in the future United States. Joseph wed Hannah Hill, naming the next son after his father. Another Alex took his place in the line we continued to gather. Next, were Thomas and Josh, sons of Alex and his wife Eunice House. Thomas fought three years in the American Revolutionary War. Settling in Pennsylvania and New York, He married Miss Mercy Lamb, a “feisty” French woman as his spouse. 1776 brought the birth of Thomas the Second and our Nation. Tom Two married Miss Anna Parshall, Who brought 7 children plus twins, Elisha and Elijah, to his parcel, As he fought in the “War of 1812” at his station. Miss Lucy McArthur married Elijah the twin, And in 1862, their son, Alex, found the Civil War to join in. Gettysburg wounded him a year later in the fight, Hospitalized; until he returned to his wife, Becky White. Next, came Ezra and Minnie Brown; Minor and Suzie Vargason; Followed by; Grandfather Wayne with Emma Anderson. Wayne joined the Navy at age 19. As a young man He fought during World War Two on a ship in Japan. Which brings me to the last, so far, of everyone, His dad, myself, and Josh Keeney, my son. By Valerie Jean (Kolle) Anthony April 14, 2005

Joshua’s Tree

I never had an interest in History
Until I studied Family Genealogy.
I have traced several lines of Ancestry
Plus, I’ve found many generations in my son’s descendency.

The furthest back of the Keeneys, we usually get
Is “Sir Thomas,” a Scot, made a Baronet
In the 1500’s by a king named James
Then fled to Holland when King Charles came.

In the 1600’s, a son, John and wife Sarah Cheever were next in line.
They settled in a place called Salem
Where some Keeneys lived in a time
When the “Witch Trials” upset this haven.

While in England, John’s son Alex had married Alice Gates.
Their son, Joseph, a mere baby, landed in the future United States.
Joseph wed Hannah Hill, naming the next son after his father.
Another Alex took his place in the line we continued to gather.

Next, were Thomas and Josh, sons of Alex and his wife Eunice House.
Thomas fought three years in the American Revolutionary War.
Settling in Pennsylvania and New York,
He married Miss Mercy Lamb, a “feisty” French woman as his spouse.

1776 brought the birth of Thomas the Second and our Nation.
Tom Two married Miss Anna Parshall,
Who brought 7 children plus twins, Elisha and Elijah, to his parcel,
As he fought in the “War of 1812” at his station.

Miss Lucy McArthur married Elijah the twin,
And in 1862, their son, Alex, found the Civil War to join in.
Gettysburg wounded him a year later in the fight,
Hospitalized; until he returned to his wife, Becky White.

Next, came Ezra and Minnie Brown;
Minor and Suzie Vargason;
Followed by; Grandfather Wayne with Emma Anderson.
Wayne joined the Navy at age 19. As a young man
He fought during World War Two on a ship in Japan.
Which brings me to the last, so far, of everyone,
His dad, myself, and Josh Keeney, my son.

By Valerie Jean (Kolle) Anthony
April 14, 2005

Most people take hundreds and more pictures of their children and grandchildren, and now in the digital age several thousands. The old paper prints were put in a drawer or glued into traditional photo albums, which collects dust in a book shelf. The new digital images fill a pc, get burned on a dvd or are uploaded to an Internet album – which get fewer and fewer clicks. I suspect we can formulate a law here: The more pictures you take, the less they will be looked at. Now, Val catches the precious moments in another way – she writes a poem. This is to her first-born Grand-daughter. Some say that a picture tells more than a thousand words. Not true. Some well-put words say more than any picture can do.

You look so familiar to me; "First-born" of my "First-born", Charlee Jean.
I agree, as your mom says, "You're the most beautiful girl!" she's ever seen.
Your dad says, "When you were born, it was like witnessing an indescribable dream!"
Until the first breath and first cry; I recall very clearly how upon his birth, that moment did seem.

If Heaven lined up all of the babies born in the world,
There's no doubt you would have been chosen as "our little girl."
You have aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and a brother who all give you their "Love,"
"Best Wishes and Blessings" from their friends, plus the Angels and the Lord up above.

You are the perfect result of a "perfect" blend
Of the recipe of ancestors from which you descend;
Your creativity, your intellect, and personality will be exclusively your own;
Embellished by the influences of the world you'll be shown.

You'll always have family to guide and protect you even after you've grown
Into a young lady in the future; you won't need to face life's challenges entirely on your own.
When that time comes in your life many of us may no longer be around,
But our spirits will watch and pray for you even when you may think you're alone.
The memory, the warmth of our love, our hearts, and our hugs will still about you surround,
To bring much success and happiness; as the laughter and joy of your friends and family abound.

So, now, through the birth of a new generation,
I've been transformed into a "Grandma;" my new life's station.
"Welcome to the world, Charlee," God's newest creation.

For my first grandchild, Charlee Jean Roos,
On her "1 week" birthday, March 21, 2005
From your grandma, Valerie Jean Kolle

Love, Grandma Val 3.21.2005

Here is one of Val's lighter poems, in form as well as in content. She uses the same rhyme sound in every line, but manages to save the climax for the last line. Not an easy final effect to achieve!	This poem is written for Lisa and Brett, Who knew it was true love the moment they met. With engagement official the date was soon set. When the church's goal of completion would not be met, Lisa was somewhat disheartened but not true-blue Brett. "I'll marry you anywhere!", her fiance exclaimed, "Do not fret!" "Who cares if the church is not ready, yet!" "We will wed at St. Mary's with no further regret!" "We'll dance at the Eagles the entire first set." "Don't worry—our love is much stronger—on that you can bet!" "I'll love you forever, dear Lisa, my pet!" 3/15/2002

Here is one of Val's lighter poems, in form as well as in content. She uses the same rhyme sound in every line, but manages to save the climax for the last line. Not an easy final effect to achieve!

This poem is written for Lisa and Brett,
Who knew it was true love the moment they met.
With engagement official the date was soon set.

When the church's goal of completion would not be met,
Lisa was somewhat disheartened but not true-blue Brett.

"I'll marry you anywhere!", her fiance exclaimed, "Do not fret!"
"Who cares if the church is not ready, yet!"
"We will wed at St. Mary's with no further regret!"
"We'll dance at the Eagles the entire first set."

"Don't worry—our love is much stronger—on that you can bet!"
"I'll love you forever, dear Lisa, my pet!"

