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. |
---|
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. |
---|
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. |
---|
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. |
---|
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 |
---|
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 Lurline 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. |
---|
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 |
---|
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 |
---|
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. |
---|
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-dad" 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 child'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
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. |
---|
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. |
---|
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. |
---|
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.” |
---|
Raisin cream pie I met a Norse pilot named Dusty, Who's a bit older than me yet not rusty. A Vietnamn vet, Drives a vintage Corvette, An aerial duster, fire fighter who seemed trusty. We shared a table at a local diner. His manners couldn't have been kinder. We shared my shrimp and his pie, Then we left saying, "Good bye." We each drove off in the night feeling finer. |
This is a theme that I like to make a text on myself: A short meeting, a pleasant conversation, after that good bye and "feeling finer", as Val puts it. Such meetings are the spice of life that make the main course more edible! |
---|
Another meeting, perhaps several meetings, or maybe more of them later – who knows. Val keeps the reader guessing this time by not telling everything from start to end. As a matter of fact, she doesn't even make it clear where the story starts and where it ends. She's forcing us to fill out the story during the reading. Very interesting. |
The Hummingbird and the Eagle I recently met up with my friend, we'll call Blaine, In three years I have yet to complain, Sharing so much in common, An unusual phenomenon, Perhaps, in some ways we're both slightly insane. For sanity's so over-rated, Especially in lives we've created, So let's enjoy fun either way, Great companions to this day, A fond friend to which each we've been fated. I can't help but miss him in his absence, When our visits evolve further in past tense, Till upon our next meeting, The time we shared goes on fleeting, 'Cause what we feel while together make such sense. On a whim, we drove down to the 70th annual bike rally, Among the Black Hills in the Sturgis, South Dakotan mid-valley, We chose fine artist's needles and ink, Without thoughts, hesitations or blinks, I guess, we're now "tattoo buddies" at this time extraordinarily. |
---|
Quality While thinking back of Stephanie, These thoughts embraced her memory, A message for her friends and family, For her mom and sister Kimberly, Saying,"Thank you all... You gave my life its quality!" "So much good...so much fun... My dreams came true... Because you loved and cared... For the home with my sister I shared... For my life and my hopes renewed... I must say, 'Thanks for Quality and the Good... My memory is my wish for my gift to every one of you! '" 5/24/2007 |
There are deep friendships and there are superficial friendships. Quality belongs to the first, definitely. Nowadays one can read news about people caiming to have ten thousand friends – on Facebook. Fine, but which class of friendship do they belong to? Maybe Vals poems can learn us about the deep and meaningful fiendships that change people in a positive direction. |
---|
We've often seen it on television, in movies, even in comic strips: Four couples doing intricate movements, almost as ritual and incomprehensible as scricket for a Norwegian, in other words – a square dance. Val has made a poem version, but one suspects she has a deeper meaning with her verse: "an' away you go!". Just have a second look at the last line! |
Dancing "Square" The rhythmic ebb and flow... Of a rustling, ruffle show. A kaleidoscope of checkered colors... Swirling, spinning, symmetrically. Pound to the pace of the dance's caller... "Aleman left, an' do-si-do!" "Swing yer partner, an' away you go!" Promenade in step to the harnessed holler. |
---|
Two poems arrived with a day between them, but there's a lifespan between their themes. The first one is formed as a memorial, the last is a welcome cry to a new member of the family. Val knows how to give every aspect of life her own unmistakable treatment – kind words and a sentiment or a feeling to remember.
“Buddy” From Val(entine) January 7, 2011 Our dearest friend, Buddy, has touched all of our hearts. He hung through the loss of his friends as he saw them depart. He knew they were all waiting for him to join up with in heaven, And he shed a tear for every friend he’d been given. Although he couldn’t always hear what we all had to say, He never forgot to tease us or show us a greeting for each day. When I was challenged with a motorcycle to stride, The jokester would raise up his hands as to rev up my ride. “You were the only person that I’ll ever know to this day, Who flew down to Vegas, not for the shows, to gamble, or to play, But to go bowling in an alley like it was any other old day.” During the most serious of meetings, He’d form the most, funniest faces in greetings. “Oh Buddy, none of us ever know how long we are destined to be here on earth, We always remembered you in our minds on the day of your birth.” Once you were taught something you never forgot, You were the best “Buddy” that this world ever got. You showed us how to care, and we all loved you a lot. |
---|
Layla Joy Mom, Dad and big sister Charlee Jean, We know you were planning the most beautiful wedding to take place this year, Yet somebody knew you had one more special little guest who wished to be there. It was her turn to arrive and join in the scene. When you think of it all don’t you agree that the wedding will seem, So much better with Layla as a wonderful part of the dream? She is truly the answer to all of your family’s wishes, With fine, little fingers and a smile so precious, From the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, Tiny feathered eyelashes and a beautiful nose, She’ll have a big sister to guide her wherever she goes. Isn’t it amazing how a child is created, So perfectly beautiful and uniquely stated? Her birth was a blessing which we all celebrated. Some gifts arrive when they’re meant to while some other plans waited. Welcome home Layla Joy Roos! Love from Grandma Val, and your whole family, 9/26/2010. |
---|
Val have a word, a line or a poem for every occasion – birth, birthdays, meetings, marriages, illness, departures, and of course the final goodbye. There are allways people at the core of her poems, and she never degrades them. In almost every poem she tries to lift someone up, not by painting them better than in reality, but by pointing to something uplifting in connection with them. This is a typical example:
Our hearts and prayers are with you Gene, Through this difficult time it may seem, Like ‘oil and water’ brothers don’t always get along, Yet high and low notes blend into the best melody and harmony in a song. Remember the good times your whole family shared and survived, As brothers and sisters through the rough times of your lives. Remember also, the joyous times at the cabin in the woods at the lake, And the memory of a Disney World Florida trip in the past you did take. Someday, Gene, the aching in your heart will slowly be replaced, Through all of our prayers and through the works of God’s grace, With the flashbacks of those happier days, with thankful thoughts and praise, For you will remember those times with a song in your heart, and the shining sun’s rays. As a soft, summer breeze blows the air through a curtain, We wish you the best, Gene, of that you can be certain. From all of your friends and family. January 11, 2011 Valerie J. Kolle |
---|
This one, too, but here it is a dog that gets a memorial from Val:
“Dolly”
A couple guys decided together that they wanted a pet, They were told of a female Sheltie pound puppy which they could purchase and get. Before long the dog became a vital part of the home, The members of this “family” with this pooch for countless walks they would roam. Amazingly, whenever un-anticipated seizures would occur with one fellow, This dog would sense and start barking for staff before he could yell, “Oh!” They named her “Dolly,” and her heart and her spirit would mourn with each loss, As the next person in line would become her new caretaker, her “master,” and boss. Unconditional, positive regard, patience, and love were lessons she had brought to us all, Never learned from a textbook, at a college or school, Instinctively, she was the best counselor and companion into 608 that ever did fall. For we won’t forget our sweet “Dolly” as she forever reigns in our memories Of the ways which she “ruled.” Valerie J. Kolle 2/8/2011 |
---|
Here's Val in one of her light-hearted moments. I guess many of you have seen this show and recognize those feelings that Val puts words to.
