What Monkey See From Lofty Tree - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg - Oct. '07

This poem is a pretty straight forward fable that speaks to the  importance of experience.  We all learn from our mistakes - right?  "Monkey" certainly learned a thing or two about friendship, kindness and humility when his usual dexterity failed him and he tumbled out of his tree!

What Monkey See From Lofty Tree-Sharon Flood Kasenberg-Oct. '07

A monkey sat within a tree,
and much to his delight -
not many problems did he see
that he could not put right.
No faults could escape detection
from his sharp little eyes
and there was no imperfection
he did not criticize.
It never once to him occurred
that most obviously
no trials had he yet endured,
so well ensconced was he.
From his lofty perch he chattered
advice both day and night.
With false confidence he nattered;
he thought it was his right.
How could those silly creatures miss
their glaring huge mistakes?
And rashly, he concluded this:
"They don't have what it takes.
With just a fraction of my wit
they'd see where they went wrong -
root out the flaw and fix it
before too very long.
Their poor eyes cannot comprehend
the broader scope mine do -
'cause if they could they'd see the end
of ills they're going through.
If their brains were as sharp as mine
they'd have things all worked out - "
Thus did our little friend opine -
he knew all, without doubt.
When from his tree by tail he'd swing
sometimes quite far below
he'd hear the other critters sing
as he swung to and fro -
and he'd criticize their chorus,
boasting, "It's very clear
that nobody in this forest
is gifted with my ear."
And if another creature fell
and landed on his face,
the monkey would be sure to yell
that no one had his grace.
Time and again from lofty height
he arrogantly bragged
and thumped his chest with all his might
upon a branch that sagged
until it couldn't bear his weight
and then it simply snapped -
and when the monkey met his fate
some forest creatures clapped.
These creatures knew what he did not -
the perils of the ground
and that a fall could hurt a lot,
could muddle and confound -
and so they clapped - not out of spite
because he slipped and fell -
but with relief he was alright
and lived the tale to tell.
The animals he'd so abused
came swiftly to his aid -
his criticisms were excused,
and friends were swiftly made.
The monkey sat upon the ground
and rubbed his swollen head.
He marveled at friends gathered round
who could have shunned instead.
When past behavior he reviewed,
he saw he'd been unkind.
His observations had been skewed
to faults and failings find.
He now saw challenges they faced -
like struggles to find food -
and soon compassion had replaced
his prior attitude.
From treetops he saw far and wide
and dangers could detect -
he realized he should have tried
to help and to protect.
His friends urged him to bide his time
and keep them company,
but Monkey knew he had to climb
once more into his tree.
It seems because he slipped and fell
some lessons he has learned -
no longer does he brag or yell
since higher he returned.
His eyes are now much more aware
of perils down below -
his store of food he'll gladly share;
protection he'll bestow.
His ears have learned their songs to love -
now as they chorus raise
all they will hear from up above
are kindly words of praise.
That little monkey sits there still,
and forever chatters -
but since the day he took a spill,
he has learned what matters.
He understands he needs good friends
and kindness he must show -
superior behavior ends
once we've fallen below.
Respect from others must be earned.
It comes to those who care,
and who from their own trials learned
how to compassion share.
Now Monkey knows a better way
and does things differently -
since once upon a fateful day
he fell out of his tree.

Perspective - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

I think most of us go through those reflective periods in our lives where we spend some time reviewing the past.  Sometimes those backward glances provide incentive to make the most of today, and propel us into a more vibrant future.  I had a strange experience a few months ago, when someone I used to know suddenly started to intrude on my thoughts in a somewhat uncomfortable way.  I can't say I appreciated it much, but the digging it prompted me to do into the experiences of my youth was enlightening.

There are times when I look back on my younger self and shudder at my past stupidity, but this wasn't one of those experiences.  Instead I  learned that I was actually better in those days than I gave myself credit for.  I was stronger, smarter and more self aware than I believed at the time.

It's interesting that these revelations all came to light smack-dab in the middle of a personal mid-life crisis.  I was at a cross-road, wondering which direction to move in and what to do next. I was doubting my ability to make a positive contribution to the world when my detour down memory lane made me realize how skewed my vision was in those long ago days. I suddenly recognized the fact that the younger me had been gazing at myself in some distorted fun house mirror, and that I was once again staring into a warped looking-glass.