3/15/2002

Once the candles were lit – The ceremony went smooth – The couple was hitched, (amid) Whispered prayers sent to sooth. The groom From his heart Of his love did he sing. The bride wept tears of joy As they exchanged each a ring. Brett and his bride, Lisa, danced As if they took flight on an angel's wing. The rain melted away; the sun rose in the sky, Foretelling to each where their future will lie. Full of hope, understanding, one cannot deny, They share a love that will last, grow and not die. 5/29/2002	"Read on", Val says, and the names show that this is the same wedding – chapter two. In the last four lines Val does it again: The same rhyme all the way down, but this time with a more serious last line.

Once the candles were lit –
The ceremony went smooth –
The couple was hitched, (amid)
Whispered prayers sent to sooth.

The groom
From his heart
Of his love did he sing.
The bride wept tears of joy
As they exchanged each a ring.
Brett and his bride, Lisa, danced
As if they took flight on an angel's wing.

The rain melted away; the sun rose in the sky,
Foretelling to each where their future will lie.
Full of hope, understanding, one cannot deny,
They share a love that will last, grow and not die.

5/29/2002

"Read on", Val says, and the names show that this is the same wedding – chapter two. In the last four lines Val does it again: The same rhyme all the way down, but this time with a more serious last line.

This poems reminds me of Doris Day and "Que Sera, Sera", also called "Whatever Will Be, Will Be". Val has the same questions when thinking of her little relative Ruthie Abigail Walker. Or perhaps Ruthie wishes to be like her Great-Aunt?

Dear Little Miss Ruthie Abigail Walker,
Are you quiet and shy, or are you a "talker"?
What are the thoughts that cause a wee one like you to smile while you dream?
Do you see hummingbirds, rainbows, the sunshine, or little fishes in a stream?

Will you be a "tom-girl" in t-shirts and jeans, or wear delicate dresses of lace?
Will you sing pretty songs and dance, or snowboard along a snowy, white mountain face?
Are you a future teacher, an actress, a public speaker?
A writer, a poet, or an antique seeker?

Have fun exploring what catches your curiousity and interest,
The wisest words to recall are, "Whatever the test –
Remember, you are loved, always try your best,
Say your prayers, let the Lord do the rest,
Follow your heart, and your life will surely be Blessed."

With love from your Great-Aunt and your Mom's Godmother,
Valerie Jean Kolle, February 18, 2005

The title of this poem made me wonder – Where have I heard these words before? At last I got it: Val has made a pun, and the original is of course "putting Descartes before Horace". A well-known phrase in the English speaking world, I guess, but requiring this comment for other readers. But the poem itself needs no explanation: The romantic soul Val has again been to a wedding and got poetic inspiration there!

The Cart Before Horace*

For Derick and Camille, on the day of their wedding
Written in church, as you were nervous and sweating.
An event culminating after a dozen of years –
It finally happened – "You got it in gear!"
Your family and friends wish well greetings and cheer,
While we are all gathered together in here.

An understanding pastor of trends did he speak,
Of marriages, relationships; both stong and weak,
The timing of his services, the flowers, during a busy Easter week.

Dylan and Kaylee; ages seven years and one,
Looked on with smiles during vows and the fun,
As their mom and dad were joined in a union; the ceremony was "done."

So, Camille, "It won't always be easy to be a Mrs. Anthony.
Just let him think your ideas are his as you say, 'Yes, Dear!' and 'Thanks, Honey!'"
For you've already added two branches and are now part of the tree –
So now that it's official; we welcome you as you join the family.

From the "Other Mother"
Val J. Anthony, March 26, 2005

*The church and service took place in Horace, ND.

PS: Val informs me that the pun was a double one: "Also The Cart Before Horace is a pun on putting the Cart before the Horse defined as having children before marrying." I'll keep it in mind!

Aaah – childhood playing lessons! As a former leader of a little school brass band I know exactly what Val is talking about: All the practicing without any noticeable progress, and then giving up in despair. But I think Val regrets that she gave up the Alto Saxophone. It could have made her the President of the US ...

Commitment

At twelve, I played a second-hand antique, tarnished-silver Alto Saxophone.
I lugged that clumsy, black leather case back and forth from school to home.
With high-pitched squawking agony of a Canadian Goose,
Combined with deep bellows of a raging, monstrous Moose,
I softly blew, "I Love You Truly," trying to tame that rebellious horn into more moderate, melodious tones.

For a year, I struggled with wooden reeds, flats and sharps,
Fingering notes, practicing alongside clarinets, flutes, trumpets and harps.
Encouraged by my mother,
Teased by my brothers,
Divorcing the untamed musical beast, I bid, "Farewell, you're not for me, let's depart!"

Occasionally, I come across some musical instrument books, and at the pawn shops on hooks,
I give the assembly of gleaming saxophones of brass and polished silver second looks.
As I listen to a former president's musical love,
And at church, as I enjoy a jazzy, sax improv,
I think, perhaps I should have given more time to my instrument and less to my books.

Valerie Jean Kolle
February 24, 2009

Here Val touches a theme seldom found in poems today: The Vietnam War. Once there were protest songs, now it is reflections on episodes in the tragic war that began half a century ago and ended in 1975. For those who don't know the American abbreviations – POW-MIA means "Prisoner Of War – Missing In Action".

"Capt. David P. Mott, 5/19/72, POW-MIA,"
Shot down in Vietnam half a world away.
Was he alive?
Did he survive?
Embossed on a bracelet for a teenager to pray.

The name etched into the teen's thoughts of more
Questions which continued of a soldier's fate since the war.
Newspapers revealed
Survival through perils afield,
Also, yielding a Homecoming Celebration ... then no more.

Three decades later, on a Vet's motorcycle run to an Old Soldier's Home,
Unveiling a Replica Memorial Wall sent to roam,
Accompanied with images and folders
Containing files unfolding fates of the soldiers,
Revealing their stories in somber tones.

An internet search a few years later replayed ...
The name, the story of this soldier in fuller detail displayed,
A brief retrospect
To bring honor and respect
For the brave soldier for whom a teenager had repeatedly and faithfully prayed.

Valerie J. Kolle
March 21, 2009

As I've said before: Val likes to write about people. Here she is summing up her brother Ron's carreer on his retirement – or is she using the opportunity to dig up some childhood memories? Both, I guess.