We love the show Extreme Makeover Home Edition, Watching homes evolve with each community’s transition. We watched eagerly with great elation, As you travelled throughout our united nation. So much excitement brought forth toward futures of joyfulness, While both families have faced challenges with renewed “Hope”-fulness. Thank you to and from the Fargo-Moorhead community, Volunteers who worked alongside the crew with heart-felt unity. We will never forget the climatic reveal when ... We shouted, “Move that Bus!” on 10-10-10. Written by Val J. Kolle 10/10/10 |
---|
Poetry very often use metaphors and comparisions to convey the message behind the words. Here Val uses this technique in full. (One detail: For a Norwegian it is touching to see Hardanger mentioned in an American poem, especially for one who descends from Hardanger!)
Just as ...
Just as the pedals pump floss into yarn through an antique spinning wheel, Just as the sea-sawing motion of a sewing machine’s treadle moves thread through the needle, Just as the Grandfather’s clock’s hands move around a face as the scenery revolves, Just as the furrowing field of stitches in a Grandmother’s crocheted afghan evolves, Just as the craftsman intricately carves into wood on a spinning lathe, Turning delicate grooves into precious, pillar-candle stands which he made, Just as a baptismal font where an infant in a hardanger gown is Christened and bathed, Just as glimpses of past, cherished memories as with photos both fade, Blessed lifetimes of experiences which to us all on this Earth lovingly God doth gave. Before an eternity in paradise which God’s son and our Savior to us all He did save. Valerie J. Kolle 2/13/2011 |
---|
If you scroll this page from the start you'll find that Val has written a lot of obituaries or poems remembering someone. Here she turns the spotlight on herself and reveals a lot of her dreams. Usually her poems end with an uplifting line, but this poem has an unusual ending.
Legacy
When my spirit is finally set free Don’t gather ‘round and mourn for me. Before I enter those pearly gates I’ll flit around all fifty states. I’ll streak past Hawaii to the “Land Down Under” And travel from the first to the seventh wonder. Searching around the Norwegian fjords I’ll dance to musical renditions of ancestral chords. Don’t bury the body that trapped me so long With earthly traditions of mourning and song. Let my ashes represent a freedom newly born Blowing uplifted not bound nor forlorn. I’ll no longer have worries that ruled me from birth Nor life in a world based solely on monetary worth. It won’t take me long to fly up to the heavens above To welcome the warmth of God’s spiritual love. The only treasures I will miss on this earth as I leave Will be the children, their futures, of that I would grieve. I would want to give freedom, happiness, and the love of God to all of them Not hunger nor suffering brought to the children by the rulers of men. Don’t mourn when my spirit is finally set free Work towards bringing better lives to the children than the earth gave to me. Valerie J. Kolle 10/04/04 |
---|
Adventure 9/20/2011 There's a true-hearted trucker named Thomas, Who said, "I'll meet you in Vegas, I promise!" So she took the first flight, And he was such a delight, That when he'd text to go steady she'd respond, "Yes" |
Here Val is back in mid-season limerick shape. I often envy people writing in English their creative freedom in creating rhymes: Thomas – promise – respond, "Yes", something like that breaks several rules in Norwegian writing, but is fresh and witty when Val does it. |
---|
We know that Val writes lyrical poems. She also writes lyrical prose. Here are two texts:
Freebird (a short sweet bedtime story an adult) 9/17,2011 Once upon a time there was a bird. He had the most hand some plumage and he was most proud. His mother loved hime dearly and loved to watch him soar freely. As the male bird matured he met another ladybird and a nest was built. The male bird was by nature a free spirit and still loved to soar upward to the clouds high above the earth looking far and wide at the mountains and lakes. The ladybird didn't want this freedom so she ordered him to get his beautiful wings clipped. He grew nervous and sad, dreaming of the days of freedom. He wanted to be loyal but his true nature was to fly. Eventually he met a hummingbird who showed him that he was not wrong to feel the desires he felt by nature and God and to forgive himself. This he did and once again he could proudly and freely soar, and he lived happily ever after. |
---|
The second one she simply calls "Another short bedtime story in two lines..."
Once upon a time there was a man with a good heart which yearned to be healed until he met a lady who had known what it was to survive. Together, he and she took a journey so they could learn to live happily ever after. |
---|
Two poems arrived shortly after another a couple of weeks ago. The first one was written "by a classmate of mine from high school who happens to be 100% Norwegian", Val writes. Here it is:
Had an intriguing visit with a Norwegian the other night, by golly, Then read some limericks about things including a dog named Dolly*, Hangin' out at the Dirty Bird, tossing frisbees at the park, And doing other wacky and crazy things on a lark, With hopes of another visit with this Norwegian, I send out this volley. By RA 10/19/2011 |
---|
The next poem is unmistakingly written by Val herself, and the poems taken together look like the first rounds of a match or a playfull fight. Stay tuned, as they say!
Serendipity I'm sending the next volley on this limerick life's journey being... As we continue our friendship, and...as it turns out we could've had another beginning... While attending a high school as classmates in seventy-four, Parallel existence oftentimes crossing a floor, shadowing through a shared exit door, A visit intriguing? Yes, our Nordic eyes of green...could have met many previous moments before we began of each-other visually seeing. By Val 10/29/2011 |
---|
Then came two new poems from Val before 24 hours had passed. It seems like a drama is unfolding on this page, or is it a saga? A drama ends, a saga goes on and on ...
From the times we both recently spent and gave, If my life is to flourish, this next volley I'll save, I've so little money of which to give, Yet, such a fulfilling life I live, We'll still remain friends, dear, "be safe, and be brave!" |
---|
In future times in a future meeting, I'll respond in a friendly and kind greeting, Our current unfortunate fateful timing, Requires too much tweaking and priming, And my opportunities are way too rapidly fleeting. |
---|
I'm not sure if this poem – which arrived at Nov 11 – is a new chapter in the saga above. Val often makes her poems "open", therefore the readers have many mind paths to choose between while reading them.