"For now we see through a glass darkly; but then we see face to face: now I know in part: but then I shall know even as I am known."  (1 Corr. 13:12)

I always liked that scriptural passage, and now finally I'm beginning to understand it.  We all get hung up on the image we see in what I'll call "the social mirror".  We see ourselves the way we think the world brands us - "middle-aged housewife, past her prime" - in my case. When  I looked back on my younger self I saw more than I expected to see. So could it be that my vision of myself was lacking some clarity NOW?  It's pretty easy to get hung up on the minute details and miss the broader picture....

I think this poem explains the importance of perspective fairly well.

Perspective  - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg  (July'06)

What used to be is finished now
and cannot be recaptured -
would I return there if I could
and find myself enraptured?
My mind and heart have edited
the memories of my youth;
somewhere between what I recall
and what you would tell, lies truth.
The "now" a portrait by Seurat
viewed too closely to make sense -
we can't put into perspective
what is seen in present tense.
Too intent on just one detail,
one small solitary dot -
that separated from the whole
doesn't really mean a lot.
Only in the distant future
might we clearly see the past
when the dots all meld together
in coherence at long last.
Both art and life in broader view
invite interpretation
that changes as our lives progress
through every incarnation.
I've no desire to see ahead
and for the past no yearning.
Today's the day I have - to live
the lessons I am learning.

Fair Winds - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

This poem is very close to my heart.  It's about the unconditional love that mothers have for their children. 

I have a confession to make. In my youth I seldom thought about having children.  They were just part of some package deal - you got married; you had kids.  When I was expecting my older son I was filled with fear and self doubt.  Motherhood seemed like a huge looming responsibility, and it frightened me.  My pregnancy was difficult, and my son was born five weeks early.  As a first time mother I felt overwhelmed at times, but for the most part I was simply filled with awe. I'd look down at his little face in amazement - my son!

Soon (too soon!) I was expecting another child.  I was healthy as a horse (and as big as one!) the second time around, but filled with anxiety and more self-doubt. How would I juggle the needs of two babies?  (My sons were born less than 13 months apart.)  Sam was a very busy toddler - barely walking, very demanding...I was a bit resentful over the "bad-timing" of my second child.  I remember worrying that I might not love "the baby" as much as I loved Sam.

Dan was born two days past his due-date.  I told everyone at the end of my pregnancy that I just wanted the baby OUT so I could hand it to someone else.  But as soon as Dan was born, I was smitten. After a long labour I was exhausted, but when I tried to sleep I couldn't - until he was nestled in the crook of my arm.

My sons are grown now.  Dan is on a mission for his Church, and has been away from home for six months.  I miss him every day.  Maybe I was an over-protective mom, too clingy and hovering...  Certainly I've learned that I need my sons as much as they've ever needed me. When they were teenagers I would stand and look at their sprawled forms before I roused them from sleep, and I'd still be amazed that they were mine. 

Sam gets a kiss good-night every night.  (He was warned that he'd need to put up with extra affection when his brother left, and is a good sport about it.)  Sometimes I ask him, "Do you have any idea how much I love you?"  To which he answers, "Mom, you never let me forget!!" 

The way I see it, if they never forget that I love them, I've done something right.

Fair Winds:  (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg-March 2008)

Sometimes I miss the person
that you were yesterday -
who wanted my attention
and pestered me to play.
Your childhood needs were simple -
at least as I recall;
I gave you what you needed
when you were very small.

These days it's not so easy
to know what you require -
to anticipate your wants
or know your heart's desire.
Whoever you're becoming
I hope you'll always know -
I'll love you forever
no matter how you grow.

The tree grows as the twig's bent
and buffeted by gales;
a sailboat glides on water
when a fair wind prevails.
How will you be affected
when billows gain in force?
Will you bend, but never snap
and keep your ship on course?

Storms all must surely weather -
have I prepared you well
to survive the elements
and fearfulness to quell?
Perhaps I'm no example -
my exploits have been tame -
to stay in calmer waters
has always been my aim.

I'd shelter you forever
to keep you from harm's way -
but to ensure your freedom
I risk the chance you'll stray.
No matter how you're tempted
I hope you never doubt -
both heart and door stay open -
I'd never lock you out.

I pray that winds of fortune
and strong tides bear you home
to bask in my affection
however far you roam.
May you sail in fair breezes
whenever we're apart -
and let them blow you homeward
to the harbour of my heart.