Ron's Retirement: A Rhyme
By: Valerie J. Kolle, June 2, 2006

Who'd a thought that this blue-eyed brother of mine with a face full of freckles –
Whose younger years were spent laughing at antics of Heckle and Jeckle –
Who enjoyed watching Wagon Train, Westerns, and Rin-Tin-Tin –
A Boy Scout, who grew up camping and fishing, and wood-whittlin' –
Who rode an Ebony Schwinn with baseball cards clipping on the spokes
Who was a story teller who had memorized a myriad of jokes
Who played Checkers, Chess, Whist, Gin Rummy, and Merry Widow,
Yet, if he wished to play Monopoly, I'd always say, "No!"
For the "Champ" would buy property on every row
I knew before starting or setting up the game—would begin
I knew the results were predictable and always the same—he would win.

One day, he was a teenager, a lifeguard, with, sun-guilded hair –
As he donned a Safari hat sitting up high in a stilted poolside deck chair –
Going to "Buck Night" at the "Starlight" with a van full of friends –
From "Mod Squad" to Rock concerts to the 70's Disco trend,
The fun seemed too quickly to come to an end.

As a young man he sought a career on the good side of the Law
He tested with high marks so whoever hired him evidently saw
His potential for duty as an uncultured Diamond, unpolished and raw.

Who knew he would ride as a Dakota State Trooper braving all kinds of weather –
Till his hair ashened to gray—as his skin wrinkled to age-toughened leather?

I am proud to say "Safely" he is retiring on this day,
For that is how his path was with each beat of the Highway.
Like a Guardian,
He devotedly served all of us living up to the duties involved in the role,
Countless lives have been affected since that dawn when he first drove patrol.

This is a more complex poem. It tells a story about – no, I won't interpret it for you. Read for yourself, many times, and make your own understanding of the story it conveys. By the way: Val tells me that this poem is connected to "Tribute to Mary", so scroll upwards and read that one again.

Warren's Song
By Valerie J. Kolle
Completed April 11, 2009

It was so hard to say "Good bye"
And watch my wife, our children, and their children cry.
As I entered the Gates of Heaven in the sky
I began to hear my mother's lullaby.

"Someone is missing," I told my mother.
"Where is Harold, my little brother?"

"I am so sorry, Warren, for the secret, even after my death, I still hold,
There is no excuse, except that in those days of old –
You listened to the Doctor's of such places, towards the families, as they told,
'Just move on,' which I know now was so heartless, so cruel, and cold."

I reviewed Harold's life since the day we last parted,
How he had tried to find his family, running away,
Only to be found and returned each time he had started,
How he never gave up hope as he knelt down to pray.

I saw him, where he had moved with his friends, and the staff who loved him,
Hearing his hopes, dreams, and prayers as his mother and I hovered above him.
The church where he worshiped and greeted all who came near him,
A gentle old soul, whose charm and whose sweet-hearted nature endeared him.

We really should find some way—somewhere,
To find an answer to his dream and answer his prayers.
Mary and my family should meet him and show him we care.
Mother, we can help build the pathway from Harold to our family still there.

Into a website for family roots, Warren's daughter, Pam had arrived,
Looking for data on her father and the family from which he had derived,
Eventually, receiving contact from a Social Worker who revealed that her uncle was alive.
Until that moment in time, no one in her family had known that her uncle wasn't gone –
Her Uncle Harold—had survived.

In a window of time, Harold was indeed reunited –
With Mary, Warren's family and generations delighted.
He was able to receive the answer to all of his prayers –
Before he and Mary climbed up to the Celestial stairs.
For upon the last Earthly departure between Harold and Mary –
Mary bid Harold a "See you" of hope for him to carry.
No "Good Bye's" or "Fare-well's" were given –
For she knew that their next meeting would arrive in Heaven.

Climbing up the stairway with Mary along,
Harold heard the sound of a lullaby grow louder and more strong
Discovering the spiritual melody of their mother's and Warren's Song.

Here's another side of Val's talent – putting memories of yesterdays travelling and landscapes into words. She also makes a very true observation: After many years we're not allways able to keep dreams and reality apart.	Train of Thought By Val J. Kolle I can't seem to shake the continuous motion I wake up at night and the illusion won't fade The sliding and gliding of a locomotion My house has converted to the image I've made. We spent our vacation in a journey of calm Plains, rocky mountains, smooth deserts, from pine trees to palm. We swept by and slept by four nights and two days Meandering through tunnels, half a continent each way. I still hear the whistle and clicking of the train on the track I feel the swaying and rocking to one side then back. The sunshine and lights flash past my eyes The lakes, rivers, and streams glisten and rise Amid white water rafters, kayaks, and fishermen flies The visions were truth; the memories now lies. Reality can seem—more like a dream Now—the enchanting calamity My dreams confuse reality.

Here's another side of Val's talent – putting memories of yesterdays travelling and landscapes into words. She also makes a very true observation: After many years we're not allways able to keep dreams and reality apart.

Train of Thought
By Val J. Kolle

I can't seem to shake the continuous motion
I wake up at night and the illusion won't fade
The sliding and gliding of a locomotion
My house has converted to the image I've made.

We spent our vacation in a journey of calm
Plains, rocky mountains, smooth deserts, from pine trees to palm.
We swept by and slept by four nights and two days
Meandering through tunnels, half a continent each way.

I still hear the whistle and clicking of the train on the track
I feel the swaying and rocking to one side then back.

The sunshine and lights flash past my eyes
The lakes, rivers, and streams glisten and rise
Amid white water rafters, kayaks, and fishermen flies
The visions were truth; the memories now lies.

Reality can seem—more like a dream
Now—the enchanting calamity
My dreams confuse reality.

A Poem for Parker I didn't know until you came along How much it meant to me to become a "Mom." My first child, the grasp of your wee hand as it reached and held strong, Touching the place reserved in my heart to which you now, and forever, belong. In life, I've experienced so many losses and such wondrous joy But never, as wondrous as, the brief life of our perfect, little boy. Meeting, marrying your dad, joining together all of our families and friends, Sharing with them the hope of a new life from Heaven God did send, Carrying you and caring for you was for me the beginning of a new trend. I felt such an intense bond of love for you that even with your passing on to a new life in Heaven won't ever end. With each celebration through the years yet to follow I'll always share my world with you with a touch of sorrow. With every child I perceive, and each child I may bear, Through my eyes, my heart, and with each of my prayers, Every experience, the sites, and the sounds of this Earth with you I will share. I've heard time passes quickly in Heaven, so please remember, "I care," And look forward to some day when we will all meet you there. "I love you, Parker!" By Valerie J. Kolle December 22, 2004	Val says about this poem: "This was written for a young mom whose baby had passed away after a brief 15 minutes of life. Based on the Love Expressed by his Mother, Erin." I don't think any other comments are needed here.