To Save the Life of a Friend On 11/11/11, Veterans Day, I began I hope a most wondrous thing, I spoke from my heart to pray and sing, Joining with all of the countless voices, For a new best friend to make tough choices, To make a new, better beginning I hope of everything. |
---|
A couple of days before Christmas, on the darkest day in the year, Val sends this poem, which removes the darkness better than any Christmas tree:
Welcome! To all of our family and friends from me, Charlee, and my little sis, Layla Welcome! To all of our family and friends from me, Charlee, and my little sis, Layla, In celebration of Mommy's and Daddy's wedding at this New Year's Eve Gala. You might wonder why Mommy and Daddy waited so long. Layla and I got to dress-up all fancy and dance to the music and songs. You'll get to see us in all of the photos and videos, as the New Year unfolds and the old one is gone. So now and forever our family is strengthened and bound. Sure, it has been a long time to get here, but Mommy and Daddy have together found, That they both know it was much more fun to wait and have us girls around! Valerie J. Kolle 12/22/2011 |
---|
And two days later ...
Love Love is not just there then not, nor does it just suddenly appear. Love starts out like a golden spade. It starts out slowly, like a garden being tilled or a house being built. The seeds in the soil and the stones of a foundation are gently placed. The garden is watered and nourished, and the young plants rise up and seek the sunbeams which shine down upon them from above. Mortar is sculpted between the stones to further strengthen the beginnings of the structure. A small fence is placed around the garden to provide protection from predators. A floor is interlocked edged with baseboards and quarter-rounds. Trellises and supports help to hold and guide the plants as they grow. Framework is lifted into place and rafters are formed. The garden is weeded and flowers are fertilized and some of the fruits of the garden are harvested for nourishment and shared for brotherhood. Windows are placed to let in the sunshine and bring the beautiful views of the world into the shelter. A tree may grow in the garden, with deep-set roots and branches spreading and swaying outward and upward in praise. A stone fireplace and mantel bring warmth, and ambiance. Walls and a roof protect the interior from the harsh elements and storms of the seasons. A garden gate and a door are in place to further welcome those who are filled with goodness and faith, and to screen out the others who are influenced by disrespect. That is how love is. That is how love is built. That is how love is. That is what love is to me. Valerie J. Kolle, 12/24/2011 |
---|
A new year has arrived, and along with it a new poem from Val. It is an obituary, written two and a half years ago, showing Val from her warm and reflective side. As a matter of fac, I don't think she can be cold and cynical!
A Friend named Farrah I admire you Farrah, your beauty, your courage, my friend. You shining smile, your sweetness, with your "passing on" will not end. You are an "Angel" to all of us, you lived a life you will continue to share. I bring forth the feelings of the world in expressing how much we care. You were so loving, so selfless, as you showed a belief held so strong and so bold. You left us a legacy from your life which forever and truly be a love which we always will hold. Valerie J. Kolle 6/26/2009 |
---|
A couple of months have passed without new texts or photos on my website, due to a computer crash. In the meantime Val has mailed a new poem:
Love Foreboden Why is it that I feel most connected, While with all others I remain rejected? A chemical attraction, And a loving distraction, Magnetic temptations mirrored and reflected. |
The form is limerick, the content is far from that. But then Val likes to make contrasts of this kind. |
---|
Here Val tries a new line: Poems for children, one for Christmas and the other for Easter. You've got competition, Lewis Carroll!
Children love tall tales, especially when animals turn into humans and humans turn into animals – nice animals, of course! And what could be nicer than the Grandma/reindeer combination? |
My kids' grandma was a reindeer My kids' grandma was a reindeer, Dressed for Santa Christmas Eve. Her nose was red 'cause of the blizzard, As the snowy wind blew in her face. (And from the brandied eggnog which she'd laced!) My kid's grandpa couldn't find her, Till the bells rang out on Christmas Day. For when the mall's doors were closing, Santa and his elves began to play. Mrs. Claus took off with all the presents, Flying 'round upon the sleigh. Making sure that all the children, Got their toys that Christmas Day! Grandma stumbled in the kitchen, As the taxi drove away. Her reindeer tail caught in the doorway, Her reindeer horns were torn and sprained. My kid's grandma was a reindeer, And her life was forever changed. Yah, our poor ol' dearest grandma, Ne'er quite seemed the same again! By Val J. Kolle 11/1/11 |
---|
Easter Bunny Grandma Our poor Grandma needed dollars, So she put aside her pride, Bills were piling up down in the holler, Just as the Easter Eggs were getting dyed. Grandma dressed up like a big fur bunny, Wire-rimmed specs upon her face, All the kids thought she looked so funny, Spilling jelly beans all o'er the place. Grandma bent right on over, reaching down to scoop them up, As for the furry pants, they tore and split, Poor ole' dear sweet Grandma slipped then, "whoop!" Landing cross-legged on the floor to sit, and quit. The Mall Cop, he had to help to get her-- Up from sitting on the floor, Grandpa rode up with a quilt and scooter, To wrap and ride Grandma out the door. Grandma felt all sad and toasted, Yet she'd been captured on a DVR, And on "you-tube" she was posted, "Hit" so much she's now a Star! Valerie J Kolle, 3/20/12 |
Another Grandma fable, but in a very modern setting: Now you can watch her on Youtube! |
---|
This poem has a long history of revisions, thumbs up's and thumbs down's from Val. She felt it was too negative, too brutally honest, too – well, anyhow, at last she gave a final "Yes". Afterwards she'll travel through some Australian desert, but that's another tale, as Kipling said.