I Fight...by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

In this electronic age we can reconnect with old friends at the push of a button. We can "find" people we lost touch with.  Sometimes, when timing and luck are on our side we get to arrange " realtime facetime" with people we haven't seen in years.

Yesterday I had the opportunity to meet up with an old friend from my youth - to see him again after a couple of decades and meet his wife.  Funny how lost years can fade. Though we are both older and wiser, we found that at heart we were still the same people - good friends who just lost touch for a while.  I had a similar experience a few weeks back with a friend from high school. The two of us will also be reuniting face-to-face as soon as we can arrange to.

But at times we aren't so lucky with our online searches. Sometimes the people we look for are beyond seeking.  Some of those we miss continue to live on only in our memories.  We may find only online "evidence" that these friends once lived - a photograph, an obituary; a name on a quilt.

I've lost a couple of people who really mattered to me over the years to deaths that could have/should have been prevented. Both died too young - their deaths haunt me. When I think of the years those friends lost, and the experiences they missed, it spurs me on in my fight to make this crazy world a little more user-friendly...

Life is too short. We don't have time to be unforgiving or hold grudges. We need to fight harder to be inclusive - there are a lot of lonely people out there, and people who don't think, act, or live their lives the way we do. Battle your inner demons - the ones that might tell you that you're excused from caring about those deemed "too different" or "too damaged". Love them anyway. Be prepared to fight for the underdog and the unloved, the abused and the depressed.

Today, I dedicate this poem to those who lost battles, and to those who, like me, continue to "fight the good fight".

I Fight

I fight constant temptation
and battle with my will -
I fight to rein in temper
when patience has its fill.
I fight my inner dragons -
the demons of my soul;
and struggle with inertia
when I have set a goal.
On battlefields aplenty
I've stood with sword and shield -
waged war on foe unnumbered,
and still refused to yield.
Through minefields of opinion
where mercy was not shown
I've skirmished pride and ego -
sometimes it was my own.
I've felt arrows of malice -
and aimed my share as well -
seen comrades stained with envy
and known its putrid smell.
I've tried to rally soldiers
who could no longer fight -
and stood among the fallen
who felt death's icy bite.
And though 'oft disillusioned
by what those battles cost,
I'll cede no territory -
my cause is not yet lost.
I'll fight to keep believing
in love and hope and peace -
I'll fight for truth and reason,
and strength - 'til battles cease.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, 2011

Defining the terms...by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

We all have our pet peeves when it comes to language usage. Don't get me started on the way the English language has been debased and abused over the past few decades! If I were to give a detailed account of all of my frustrations with the lack of grammar, spelling and general comprehension skills in our society then I would be posting  a very long tirade indeed!

Thus I have decided it would be better for my blood pressure to merely list a few of my larger complaints in poetic form.

Defining the Terms-by Sharon Flood Kasenberg  (April 2011)

Perhaps it's churlish to complain,
but some from this may knowledge gain.
You see, these terms may be confused
and language shouldn't be abused.
A few of my pet peeves are these -
(so pay attention, if you please)
bear with me while I take the time
to re-define these words in rhyme.
An opposite's an antonym -
like saying "her" is "anti-him"
or how what's wrong opposes right
or that the dark is "anti-light".
Now to explain a synonym
I'd say that "thin" is just like "slim"
or "crazy" is just like "deranged" -
for these words can be interchanged.
With homonyms one must take care -
When to use they're or their or there?
Perhaps THEY'RE still on THEIR way THERE -
WEARing the WARES they bought someWHERE!
And then there is the homophone,
which really is an aural clone -
to ears - just like another sound
although in different letters found.
Uneducated men may scoff
when I say cough is not spelled "coff"
or tell me that I'm being gruff
by telling them their spelling's rough.
Yes, words used well are lovely things -
with proper usage, grammar sings -
and editors will think you kind
if you use words as they're defined.

(But stay tuned readers, there is such a proliferation of horrific linguistic bastardization in cyber-space that I feel bound and beholden to post more on this topic at a later date!)

Earth's Quilt - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

At Writer's Guild last month we were challenged to use the word "earth" or the word "quilt" in poetry or prose form.  Being a bit of a one-upper, I felt an urge to use both words. 