A Poem for Parker

I didn't know until you came along
How much it meant to me to become a "Mom."
My first child, the grasp of your wee hand as it reached and held strong,
Touching the place reserved in my heart to which you now, and forever, belong.

In life, I've experienced so many losses and such wondrous joy
But never, as wondrous as, the brief life of our perfect, little boy.

Meeting, marrying your dad, joining together all of our families and friends,
Sharing with them the hope of a new life from Heaven God did send,
Carrying you and caring for you was for me the beginning of a new trend.
I felt such an intense bond of love for you
that even with your passing on to a new life in Heaven won't ever end.

With each celebration through the years yet to follow
I'll always share my world with you with a touch of sorrow.

With every child I perceive, and each child I may bear,
Through my eyes, my heart, and with each of my prayers,
Every experience, the sites, and the sounds of this Earth with you I will share.
I've heard time passes quickly in Heaven, so please remember, "I care,"
And look forward to some day when we will all meet you there.
"I love you, Parker!"

By Valerie J. Kolle
December 22, 2004

Val says about this poem: "This was written for a young mom whose baby had passed away after a brief 15 minutes of life. Based on the Love Expressed by his Mother, Erin." I don't think any other comments are needed here.

This poem is written about human beings who got a much longer life than little Parker, and who used their life to produce other lives – they became fathers. But Val aimes higher than writing a traditional Father's day greeting. She points to the real meaning and deeper joy of being a Father. Anyone blushing?	Father's Day It doesn't just occur on the "greeting card" holiday. They don't have to be a "birth-dads" for the honors to be issued their way. It takes so much more, For a man to score, As a true role-model and mentor receiving high honor and praise. Men who are listening, holding a child's hand while walking down a darkened hallway... Towards the sunshine, a guardian crossing along safeguarding a walkway. A baby's first dance, A smiling glance, Unconditionally giving to a child looks of pride and praise with love...day after day. An uncle, a brother, interacting, teaching as they have fun times and laughter as they play. Letting a baby learn to climb and crawl all over him as he lays. Playing in the water, Nephew, niece, son or daughter, Times which drift past too quickly as families separate moving on their way. A grandfather reunited with a son and grandchild after a series of years. A simple walk with a wagon, a train ride, fishing, fond memories embellished with tears. A baby who's new, A toddler who's two, Etched moments frozen in a vision fading to a distant time of thoughts as they blur. Father's Day is any day where the moment is cherishable. A "Father" defined as anyone who is memorable, To a children's life, Impact to survive, Timeless, brief or lengthy, yet positively and enduringly influential. Valerie J. Kolle June 16, 2009

This poem is written about human beings who got a much longer life than little Parker, and who used their life to produce other lives – they became fathers. But Val aimes higher than writing a traditional Father's day greeting. She points to the real meaning and deeper joy of being a Father. Anyone blushing?

Father's Day

It doesn't just occur on the "greeting card" holiday.
They don't have to be a "birth-dads" for the honors to be issued their way.
It takes so much more,
For a man to score,
As a true role-model and mentor receiving high honor and praise.

Men who are listening, holding a child's hand while walking down a darkened hallway...
Towards the sunshine, a guardian crossing along safeguarding a walkway.
A baby's first dance,
A smiling glance,
Unconditionally giving to a child looks of pride and praise with love...day after day.

An uncle, a brother, interacting, teaching as they have fun times and laughter as they play.
Letting a baby learn to climb and crawl all over him as he lays.
Playing in the water,
Nephew, niece, son or daughter,
Times which drift past too quickly as families separate moving on their way.

A grandfather reunited with a son and grandchild after a series of years.
A simple walk with a wagon, a train ride, fishing, fond memories embellished with tears.
A baby who's new,
A toddler who's two,
Etched moments frozen in a vision fading to a distant time of thoughts as they blur.

Father's Day is any day where the moment is cherishable.
A "Father" defined as anyone who is memorable,
To a children's life,
Impact to survive,
Timeless, brief or lengthy, yet positively and enduringly influential.

Valerie J. Kolle
June 16, 2009

On a vacation trip driving through our long country I received a couple of poems from Val. One of them made me wonder: "How do I code this in the html language?" There are three align options for each line – left, center and right, but none of them could produce the right effect. However, after several hours more behind the wheel an idea struck me. I had to – no, that's my little secret. You can se the result below, not a hundred percent perfect, but "the central message" is at least fairly readable.

Our Little Sister

not so long a baby girl with and strawberry-blonde appeared, in our fami a time our next little g and in wo surpr a new little sister soft as a whisper, we think we'll like she has c our which will n eve since this ne "little bl three gir each s and with the little imaginative things the they bring into s	Ago Skin so fair Hair L Y show. Not Very much later Irl with darker hair unfurled Came To Our Rld. Ise! Arrived Keep her! An unexpected twister, Hanged Lives Ever R be the same West Essing" came. Ls — O unique in their own personalities Very talented gifts, Each day, and with each of Y say, and with each little challenge — Our lives Uch an awe-inspiring and gratifying lift !

Composed by Val J. Kolle
March 22, 2006

The other poem Val sent during my vacation trip doesn't belong to the summer. Val says it's "seasonal to Oct 31", and then the raders will guess what she's writing about:	Hallowe'en Stiffened zombies unwavering eyes Venomous bats locusts flies Spiritual gusts (in)darkened skies Witches warlocks shrieks and cries Devilish demons "crypt"-omized Virtual bedlam undisguised Hallowed evening the name belies Search swiftly all you candy-crazed fools Seek refuge in your homes and schools Fright among this parade of ghouls (This)untamed night proclaims "no rules"

There's much music in Vals poems – in the language and in the rhytm. This poem almost cries for a melody, with two singers and perhaps a choir to perform the song.