I ask,"What if the shoe was on the other foot?" Oh right, you told me from the start, That you had a broken heart. Yet, you sought me, enticed me, and drew me in, as... I treated you like a royal, fragile King in glass. You said, "Don't go on that path of caring, Don't fall for me 'cause I won't be a friend in sharing." Mutual communication; day and night, photos, voice mails and greetings, Texting, laughter, loving, and midnight meetings. You said, you hadn't been out there seeking, One night stands with flirtatious speaking, Tied to a spouse of lying and cheating, You wished to be free despite misleading, Mistreating our new friendship we had been building, Our short-lived encounter's glistening guilding. Bluntly and suddenly, "Don't text me or talk, or communicate, I just wish to find myself, I'll tell you that straight. Just chill till we meet, 'cause it's just for a while, I don't want to have to explain should we reconcile." Emotionally withholding, you told me from the start, Continually foreboding, "Don't open your heart." You had spoken, about a numbness and of anger inside of which you couldn't depart. Well, then, Sorry about all that, and what could've been. I'm a person who's tough in a way, Yet, if people stray, I go away. Valerie J. Kolle 1/25/2012 |
---|
And here is a very personal greeting from Val:
"Happy Birthday to Josh" "Happy Birthday to Josh, my youngest son, My car over-heated so it can't be run, Love you lots, Josh, from ev'ryone. From early dawn to the setting sun, Hope your day is filled with fun. My car won't fire, unlike a gun, The shop says my car's done, Soon, but it'll cost $264-1-1, I'm so proud of you, 'Hon.' Now, this poem is done, Love, Mom XXOO..." Posted on his FB timeline, March 26, 2012, 9:47am. |
---|
– followed by an even more personal and very eloquent message to a friend, not named but much loved:
For Now For now, you are the best reflection, Of deepest regard, in a loving connection, My truest lover, my best friend, We converge, without envisioned end, Fondest memories, a perfect day, flawless, with unbridled direction. For now, our love is grasping the depths of our hearts, Like a fistful of lightning clasping the sky in a jagged, earth-shattering arch. Unexpected, refreshing and true, Uncontrived, enmeshing and new, Dynamite blasting, sculpting the mountainous cliff into the gems of our love from its start. For now, we know not where the path of our love is leading, Yet, as sure as the farmer's field is cultivated each spring with the new seedlings, Our love will grow, Of that we do know, And the sun will follow the rain with a rainbow and its bright rays needling. Valerie J. Kolle April 21, 2012 |
---|
Here's Val in a lighter mood – or mode – in new surroundings, at least. If you have trouble understanding the language in this poem, try speaking it instead of reading it. Then you suddenly will be back in a cinema, watching a vintage movie set in the late 1800's. A very amusing effect, but still a love story underneath. |
Bit o' Hill-billy We're so crazy 'bout each-udda dat's fer sure, Jes' like da fishes to da fishin' lures! Unda' a blanket o' stars so brite, Shaded by da pines 'tween a moonlit nite, Let's jes' cuddle up togeda' 'n see what occurs! Kissin' n a-huggin' n a-luvin' by a mount'n stream, Da lake reflectin' da sky's moonbeams, Quilted, floral hills, Nature's paint'd stills, Be my only darlin' forev'r 'n yer nightly dreams! Val 5/11/2012 |
---|
Violets are red roses are blue Violets are red roses are blue I get so mixed up when I'm with you Love ya, Val |
This one is very funny! Being a Norwegian I had to read it twice before I saw what Val has done. Do you see it? |
---|
A witty and pointed limerick! Poor guy, I guess by now he's laying on a psychiatrist's couch pouring out his inferiority complexes. Sad. |
I once saw a J. Cash impersonation, With a guy whose Harley I rode on occasion. He liked to email not text, Was confused and perplexed, When faced with a woman whose brainwaves still function. |
---|
Long Ago Forgotten My mind takes over my broken-down heart. Again, I find myself alone, as I depart. I'll miss my friend as he falls in line... With other loves I've lost through time. In all my wanderings I've yet... To find my love who'll stay and set. Tears fall again without shame nor regret. "Go further on!" my mind helps my healing heart forget. |
Here's Val in a sentimental and reflective mood, but with an optimistic note in the end. |
---|
Mark the title! Of course, Val hasn't written a poem discussing Darwinism, but she's telling a little story about what allways happen to a relationship between two people: It evolves. They change, they adapt, and after a while both are different from what they started as. |
Evolution He's dispensing directives of delusions of such, Romantic dreams of secretive seclusion, and touch, Her role; as yet obscure and alone, Like a down-trodden step supporting a throne, As he foolishly "plays house" for "status quo" retention of much. Bound by the fears of slander, desertion, and loss of property, He remains devoted and in a dual-faced sovereignty. She tries to remain strong, For now, but how long? She must stand up for her worth, and unyielding iniquity. |
---|
Val has been on a walkabout, as I think they say "Down under", and she certanily has picked up a lot of impressions along the road - and filled a long line of limericks with them. I guess she a lot more of building ideas for poems now. A journey like this must be a real eye-opener and mind-opener.
"Memory Quilt" Limerick
For my Penpal Libby Maccas/Mickey-D's, KFC, and John Deere, America's Country and Rock Classics, on the radio, I hear, Yet, on the left, I ride, Steering wheel; other side, I'm confused at times, on whether I'm there or here. A while ago, I hopped on a jet to Melbourne, Quittin' a job to see, listen, and learn, A culture and language, In an "emptied nested"-age, Seeing a "Land Down Under?" Hey, kids! It's my turn! We were North-eastern bound, that day, As we hopped a Ferry in Sydney Bay, At ten, I dreamed, Yet, it seemed, This was a world much too far away! We ate "French Fries," to Aussies known as "Chips," And fresh, "poached" Lobster, as it melted between our lips, We toasted to the moment, At Denny's Seaside Restaurant, As we watched sailboats and sea-bound, freighter ships. The jazz and folksy tunes of voices sing out, along, As gum trees line rolling hills of the country-side in song. The Australian signs announce, words of places, I can't pronounce, The foreign birds glide in flight and 'roos (like deer) gracefully hop-along. Near Torquay, we saw a surfer, "Point Danger," and felt an Antarctic gale, We honored in memorial five decades since the loss of six "Red Sales." The dads, husbands, brothers, and sons of the R-double-A-F, The families who loved them as they left, For the love of their country and sacrifice, in sovereignty, to each of the pilots, I tip my hat, salute, and hail! Together, my friends and I will fly to Darwin, in the north, Experiencing the poverty and riches of East Timor. The poverty of health, The Timorese people; to me define wealth. Their hearts, their hopes, their dreams define the young country's worth. I left Fargo during a humid, heatwave of 90 degrees, To Melbourne, in the crispness of their winter and an ocean breeze. First time; below the Equator, And, my pen-pal, Libby, meeting her. For my 56th birthday I decided, that this moment, finally, needed to be seized! Footprints in the sand at the bay in Geelong, Sounds like the words that turn into lyrics of a melodic song. We grew up in our letters, Enriching our lives each for the better, Why, in God's world did we wait so long? Raising our children, school and careers, Our lives continued to be busy as parents for years, While our children were growing and active, Cherishing those times in which we had lived, We are both at crossroads in our fifties, and changing our gears. We spent a day in a Gold Rush town, Seeing life in the 1800's, as we walked around, An old-fashioned photo was taken, Decades dealt in the making, As we dressed up with fans, feathers, and gowns. Minneapolis, Denver, LAX, Beijing, and Shang Hai, Onward to Melbourne, I lost a day while I flied. From East Timor, To Singapore, Through South Korea, and Texas, In September, I will say, "See Ya!" and "Well Done!" instead of "Good Bye!" From your pen-pal, Val August 5, 2012 P.S. And, yes, we will again share a visit over a "cup'a" someday! |
---|
Here are two poems from Val in a reflective mood, not playful five-lines limericks this time, but long and flowing lines. However, even if she writes with almost free line lenght and metrics she still uses rhymes to add weight to important words. Don't be surprised if she also tries more rhyme-free verses some day!