Think of the experience of being in an airplane and looking down at the earth below. When I was about eight years old my parents asked my uncle to take us in his bush plane to Cockburn Island, where my father was born and raised. I clearly remember that flight, and how my brother Tom, who was just a toddler at the time, marveled over the "dinky cars" and "bird houses" below us. I remember looking down on farmers' fields in rural northern Ontario and thinking how much the ground below looked like one of those patchwork quilts that my grandmothers and great-aunts were so adept at making - a "crazy quilt" flung over an unmade bed - kind of lumpy and messy looking, but beautiful none the less.

Now I look in awe at pictures taken of our "little blue planet" from space.

"Somewhere down there we're all living", I think to myself, "Every person on this planet is in that picture!"

I am amazed constantly by the diversity on this planet. I'm astounded by the varying climates here, and by the flora and fauna that inhabit each zone. I'm fascinated by the different cultures that all co-exist on a common planet, and saddened by the economic disparities that stand in contrast between them.

Every day I am more enthralled by the beauty of this Earth. No matter how much we abuse our planet and take it for granted the sun still shines and the stars still come out at night.

The "design" remains grand, and I remain thankful.


Earth's Quilt-by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (April 12th 2011)

Our Earth, with all her many lands -
her jungles, mountains, desert sands
from space appears a patchwork quilt -
blues of the waters, browns of silt,
greens in the woodlands, prairie gold
and coolest whites in polar cold.
Her varied patches, roughly sewn
in seams of coal and ore and stone
are not appreciated much -
we mar them with our careless touch.
Her fabric stained and rudely torn,
in many places strained and worn;
Some spots we mend while others fray,
unhemmed by poverty's decay;
worn thin by tyranny and war
until they can be stitched no more.
In other spots her batting's fluffed
and decadently over-stuffed
and everywhere is richness seen -
in silk and satin; velveteen.
Yet all is trimmed in thread work fine -
each surface yields some grand design -
embroidered o'er, in gold and guilt
the pattern on our earthly quilt.

Two Poets - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

First a bit of preamble - I get so sick of people who think that all rhyme is trite.  Look at just about any modern poetry anthology, and you'll note that the vast majority of "poems" therein have no rhyme, which is fine - really.  I like to rhyme, but understand it just isn't everyone's "cuppa tea", and can forgive anyone who just doesn't groove on what I consider my art form.

What I can't forgive is that so many of these "poems" (I use the term loosely) just don't mean anything!  Call me old fashioned, but I strongly feel that in order for something to qualify as poetry it has to convey an idea or paint a picture with words.

Other than the obscure pieces, there are the other "poetic efforts" that get anthologized...the ones so artfully dark and maudlin that you want to hunt up the poor soul who penned that dubious gloop and suggest a good therapist. (Buck up, buckaroo - life isn't that bad - is it?) Then again,  perhaps I'm not the one to correctly categorize poetry. You see, I sent off some verse to a respected poet, who told me that what I write is considered more "rhyming prose" than poetry. Which confused me a bit - what does that make all of those people that I considered the classic rhyming poets of the past?

I know poetry is subjective...what is poetic to you might not be poetic to me.  But I still can't fight the urge to rail against the pseudo-intellectual types who want to relegate all rhyme to the trashcan.

Needless to say it was after reading some dubious "poetry" that I penned this fictional rhyming conversation between two rival poets...

Two Poets:

"Look at what I've written!"
(Clearly you are thrilled.
Poetry has bitten -
would that you were skilled.)

"Published!" you state smugly -
"Would you care to read?"
(Oh - this could get ugly!
but I'll read indeed.)

After all, you read mine
with derisive sneer.
Didn't need to opine -
your disdain was clear.

So I'll take a moment
your verse to peruse.
Then with glee I'll foment
ways I can abuse.

"Words tossed out at random -
chosen from a hat?
No two lines in tandem?
I don't care for that."

"It's poetry! - (you snivel) -
Artful and intense!"
Now I have to quibble -
"But it makes no SENSE!"

"Popular opinion
claims that rhyme is trite.
Were I fashion's minion,
more like YOU I'd write!"

All aghast you tremble -
lips you sternly purse.
Now you shan't dissemble -
I'm far too perverse.

"Stultifying triteness -"
you begin to scoff.
I'm through with politeness,
so I cut you off.

"All the rhyme that's written
isn't Hallmark bound.
Some, in fact, are smitten
by more rhythmic sound."

Still you are contentious -
"Publishers don't want - "
" - Verse so unpretentious?"
I can't help but taunt.

"Verses so sophomoric!",
you brashly reply -
and brazenly euphoric
I punch you in the eye.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, September 10. 2010