Firewater

His plea:
Firewater... Oh God! It's so foreign!
My life with you had become an oxymoron.
Inhale, breath in, as the liquid heated
My crumbling life with you, was all defeated
Your bridegroom unleashed like a gypsy in a bottle
Poured in a glass you chose to ingest and coddle

Her responce:
Oooo, fiery water wash through my veins
Carry me off this world of pain
Work your magic, lift me high
As I drift upward to a celestral sky
Dancing , spinning, swirling in my brain,
I love the feeling...it's so insane!

Chorus:
I would have walked through that fire with you.
I would have crossed a high-wire line for you.
If you would have released that whisky hold on you.
And lived it through...and lived it through.

His plea:
Face down, you greet the concrete base,
Cuts, scrapes, shattered glass break across your face,
Divorce was a simple, smooth way for you to exit this place
For your life's committed to bottle-strewn disgrace
For me, it began with my feelings exchanged in embrace
For you, it was a lie, an episode, an interlude, a brief phase
Between your true love of the bottle and its warm, enticing craze.

Her responce:
I slipped, I know, now I feel so bad,
I'm not the woman you thought you had,
I've fallen and I can't get up,
I just need another sip from that cup,
To get me through another day.
I'll try again, I'll try, I'll pray.

His final verse:
Those fancy bottles they advertise...
Are demons riddled with cloaked disguise.
Fiery, red-eyed dragons intense heat which fries...
Your senses, your feeling, your ultimate demise.
Your name in the paper ...no surprise,
Misjudgement, twisted metal, innocent victims' cries,
Wherever you're at...I hope you like it better in paradise!

Chorus:
I would have walked through that fire with you.
I would have crossed a high-wire line for you.
If you would have released that whisky hold on you.
And lived it through...and lived it through.

Missing Mina There is a place reserved in our hearts For a friend none of us saw depart. It is filled with the shyness of her laughter and her quiet demeanor, Her caring, her belief in her Blessed Redeemer, The love for her daughters, their futures, of whom she treasured most dear. She carried on faithfully with a trust in her Lord to help Carry her burdens, guide her choices, and to comfort all fear. In our hearts we must all hope, believe, and pray She is held in His care throughout these long nights and days. Whenever we light a candle of hope, or see the stars as we gaze, We will always remember how she touched all of us with her gentle listening, Her guidance, and her loving, caring ways. We miss her We all love her as a sister There is a place reserved in our hearts for a friend whom we didn't see depart. We yearn...for her safe return, yet, in many ways, she never left our hearts. Valerie J. Kolle, November 22, 2004	Val often uses alliterations, especially in the title of her poems – for instance "A Poem for Parker" and "Ron's retirement", and in this one. But form elements is just a minor part of her literary baggage. This poem is an example of what could be called her main theme: Thoughts about and feelings for someone who isn't here – missing someone, in this case Mina.

Missing Mina

There is a place reserved in our hearts
For a friend none of us saw depart.

It is filled with the shyness of her laughter and her quiet demeanor,
Her caring, her belief in her Blessed Redeemer,
The love for her daughters, their futures, of whom she treasured most dear.
She carried on faithfully with a trust in her Lord to help
Carry her burdens, guide her choices, and to comfort all fear.

In our hearts we must all hope, believe, and pray
She is held in His care throughout these long nights and days.
Whenever we light a candle of hope, or see the stars as we gaze,
We will always remember how she touched all of us with her gentle listening,
Her guidance, and her loving, caring ways.

We miss her
We all love her as a sister
There is a place reserved in our hearts for a friend whom we didn't see depart.
We yearn...for her safe return, yet, in many ways, she never left our hearts.

Valerie J. Kolle, November 22, 2004

Val often uses alliterations, especially in the title of her poems – for instance "A Poem for Parker" and "Ron's retirement", and in this one. But form elements is just a minor part of her literary baggage. This poem is an example of what could be called her main theme: Thoughts about and feelings for someone who isn't here – missing someone, in this case Mina.

It is never easy to sum up Vals poems or necessary to do that. She often writes fables, as the poem below, and through the fable she conveys the reality to the reader. A philosopher has said: Good fiction (or was it art?) is a lie that is true. Val is of course far from lying, but she writes really good and true poems – that's my point.

Tate’s Angel

God spoke to a young Angel with a talent of sculpture and art,
“I have an assignment I’d like you to start.
Remember how we brought together a couple named Lisa and Brett?
They’ve been praying for a baby and we haven’t answered them yet.
I would like you to use all of your talents to help me create
A sweet natured baby boy for them whose name will be Tate.”

The Angel looked around at all the babies in heaven,
And noted their features she liked which they had been given.
She also reviewed all of Lisa and Brett’s prayers and requests
And began to sculpture a baby who melt their hearts best.
Curley dark ringlets crowned the top of his head,
Little ears to hear lullabyes as he’s brought to his bed.
Sparkling young eyes to “take it all in”,
A distinct little crease in his round little chin,
Soft lips framing his mouth topped with a divot above,
A smart nose, and two cheeks for their kisses to love.
The rest of the baby she left up to God
He accepted the angel’s likeness with a smile and a nod.

“Now” he said slowly “we need to find a way to help bring the baby to Earth.
We need a young woman to help out with his birth.
She must be loving and caring and willing to share,
This beautiful child she will be placed with to bear,
And willing to give him to others to love him and raise him in their care.”

As the time for the baby’s birth was soon drawing near,
The Angel watched with excitement and a little bit of fear.
For another baby was almost a part of their lives,
Yet God said, “Be patient for my plan, I truly feel for their strife,
Their hearts may be aching and yearning from the recent ordeal
But their faith is strong enough to have patience to continue and heal
Especially when they travel up to gather the child who will truly be theirs
Created by God and an Angel to answer to their prayers.”

Val J. Anthony
March 8, 2006

The story in the last poem continues below. Read on!

Twice Blessed
by Val J. Kolle
written 2/25/2008

"Hi!" to my birthmom,
"I'm Ella," and my message is this:
"Thank you,to my Birth-mom, for Madeline, you know, my new baby sis.
We are the happiest family on the planet Earth. Because of this,
I love you so much...and I'll blow you a kiss,
From Madeline and me to express a tiny token in comparison to your shared gifts
Beyond any treasures of worth...for our bliss."

"I know our Mom Lisa and Dad Brett will always feel Twice Blessed by the sacrifices you have made.
You will be in our hearts and our family like an angel whose bright halo won't fade."

"I'm so excited to think that I get to grow up with a sis...
To share secrets and giggle at the joys we'll make sure you won't miss."
For you've shared us with Lisa and Brett from day one,
So we'll be sure you're included in all of our fun!"