For Your Loss
As I commemorated a ceremony at a remembrance day,I heard someone express her personal loss of that day. Not knowing her father as she grew up as a child, A difficult life; unreconciled. Had she listened, she could have heard, She's not alone in her loss that had occurred. See that man with the smile and a twinkle in his eye? The loss of his brother, from within, the child still cries. See that woman, looking strong with pride, She was once a hopeful bride. She alone raised three children, holding the loss inside. See that lady with the heart of gold, She lost her partner as she has now grown old. The parents have since passed on, who had lost their sons, They aren't here to express, "You were not the only one!" No, it's not a wedding for which we gather, today, Yet, our common bonds were welded together, as we say, "The RAAf is one family, and we all feel the loss of these men, Yet, we celebrate their strength, and their courage, without end. They lived their dreams flying o'er us in the sky, We honor their memories, and their legacies, which will not e'er die." Think of how these fathers, sons, brothers, and husbands we've lost would've wanted us to live, If they could've had all of these years with us to experience, to share, and to give. Valerie J Kolle 8/15/2012 |
---|
"Carry On"
You met life early, on your own,Joining military forces, a young woman moving from home. Driving jeeps...then, you met a pilot, Reg. Serving your country was your mutual pledge. For both, his love of flying and country, he was duty-bound, The height of his dreams, he limitlessly found, His legacy, will forever be around. Yet, Noreen, you "carried on," As a rock, solid and strong, Standing proudly, by your girls, All those years long. Your spirit, your strength, instilled success in their futures, As teachers, and a nurse, their careers you helped to develop and nurture. Your character, your resilience which you held steadfast inside, They'll see in their Mum, always and forever with honor and pride. Therefore, these birthday wishes, in your twilight years are bestowed, With utmost gratitude to you, as, in their hearts of you, forever, they hold, And, with each new generation, in the future, your story will be told. Valerie J. Kolle 8/16/2012 |
---|
Congratulations, Val!
South of the Sun I was South of the Sun, when my grandson was born, Little, "early bird," on an August morn, You couldn't wait, as they had predicted you would, So far away, wishing to be near you, as I knew I should. There will be plenty of those times, I hope, when I return, When I can hold you, and hug you, of that I yet yearn. Welcome, grandson, you're my first little boy, In the next generation, and of this decade, to bring, a newly-born joy! M.C.R., 8/28/12 By Grmaval 8/31/2012 |
---|
Val has an amazing vocabulary, and this time she plays with words, in the way children love to do. It's not so easy as it looks!
A Child's Rhyming Words A rainbow, and a boat, which Noah built, are both an "ark." The noise of a dog, and the skin on a tree, are "bark." When the sun sets at night until morning, it's "dark." In olden days, and when the angels sang, people shouted, "Hark!" An adventure, as well as, our state bird are called a (Meadow) "Lark." And, a place to hike, camp, picnic, and play is a "Park." Finally, and most importantly, something special, and significant, and you, are both named "Mark." By Grmaval 11/04/2012 |
---|
These two poems arrived with the following note attached: "Two older poems". Older? Her first poem arrived here March 31, 2005, and on September 17 the next year she got her own page on my website. That was the day before she wrote the first of her two "older" poems! I don't know how many years Val has been writing poems, but if you look higher up on this page you'll find "At Work in the Hospital", written when she was eight. There must be many more rhymes in her drawers ...
Isabelle's Gift One of the last times we met she was encircled with joy and uplift. It was her birthday month and her bright-eyed smile was to us all her fine gift. She was being serenaded by Kroshus with his keyboard filling in for his Krew. Taking it all in, she wasn't sure what to think nor quite certain what to do. He sang, "Isabelle, Isabelle, she's my gal!" "She looks so pretty, and ain't she swell?" Isabelle smiled enjoying the musical attention Her coy smile responded with kindness to the loving affection. She had known my name in greeting soon after we first met, Yet it was her smile with her eyes and pursed lips that I won't forget. When she moved to St. Catherine's where she received such great care-- We always heard it reported how she was doing and thriving so well there. Be proud of how all of you added to her life more cherished years To a lady we will miss because she gave us so much unconditional love and great cheer. September 18, 2006 |
---|
"Friends First" So rare a find...those hazel eyes; Glimmering leaves of autumn paradise, "Be patient, my heart...let his gentle ways Unveil the path to future ways." Too briefly his strong arms embrace, My yielding heart melts as I upwardly seek his kind face. "Too soon...hold back for another time...another place, When we both may be consumed with love and grace." I yearn for the time to laugh and to dance, To hear his voice...to see his glance. I fall for the mere hint of romance. From my unquenched love...departs the gentleman. From the Winter of 2002 |
---|
This poem reminds me of a painting, not a specific painting, but something that Norman Rockwell COULD have made. However, Val paints with words, but the result is the same: The reader gets a picture of a real human being placed in his natural surroundings. Very touching!
Self-made Man It had been three years since I'd heard his deep voice, The lapse in the timing had been his past choice. He shared photos of his impending retirement site, Mountainous foliage with evergreens of a heavenly height. Armed with a flatbed trailer, a tractor, and tools, He and his best "buddy" are skilled, hard-working, and "nobody's" fools. The slide-show on his computer showed the two warriors' quest, Blazing a road upward in the direction which nature guided them best. Measuring and cutting the timber they had brought, They framed up a work-shed; the first building ever to set foot on this virgin, forest plot. His dreams are unfolding as his retirement nears, I looked and listened to his intentions with curious eyes and ears. Some people talk about dreams such as this man, A log-home in the mountains, many artists have painted such land. They don't have the fortitude and strength, though, so very few stand... Long enough to plan and create the vision, as I know this man can. I have seen this man's handiwork in marble and wood, Creating a family room as only he could. Hardwood floors interlocked, imbedded with tile, Interlaced with designs unique in his style. The centerpiece; a marble-lined hearth crowned with a solid wood mantel, Prairie views to the east, wooded river to the west, A soft furry rug, and a cozy, leather couch completes the room best. A room where a family can gather, visit, and rest. The "Duke" would've agreed that the room was quite ample. This farmer, mechanic, and carpenter is a self-made, "hands-on" man. From humble beginnings, he reveals his story as only he can. As many as twelve children in his family were born. They slept in a cold, upstairs bedroom under quilts piled up and poor, Only heated by a stove-pipe which rose up in a hole in the center of the floor. He described how a glass of water froze, As he reached his feet to the stovepipe to warm up his toes. A staircase rose steeply into the corner of this room, Their parents slept downstairs since they'd been pronounced "bride and groom." An early memory this man nearing retirement did recall, Was him, riding his new "Christmas" trike down the steep stairwell, and the injuries from his fall. He purchased his current abode from his mom's cousin, and a classic red barn... Is the only original building one can see on this farm. He has a fine home with a deck facing the river bend, An attached garage for his truck and classic car on the mend, A Quonset to the north holds a combine; for additional earnings, A windmill and a weather-vane complete the view with their natural turnings. As he invests hard work and time and the last of his earnings, All of this current farmstead will be sold for his future retirement home yearnings. I shared my photos from my recent journey with this man, Catching up with the past three years in the best way two old dear friends can. |
---|
After her trip to Australia and other countries Val has become more international in her views. Her poems reflect that, and below is an excample. It is dedicated to Lucy, but I think Val also writes to herself, as in this quote: "Learn as much as you can to fulfill your dreams, To travel the world, and go overseas." A very good advice for everyone!
Dedicated to "Lucy" In Timor-Leste, the children laugh and smile as they play... Soccer on a riverbed or beachfront, all dusty and gray. They run, dance, and dive into the waves. Beautiful children on a peaceful, Sabbath Day! Youngsters, born in a freedom we all take for granted. A mere decade ago, since this independence was planted. Their parents saw a horribly tough times of fear and loss, While Indonesia remained the country's strict ruler and boss. Thank Heaven for the goodness of the United Nations, And Australians who never forgot young boys who stood by the WWII soldiers at their stations, And all of the people in the rest of the world... Who supported the Timorese as their flag was raised and a new peaceful time unfurled. A young mom, a sister, and her toddler stopped by the open market in Dili one day, Visiting with an American on a three week stay. They communicated on a September afternoon while little "Lucy" played. Typing on their phone, a message in Portuguese, They translated and read, "We'd like to visit America! Please!" As the American, in her heart, "adopted" the "Timorese." She listened and replied, advising the beautiful, hopeful, young ladies, "Learn as much as you can to fulfill your dreams, To travel the world, and go overseas." In Timor-Leste, the children laugh and smile as they play... Beautiful children on a peaceful, Sabbath Day! "Merry Christmas, Lucy! I hope all of your wishes and dreams come true!" |
---|
Here's a proven formula: A grandchild + Christmastime = A new poem from Val. Hopefully Santa will also find an answer to that formula!
"A Two Year Old's Wish" By Grandma Val, 12/09/2012 "It's Christmastime!" Layla said. "I saw Santa. He wears red!" "What did you ask for, my little dear?" "What did you whisper in his ear?" "I want a present!" Was all the little sweetheart had pled. Such a simple request for Santa to fill, The unspoiled, innocence of a young child's will, She loves butterflies, puppies and kitties, She draws hearts & flowers, oh so pretty, Her trusting bright eyes see the goodness in this world still. So Santa, when you fly with your sleigh full of toys, For all of this world full of girls and boys, Who seem to forget, That it's not what you get, But, it's the gifts from the heart that bring joy! |
---|
Val is the grandmother of three very sweet children – Charlee (the oldest), Layla and Mark (the youngest). Here they are:
This is a poem based on impressions from the funeral of an old man. Val picks one element as a recurring theme – the color of blue – and use it to literally paint a little movie of the ceremony. Cleverly done!
Country Blue Accordion recordings entertain all as they're sweetly greeted. Polkas and waltzes spin into congregational minds as they're seated. Family, friends fill up the church where they're treated. A wood-carved altar portraying Christ's ascension in a sky of pure blue. A small, country chapel with stained-glass windows of brilliant hues. A country-blue acoustic guitar strumming, Songs which in my mind I still keep on humming. Sons sing about an "Old Rugged Cross," Honoring their father during a service for his loss. Standing next to his casket of a royalty blue, It was their dad's wish to share songs olden and true. In a field of blue the white stars are set, Upon a triangular-tucked flag for a Korean War Vet. Gilded-winged Angels border the altar on banners of blue, Heralding heaven's promise anew. A sunshiny, wintery January sky, Tears welling up in blue eyes as they cry. With four generations, a man's legacy lives on as we all say, "Good-bye!" Valerie J. Kolle 1/09/13 |
---|
Well, what shall I call this suit of poems, all of them written during a single day? Val calls this collection
Sites Along An Enchanted Highway West of Bismarck
It's not appropriate to write comments on each poem – just read and enjoy!
“GEESE IN FLIGHT” by Val J. Kolle 10/04 Brief as the click of a camera’s shutter, Fleeting shadows cross my gaze. A unified formation of glide and flutter, Frozen suspended against autumn, sunset rays. “DEER CROSSING” by Val J. Kolle 10/04 No man can “fence in” this swift, graceful creation. He leaps to the sky with resultant elation. Another awaits so she too can try to jump beyond her life’s current station. “GRASSHOPPER’S DELIGHT” by Val J. Kolle 10/04 Like 3D puzzles of pieces interlocked, Gigantic critters, thrilled to devour the harvest wheat stalk. Woe to the farmer, whose lifestyle depends, On crops he can salvage and land he must mend. ”THEODORE ROOSEVELT RIDES AGAIN” by Val J. Kolle 10/04 Who could have imagined a man made of “Rough Ridin’” stuff, Would lend his name “Teddy” to bears made of fluff? To comfort the children as their dreams start to dance, We fondly pay tribute to the memory of the President with the uplifting stance. “THE TIN FAMILY” by Val J. Kolle 10/04 “Better save your metal!” warned Misses to Mister. “Little tin brother is gettin’ a baby tin sister!” “We’ll need tin for a cradle, as well as, a stroller, Tin quilts and tin blankets--as the weather gets colder.” “PHEASANTS ON THE PRAIRIE” by Val J. Kolle 10/04 Crimson cheeks beneath a headdress of evergreen The rooster dons a collar of egg-white sheen Lending towards feathers of a multi-hue blend Like the leaves on the trees upon autumn’s end. The hen and her chicks have more subtle attire Fair khaki-like colors to camouflage from predator’s fire. “FISHERMAN’S DREAM” by Val J. Kolle 10/04 Wow, what a “ Whopper!” This must be a dream. That is the biggest Bass In my life that I’ve seen. They’d never believe how BIG If this fish got away, But, I’ll let him go and get bigger To catch another day. |
---|
This is both Val and not Val, at least she is exploring a new poetic landscape. The poem conveys the impressions from a dream and the feelings after awakening. This creates a strange and disquieting effect – where does the dream end and where does reality begin?