"For God has graciously sent you as an angel into our lives,
Making sure you had a heart so loving and giving in this Blessed sacrifice...
Of sharing your girls, that's us, Ella and Madeline,
Not once, but Twice Blessed for all future time.
For bearing us and loving us so much...that you were willing,
To enable Lisa's and Brett's lives to be touched with more meaning and strong faith fulfilling."

"I'm so young, I can't express with enough words, yet my feelings are there.
I know how wonderful you are and how much you care...
To bestow upon me a little sister to share...
And someday I'll tell you how much I think, 'Yes, Life is fair!'
I'll thank God for the best Birth-mommy to be born from, anywhere,
No one else...could compare!"

Love, Ella

In this poem Val tells us about a former client of her, a man without family contacts. She was able to locate his brother an cousins, and he obviously got a richer life by her help. First a couple of cuts from his obituary:

Lawrence Fredette, 92, Wahpeton, ND, died Wednesday, September 9, 2009, at St. Catherine’s Living Center, Wahpeton. The Funeral Service will be held at 10:00 a.m., Tuesday, September 15 at St. Catherine’s Chapel with Rev. Dale Lagodinski as celebrant. Visitation will be Tuesday one hour before the service. Interment will be at Riverside Cemetery, Wahpeton.

Lawrence had interests in bowling, horse shoes, volleyball, basketball, listening to music, card games, going out to eat, and enjoyed going out for walks. More recently he enjoyed working on crafts, bingo and movies on television.

And then the poem:

The Cross on the Hill By Valerie J. Kolle September 10, 2009 I'll never forget when I first met, The gentle man named Lawrence Fredette. He welcomed me with, "Well, hello, my friend!" As if we had known eachother from time's beginning to end. He reminded me of an older relative of "Harrison Ford." He had the actor's twinkle in his eye which I had always adored. Lawrence would sneak off to his room and return with his treasure, A yarn-threaded canvas each unique in a value which could not be measured. His greeting gave me motivation to become worthy of his view of a "friend." As I worked with him, and sought for him cousins with their greetings and photos to him they did send. He was unique in his identity, self determination, with a feistiness which sheltered his kind heart. A plastic-canvas Cross on a hill above random furrows of yarn from "my friend" is my most cherished art.

The Cross on the Hill
By Valerie J. Kolle
September 10, 2009

I'll never forget when I first met,
The gentle man named Lawrence Fredette.
He welcomed me with, "Well, hello, my friend!"
As if we had known eachother from time's beginning to end.

He reminded me of an older relative of "Harrison Ford."
He had the actor's twinkle in his eye which I had always adored.
Lawrence would sneak off to his room and return with his treasure,
A yarn-threaded canvas each unique in a value which could not be measured.

His greeting gave me motivation to become worthy of his view of a "friend."
As I worked with him, and sought for him cousins with their greetings and photos to him they did send.
He was unique in his identity, self determination, with a feistiness which sheltered his kind heart.
A plastic-canvas Cross on a hill above random furrows of yarn from "my friend" is my most cherished art.

Val must have a bottomless chest with poems and a wide collection of relatives and friends to write poems for. She even includes children not born yet, as in this poem:

WELCOME HOME

Little one; we’re waiting and hoping;
We don’t yet know your name.
Our hearts and our home are ready and open;
Yes, we love you already; we both feel the same.

We don’t know if you will be a boy or a girl –
Blonde, brown or auburn hair; straight or with curls;
Blue, hazel or brown eyes or possibly green –
You’ll be the most beautiful child in our eyes whom we’ve ever seen.

We’ll rejoice in your laughter; wipe all of your tears –
When the storms come along; we’ll hug you and comfort your fears;
Celebrate your triumphs; as you grow more wonderful over the years.

If you falter; we’ll teach you God’s grace from above;
Share rainbows, flowers and butterflies, and all of our love.

Welcome Home, Little One!

Val J. Kolle
Originally written February 14, 2005

Very often Val adds a little postscript telling her readers about the background for the poem. Look below this one, and you will find a key to the poem.

Thank you, Birth Mom

We hope you will always know what a “Blessing” you are in our lives
You are an answer to our prayers we patiently met with great strife.

We believe God guided you while you chose us ... yes us, to love your child
Out of all of the people anxiously waiting to become parents in this world

You and your family
Have now and will always be
Another branch added to our tree.

In your future, as you fulfill, each of your dreams,
You will be reminded, with an unfailing gleam,
How, with a bond as strong as any “Sister”
Now and forever expressed in each prayer we whisper
You shared your little loved one
Your precious baby with us ...
A child, who will live with us
As our daughter or our son
A little baby whose life’s journey has only begun.

This child will always know and feel your love
Because he or she will always see a picture of you
On our walls, like an angel, smiling from above.
We will share all of the triumphs with you �every first step of the way
On our child’s continuing journey ...
Who you are�your dreams, your yesterdays, and today.
Our child will be “lucky” to be always sharing celebrations with praise
And those special occasions and future days
Which, will compare with no other ...
Those wonderful days
Meeting and visiting with a “Beloved Birthmother.”

(This is based on the feelings of your baby’s “Adoptive Parents”)
Val J. Kolle Originally written January 30, 2006

Is it possible to read and remember a person from a thing that he or she owned and used? Most people can't, but Val has this ability to interpret the smallest clues and get a very rich meaning from them. Read it slowly!

Grandma Gena's Cane
By Valerie J. Kolle
September 22, 2009

A simple knotted, wooden object
To unobservant eyes
As I behold my grandma's cane
Her spirit still survives.

A nail had once protruded
Where the core was chiseled in
Along an icy, snow-strewn pathway
An ice-pick tip to assist her walking then.

A weathered tip all chipped and roughened
Deep cracks extending up
Twin shallow grooves surround the bottom
Remnants of a metal hanger...cut, twisted and tucked
Encircling the precious wood a thumb's width apart
Like shiny ringlets crowning her Blessed, loving heart.

Dozens of tiny notches extend along the shaft
From prying stubborn objects or shutting off a draft.
Chips along the handle, branded spots torched and burnished in
Remind me of her woodstove as she stoked the flames of fire within.
Warming the toes of her grandkids as they crunched their breakfast toast.
Serving up her family with mashed potatoes, gravy, and a tender, meaty roast.