A Message from a Dream Unveiled Written by Val J. Kolle 2/18/2013 I dreamt of a room where children went to die, To meet with a familiar child, I know not who, or why. Who was this child so grateful I was there... In a room with other children with vaulted ceiling, walls, and beds so vast, yet bare? The children arose, introduced and greeted me, I hesitated to shake their hands extended out towards me. What fear had taken over me... In a clearly pure, sterile world of theirs in which I had seen? Who are they? Are they already gone from our world and waiting... All alone in that room hesitating? My dream ended as I had awakened... Yet, where was this world to which I'd been taken? I remember mosaics, and colored stained-glass windows, Sunlight shining through the kaleidoscope of artwork shown. Upon a tomb of Australian soldier who left this earth unknown. Who were those children wherever they were, hopeful yet so alone... In limbo, and waiting in a colorless, temporary home? Their hair was short, and their eyes wide open... What were they thinking... And what were they hoping? They were so quiet after their greeting with their mouths with words still yet unspoken. There were feint smiles which showed on their faces... In this room unlike any other places. The image remained as I awakened... I wrote this down, without hesitating. I don't know what this means except that I was touched, By those children whose spirits yearned for so little, yet lacked so much. Was the dream symbolic of what we should give... To children exiting our world as they cease to live? Their room should be filled up with colors of love... Angelic images of Heaven above! In a world with the beauty of the people of all colors and race, The families should be there with the warmest embrace... And, there should be doctors, nurses and caregivers with smiles, love, and God's Grace! |
---|
This time Val has chosen an athlete and a magic moment as stuff for a poem. Of course she makes a twist near the ending and lifts the poem even higher than the glove of Mr. Kirby. You don't have to know American baseball to see her point!
A HERO NAMED “KIRBY” Inspired by my son, Kevin, and the tear which he shed, For Kirby, whose “whole-hearted” spirit has led Him as an athlete, a coach, and a teacher of Phy. Ed. A glorified name of great fame resonated in their calls As youngsters echoed it towards their canine four-legged pals. Etched in my son’s memory lies a moment in time which stands still, As a batter swung boldly towards a sphere approaching the bat Escaping release from the pitcher on the field’s center hill. A loud crack filled the stadium, the bat dropped in the dust, The “batter” turned “runner” as the pop-ball flew upward In a strong windswept gust. A mere four rows above the outfield’s wall sat my son, Thinking, ”Oh, no! That hit is a goner – a definite home run.” Yet, amazingly, a player, who despite a large stature, was swift, Famed for his movements as he reached far above, The length of his arm, extending his glove, As he jumped, like a dancer in a graceful high lift. As the ball traveled on, destined for the stands like a marksman’s arrow, Kirby’s glove became the “bull’s eye” for the targeted show, As the ball’s path was abruptly shortened, in a margin made narrow. In this era of product endorsements, sales, Cruel tabloids and promotions, We’ve lost sight of our heroes; their lessons of sportsmanship, Encouragement and true-hearted emotions. For there will always be a cherished, indelible moment In the memory of my son to recall – When his hero a man called Kirby lead in the forefront of fame For Minnesota Twins baseball – Through the World Series and “The Game” As an athlete who had also become a fond “friend” to us all. Written by: Val J. Anthony, March 7, 2006 |
---|
Secret Leprechaun This leprechaun has eyes of green, Yet, she secretly kept from being seen, A clue, if you know it, She's also a poet, And, her real name is; "_______ Jean." |
A riddle or a limerick? Both, of course. Need more clues? As a matter of fact, the solution isn't far away. The rhytm of the verse demands the long form ... |
---|
If you look higher on this page you'll find the first chapter in the saga of a "Self-made Man". Reading the last line in this poem you may sense a third chapter coming in the future. It certainly looks like a cliff-hanger here – no, that sounds too cynical. After all Val writes about something you'll never find in a soap opera – real human beings!
Self-made Man, Revisited We continued to visit for a time, And our friendship appeared to grow and climb. He revealed his challenges as a young adolescent husband and father, In a shunning society which in those days couldn't be bothered. How he met the challenges with commitment, strength and worth, Following the lives of this three daughters' births. He continued to reveal his further challenges in this society of disparity, Testing for a diploma, diesel tech training, working past charity. I still admire this man, although our paths have diverged and became separate, So suddenly, again, with my heart quite unprepared for it. An unsolved mystery, should he ever try rekindle the embers, I may no longer let my heart be spared for it. Valerie J. Kolle 4/5/13 |
---|
A little poem signalling a big event: It's Spring! Val observes the geese trek now, here we have to wait two more weeks. In the meantime we can read Vals poem. |
Canadian Geese The trumpeting sounds of the migrating geese in the Fall, Forebode a Winter season, of which I dread, Returning, that same sound, I greet with a welcome call, As they travel Northward, in the Spring, instead. Perhaps, someday, I'll be a "Snow-bird," And follow them on their way, Or move, somewhere, elsewhere onward, Or, perhaps, I'll stay. 4/8/2013 Val J. Kolle |
---|
With the heading "Self-Made Today 4/27/2013" Val has sent a new episode in The Saga of the Self-Made Man. Scroll upwards for the two first poems. The last lines this time pont forward to new episodes – if Val will tell us.
Further Self-Made "Flipping" Autos with Engines Anew, Endless Productions of Projects to do, Free hours to Share are as yet few. A Tractor from Youth Becomes Rejuvenated, Through his Skills, Attention and Time Unabated. The Metal Penetrates Him and Enters His Bloodstream, I Wonder Still What Part of This Man's Plan Can I Possibly Glean? Am I a Part of his Future or Am I Merely a Fool? A Temporary Friend, Lacking Solid Assurance from this Man and his Tools. He tells me Tidbits of his Youth, driving a small Tractor with his Brother Operating the Clutch, Till they Drove up the Barn's Interior Wall a Little too Much. And how the Boy Once Caught a Pitch-Fork as it was Thrown in the Air, Stuck as it Descended, Pinning Him in Place and Impaired. He never Questioned For Even a Second about Life Being Fair. Patience and Time I Hope will Unveil, That I'm Worthy to Join Him in the Future of His Tale. |
---|
You can experience different things from this poem. First of all, you may wish to visit what Wikipedia calls "a collection of the world's largest scrap metal sculptures"; secondly, you may study a road atlas to find every place name that Val mentions; or – as I do – you can admire Vals clever use of alliteration, as in "Meandering Miles from the Mighty Mississippi" and almost all the other lines.
Highway of Enchantment By Val J. Kolle 12/04 Wandering West of the Mini-Apple, Meandering Miles from the Mighty Mississippi, In a World far beyond Minnesota's Mega-Mall, Crossing past the Glacial Valley of Lake Agassiz, Stretching across the Dakota's Bison and Pioneer's Plains, Beyond Lewis and Clark's Missouri River and Byway, South of a Lake bearing Sacajawea's Spiritual Name, Traveling the Trestles and Tracks of a Rugged Railway, North of the Mountainous Monuments of Crazy Horse and Presidents Past, And a Six-Decades (Now Seven) Site of an "Empowered" Two-Wheelers' Blast, East of the Rockies, Pompey's Pillar, Montana, and "Old West" Medora, Amid the Crossings of Covered Wagons and Native American Nations from Former Eras, Beneath the Path of Instinctual, Bi-Annual Winged Migrations, Lies a Unique, Unexpected, Unusual Destination, A Product of Great Effort and Undaunted, Unlimited Imagination... "The Enchanted Highway!" |
---|
Now and then Val digs deep in her drawers to find older poems. This time she has sent a sweet little verse weitten in 1993 to her eight year old daughter Kaira.
To: Sweet Kaira Here is your poem; I just have to say--- "Have a good lunch, and have a good day! Don't miss your bus--as you go on your way! Study your science--go out and play! Say 'hi' to your teacher--be sure to obey! Drink all of your milk--and secretly pray! Eat all of your goodies--and clear off your tray! Best Wishes, Love, Mom" December 1, 1993 |
---|
This poem is a result of a collaboration. Val sent it with this little rhyme as an explanation:
My Coworker, Yaddi, is a Composer of music and song,
So we took turns to create this on a shift that was long.
Nice work!
Wishful Thinking A grasp at the air, an elusive escape I dream of an ocean and a mountainous landscape A wisping away dare I try grasping again? Or should I move away to new thoughts I could blend Like the waves washing up eroding the shore I first see my dreams but time makes them no more So I looked to the heavens and the mountainous peaks And I look for the sun rise where wishful thinking speaks Are these dreams a prison for goodness sake Or is it the foam from my latte that keeps me awake Too much reality steps and takes hold Sure hope I’ve done more by the time I’ve grown old I’m spending my time thinking the wishes are locks But maybe its reality, I’m between hard places and rocks So I looked to the heavens and the mountainous peaks And I look for the sun rise where wishful thinking speaks Others I meet bring me tid bits of their thoughts they hold true Their messages help inspire me on what I should do Truth peers through the darkness though I still must have faith The truth from the rod and the staff keeps me safe I need to seek God and let go of control I need to stop worrying and let go...just let go So I looked to the heavens and the mountainous peaks And I look for the sun rise where wishful thinking speaks But I still feel the hound of the fear dogs at night Its breath on my heels brings terror in flight I Awake from the night in the middle of day O God...I scream...I grasp...I pray The dog whimpers beside me as we step into the light He’s now a companion like an angel from the night. So I looked to the heavens and the mountainous peaks And I look for the sun rise where wishful thinking speaks ps., My latte is getting cold should I get it warmed up? Or should I just get another cup |
---|
Harley I want a "Fat-boy," nice and low and easy, That I can ride when it's sunny and calm, or breezy. I'm talking of a bike, I know I would like, Of which I can control to please me. |
Val never forgets the limerick form – or Harleys! But watch out, there's something behind rhs prosaic talk about bikes. She's writing about freedom. |
---|
Val sent this little thoughtful poem in an email yesterday, and a few moments later came another message, "I miss my Aunt Muriel." But the poem isn't a traditional obituary – it is a very touching way of "setting words" to any loss.
One More Time When some one is gone, Suddenly, Or, after lingering on, You wish for... One more time. One more time... To pray, To say what you had hoped to say, That could have helped them, perhaps, to stay. Relationship break-ups, People passing away, People moving, or going far astray. Just, one more time. |
---|
The summer is almost over, the autumn will soon come – and Val is writing poems in the moonlight in collaboration with a friend. |
Reflections of a Moonlit Night By Don Y. and Val Kolle 8/20/2013 A beautiful moon out tonight – Worthy of writing a poem in its light! It's God's way of showing the world's all right, At peace, held in His hands and in His sight! In our hearts, we know that is right, Safeguarding us through darkness with a beacon bright. |
---|
A true poet will get inspiration from almost everything, for instance from pelicans fighting for food:
Graceful creatures soar, then downwardly glide, Connecting, with the water, they dig, skim, and slide, Braking, with quick, sharp slices Like hockey blades shaving the ices, They float, with their wings tucked alongside their buoyant bodies, Their beaks move in unison like line-dancers' choreographies. Enter, the fisherman's catch of the day. He tosses the sacrificial object as the hungry birds' prey. They paddle, and curiously and cautiously move toward it, As if to measure, and judge it consumable, Or, "Is it too large of a fit?" Twice-times they pondered it, and paddled away, Finally, the foursome pounced towards the prey, With a determined, winged, splashing, chaotic, wet spray. Somehow, the "winning" bird scooped up the fish with his beak, Filling up, stretching his balloon-like pouch with a visibly, elongated treat. Weighing him down, he hunched over just to stay on the the river afloat, A greedy and selfish, old man donning the appearance of a braggert-like gloat. As he drifted away with his prize, His ill-fated destiny one can only surmise, That his appetite had ruled him more than the common-sense with his eyes. The remaining threesome continued the actions of their choreographed dance, Fleeing, flying from their friend's dire circumstance. For survivors learn perseverance, and undaunted resilience, As the river reflects the setting sun's brilliance. |
---|
Journey Toward the Living God By D. Y. (edited by Val) The warm glow of a campfire on a clear, cool night With the Milky Way shining bright, Maybe, our love will come to pass, On the shores of a moonlit beach, at last! With waves coming in, and moonlight shining through, We stand in awe of what God can do! With sparks of the campfire rising toward the stars, We praise the Lord for where we are! Hope lies in what He has for our tomorrows, He answers our prayers, so there’s much less sorrow! As we travel along life’s beautiful coast, We think about what we love the most! We realize ...in our souls, That it is not the coast, nor the waves, Nor our desires beside a midnight fire, But it is the Lord who makes us whole! |
---|