Her hand held a history very much the same
As those reflected in her weathered hard-worn cane.
Pioneering parents' daughter surviving blizzards in a frigid, windswept wild,
Reciting poems a young Gena had memorized as a child,
Digging potatoes from the rich, black ground,
Canning produce in the fall,
Fanning harmonica hymnal sounds,
Connecting countless switchboard calls.
Cuddling and comforting a newborn baby's cry,
And waving her soldier sons "good bye!"

I clench the handle with my fist...the grip's a perfect fit
My thumb rests above the bend... I feel her presence as I sit.
A simple knotted, wooden object
Across my lap it lies
Grandma's spirit is still surviving
And her memory never dies.

This time Val has sent a real tongue-twister, at least for a Norwegian. I tried to read it aloud, but gave up after some lines and studied the rest of the poem in silence. But Val obviously has a more gifted tongue. She adds this: "Read this after my presentation in class in grad school...".

Albert Ellis Valerie J. Kolle October 13, 2009 Albert Ellis' life was wrought with sarcasm, doubters, lawsuits, and adversity. His thoughts were not based on delving in and nor dissecting a person's neurosis based on a diagnosis of one's history. Focusing instead on the current behaviors embellished with irrational beliefs and cognitions, Then teaching one how to deal more effectively with a new change from traditions, As one's life "moved on" with subsequent challenges and transitions. The orthodox psychoanalytical scholars didn't believe in Ellis' "quick fix" cures, Believing their therapy was only effective if one was counseled intensely for several years. Bi-polar, Neurotic, Erotic, Psychotic. He sought a person's current "reality" to see how one ticked, Rather than standing with an assumption of a need for a cure, thus indicating one's thoughts and feelings were "sick." Early on Ellis was open-mindedly ahead of the experts of our nation, Challenging a new acceptance of each unique person's sexuality and orientation. Ellis continued his work on up to his nineties as his legacy still grows and lives on, Outlining methods "Easy as ABC" like the words of a song. Evidence of his writings, essays, scenarios, and extensive followers are found through worldwide websites at will, He instilled influence on a reality-based talk show host celebrity whose stage-name's Dr. Phil.

Albert Ellis
Valerie J. Kolle
October 13, 2009

Albert Ellis' life was wrought with sarcasm, doubters, lawsuits, and adversity.
His thoughts were not based on delving in and nor dissecting a person's neurosis based on a diagnosis of one's history.

Focusing instead on the current behaviors embellished with irrational beliefs and cognitions,
Then teaching one how to deal more effectively with a new change from traditions,
As one's life "moved on" with subsequent challenges and transitions.

The orthodox psychoanalytical scholars didn't believe in Ellis' "quick fix" cures,
Believing their therapy was only effective if one was counseled intensely for several years.

Bi-polar, Neurotic, Erotic, Psychotic.
He sought a person's current "reality" to see how one ticked,
Rather than standing with an assumption of a need for a cure, thus indicating one's thoughts and feelings were "sick."

Early on Ellis was open-mindedly ahead of the experts of our nation,
Challenging a new acceptance of each unique person's sexuality and orientation.

Ellis continued his work on up to his nineties as his legacy still grows and lives on,
Outlining methods "Easy as ABC" like the words of a song.

Evidence of his writings, essays, scenarios, and extensive followers are found through worldwide websites at will,
He instilled influence on a reality-based talk show host celebrity whose stage-name's Dr. Phil.

I'll let Val introduce this poem: "Written for someone who was suffering depression following a surgery. He recovered and enjoyed life again, including a long desired vacation to visit his sister's family in California — a story similar to his friend's experience."

Our "Gentle Giant"
By Valerie J. Kolle 3/11/05

He is a man lead from his heart,
Who knows the importance of this gentle art.
His large stature acts as an illusion,
Unlike his quiet demeanor, and tenderness of movement.

He has shown us all how strong he has felt
As with each loss of "loved ones" his heart and spirit melt.
So we strive again to bring him back into a new time,
Where his eyes regain their spark and shine.

A familiar face and voice, stories and names, songs, favorite shows, or a prayer,
He looks up and around again to see who's there.
"Welcome back, Gentle Giant!
You are a Gem; so genuine, so pure, and so rare."

This is another Val. At first I wondered: What has happened? Where is her usual "feel good"-poetry? Then a new email arrived: "I wrote this several years ago." That answered my questions. Read on:

Sad and Angry Games of Harm
Valerie J. Kolle

It appeared to start out with “love and affection.”
Time twisted each expression into “hate and aggression.”
How can one predict such destructive obsessions?

To the world he was a mentor, a teacher, a “Chtistian” ... ”somebody nice.”
A man sought for his devotion, listening, and dispensing of advice.

He professed to be both trustworthy and kind,
A “peaceful creative” to those who were blind.
To disclaim such a image brings others to find
His retort, “she is merely out of her mind.”

How can he hate a small child with such intensity?
Undaunted determination and destruction ... how can he?
These irrational actions ... make no sense to me.

He claimed to be truly led by a God of graciousness,
To justify how he controlled, subdued, and obsessed,
Demanded, demeaned ... I must confess ...

I truly do not believe that God would give him the right to arm,
Nor place our lives in peril with Sad and Angry Games of Harm.

My child and I are finally safe and alive.
Life is a blessing�we know we will survive.
With faith, peace and love we’ll gain strength in our lives.

I pray that will enlighten and be of some use
To bring hope to the victims of violence and abuse.

Here is a typical "Val poem": A portrait of a nice person, written in a nice way by a nice person. Is this poem too sentimental? No, just full of honest feelings.

Love's Reflection
Valerie J. Kolle
March 9, 2010

Whenever I think of Mary Ann and her collection,
Of her friends and dolls; their imperfections,
I'd try to see through her eyes and see her love's reflection,
And I would see how she'd see each of them without bias or rejection.

For her unconditional love came so naturally.
She gave each of her friends and family,
Undying love, sweetness and strength in her loyalty,
As they faced challenges with impending fraility.

She looked out for her family and her friends,
Even when faced with her own frustrations,
Mary Ann understood as she worked on becoming more patient.

For she truly in her whole heart and being,
Wished to be good and faithfully seen,
Even when things didn't always make sense to her,
She looked towards happiness without great fear.

Mary Ann fully loved and appreciated us all,
And the adventure of her life's journey, its summits and falls,
I saw it reflected in her eyes towards us and her collection of dolls.

This is close to be a limerick, hadn't it been for the two long lines (number three and four). Instead Val uses those lines as vehicles for a couple of her clever rhymes – destiny/best in me, and the poem more or less sums up Paul Simons "Still crazy after all these years" in five short lines.

A month after I wrote this Val added a second verse, a sequel, she calls it. She leaves the reader wondering about what happened – is it the same meeting or a sequel? Anyway, that's one of the things good poetry shall do: Make us wondering.

I once met a charmer named Shawn.
We visited with laughter till dawn.
He spoke of his travels and destiny,
As he succeeded to bring out the best in me.
I walked away, he drove off, and was gone.

I've learned it can truly be dangerous,
To fall prey to a stranger's lust.
I denied him the act,
as I left still intact,
"Sorry, you're worth less than
a tumblweed's windswept granger dust!"

Captured

I once met a gentleman named Randy,
With kisses sweeter than sugar-dipped candy.
He danced a steady, strong lead,
Like a well-bred stallion steed,
And, I'm still hooked from his wink sent to land me!

Although his tools are kept readily handy,
There's no rekindling of embers with Randy.
Just a phonecall away,
Keeps an ebbtide at bay,
A receded shoreline to this day remains sandy.

At first look these two verses are limericks, but if you read them you'll find that they are very unusual limericks. Instead of writing harmless fun Val uses her limericks to express much deeper feelings and to tell a more dramatic history than other limerick writers dare to do. You'll also have to read some of the lines more than once to get the real meaning – or different meanings – that Val has put there. Poetry limericks, or perhaps poetricks?

Here's another of Vals "greetings", as I call them. They may also be named "well-wishings". These poems are optimistic and filled with hope, and some may say that the future for certain won't be that fine. So what? If all the optimists in the world became quiet, then we would live in a colder and grayer world. And, to make my point clearer: Optimism breeds optimism. That is Vals gift and message to Isabella.

Isabella "Emma" Lynne,
Your innocence is so genuine.
Your Brother Aiden, and your Mother Jen,
Best wishes and kisses to you they send.
Your Uncle Jimmy, and Grandma Cat,
Wish you the best, and all of that ...
A dozen dresses of lavender and pink,
Blue jeans, t-shirts, and jewelry links.
Explore and let the world be your toy,
Have happiness, love, and a lifetime of joy!

5/23/2010 By Val, for my friends and their new baby.

Another 1 Bites the Dust! I once met a broker named Rockwell, Who apparently knew how to trade stocks well, Bragging up his fine name, Monetary gain, was, for sure his main game, "To get to me you must do much better than talk well."	Interesting combination! A limerick with a "Prince spelling" in the title, which is borrowed from Queen, and a typically Val content. I wonder if the mention of his fine name in the third line has something to do with Norman Rockwell. But he wasn't a broker. He made very popular paintings and illustrations.

Val is very productive these days, finding a lot of opportunities to create a poem. This time the opportunity is a wedding, which calls for another poetic form than a limerick, and of course another set of feelings!	Kuncle's Abby Congratulations Abby & Kevin, So glad your marriage Was sent to us from heaven. We survived the weather on this fine day, I guess it helped for us all to pray For your happiness & blessings of family, And a future of blended harmony. I'm so glad to finally have another daughter, Thanks for bringing your vows to the altar. Love you lots, Val J. Kolle June 11, 2010.

In the last days of June a stream of limericks arrived from Val, all of them in her new line – "poetry limericks". They also have a common theme – meetings, not of the "happy end" type, but more in the "I have learned" branch.

I met an accountant named Larson, Who wished to spend time in my car some. He'd just attended a wedding, On a football's turf setting, Perhaps sober he'd be a fine person. I turned him down on his request repeatly, Driving off disappointed a defeated he, Had a quick hug and a kiss, Beyond that he'll sure miss, Standing tall I self-respectfully treated me.	In these two verses Val tells about an encounter with a man with Swedish roots, apparently, not because he is a little drunk, but because his name is Larson. Poor Larson, being an accountant he should have foreseen the deficit on his account with Val.

Is this a saga or just three separate limericks? We'll never know, I guess, and that's what lifts them above the main stream limericks. Val spices her five-liners with keen observations of human nature, at least of the male type. In addition, she's in command, or is she? Read closely the last limerick. But she leaves it open, the reader shall have to wonder. That's exactly what good poetry shall do.

I also met a welder named Skee,
A cute, freckeled fisherman was he,
Even though I adore him,
I just choose to ignore him,
For we both wish at this time to be free.

I had a sweet visit with biologist Steve,
He had both looks and brains up his sleeve,
He'd broken up much too recent,
To be available and decent,
With a phonecall he chose to answer and leave.

I met my new neighbor named Brad,
My goodness, what a muscular, masculine lad,
Perhaps there's some hope there,
Either way I'll just cope fair,
If we click I'll be careful yet glad.

Now, what is this? It looks like Val tries another literary form – the tall story. Davy Crockett and Paul Bunyan, step aside, here comes a dude named Steve! But even in this setting you'll recognize Vals usual rhymes and long meandering lines. Interesting effect!

“Roll”
Written by Valerie J. Kolle

Some nights at the “Dollar” there’s a dude named “Steve,”
Who claims, “I drifted to this town on a tumble-weed!”
And, “I grew up on a prairie-dusted track of land.
I’ll return when I retire to help out my ol’ man.”
As he drew in a puff and let out an exhale,
He reminisced briefly about this fine tale.
“When we were kids, at Christmastime,
My dad gathered tumbleweeds with a lassoed line.
Then, he’d start drawing the weeds in a circle in the dust,
Plus, he’d stack them up in a tall cone for all of us.
With buckets full of water, he’d splash cascades on the weeds,
Till they dripped into a ‘chandelier’ full of stalactite-like icicle picks.
Next, he’d weave through the stack, with colorful lights forth and back,
Until, it was all lit like an icebox full of fruit-flavored, Popsicle sticks.
With the Spring-time, the crystallized mass disrobed its cloak made of ice,
And my ol’ man, ever so gently, unlaced the corral made of lights.
At last, with a his determined boot, push, and shove,
Assisted by dusty bellows which blew, scooped, and swept down from above,
Rolling freely, the tumbleweeds seemed to instantly disappear in the wind,
With greetings to the vast, open prairie like long-lost, old, vagabond friends.”