Gwilwileth: A Collection of Ramblings

Societal Issues
These poems are my feelings on certain issues prevelant today. You may or may not agree with them, but they are mine to voice.

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Can Wallflowers Bloom?
Thoughts on why I never fit in with the 'in' people.

Can wallflowers bloom?
I wonder.
They stand and wait for the attention given roses and tulips
They don’t seem to shine as brightly
They can clothe themselves in brighter clothing,
Change the color of their petals,
But can they bloom?
They wilt in the presence of indifference
They pale in the light of disregard
They fade in the shadow of callous words
The world moves around them
Swirling in its eddies of selfishness
The wallflower looks on, dreaming
Dreaming of belonging, of joining the roses and tulips
The nourishment they so crave is denied
The wallflower wilts, pales, fades,
Eventually dying of loneliness
Can wallflowers bloom?
Can I?

©1999 Rheeta-Lou "Rous" Roepke
Monday Nov. 1, 1999

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Charity Begins
Answer to a reading on why we should just shell out money for every cause.

I wander through a forest
That does not contain trees.
I wonder that our present
Contains inconsistencies.

The forest blocks my vision
And blinds me to the sight,
Of all the world’s demands
To set the wrong to right.

“Is it my place?” I ask,
“to fix all of its woes?
Or just sit back and idly watch
What comes, and then what goes.”

We teach to do our best
And make ourselves a place.
We learn and work and save
We live a lifelong race.

We give to those who need;
A helping hand we spare.
Knowing when we need a hand,
It probably is not there.

We send supplies and money
To those whom we know not.
It is not enough, they say
For we want what you’ve got.

Charity has, it seems, become
A business, like all else.
“Give us your funds, and we’ll be sure
They get where needed most.

But first, I’m sure you’ll understand
I have expenses, too.
So I will just deduct a wage,
And send the rest on through.

Oh, wait, I just remembered
The office goods do cost.
The paper, stamps and envelopes
Without which we’d be lost.

Now on to where it’s needed
I won’t keep anymore.”
The next guy also has his claims
So, less gets to the poor.

So, finally my dollar
I donated back here,
Is now whittled down until
Change is all that appears.

At last, I say, the help arrives
The meds and clothes and food.
Only to be confiscated,
By soldiers charged with good.

The people whom I tried to help
Starve and die in pain
Mothers drop their babies’ bodies
Never to rise again

So, I sit here in satisfaction
Of all the good I’ve tried.
And yet the accusation’s thrown,
You’re niggardly inside.

So, what is the point in sending
What I have over there?
Most will not reach it’s goal
It’s better off right here.

For I was taught by Mom and church
Charity begins at home
And that is where my money stays
It has no need to roam.

There are too many here next door
Who need a helping hand.
And I know that my dollar giv’n
Will reach, intact, its goal
© 2005 Rheeta-Lou “Rous” Roepke
1/19/2005

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Liberty Weeps for the Warriors
An entry in a contest. The topic: Why Liberty Is Crying. Did not win. Small wonder, the owner of the contest is anit-war; maybe with good reason, but unreasonable about it.

One fine June day, I watched my son
A fine and fetching lad was he.
He marched off to the battlefield
To fight a war for liberty.
His uniform, it made him proud
It replaced his farmer’s duds.
So crisp and clean and crinkling,
Soon to be replaced with mud.

He followed in his father’s steps
And trailed his brothers’ choices
I still can hear the echoes from
Their brave and joyous voices
The battle raged for days on end
The carrion birds flew high above.
The loss of life was staggering
And, I lost my sons, my love.

It was not easy losing them
I did not send them lightly;
There was a job they felt to do
And, I prayed for their lives nightly.
When news was brought to me that day
Concerning all the ones who’d died,
I felt the sorrow in my bones;
I sat for days and cried.

The cannon now were silenced things
The guns were used to hunt.
The battle after many years
Had been won on the front.
I’ve pondered many times since then
The willingness to give a life.
To ensure that I may live
And, provide safe haven for a child, a wife.

I am proud of my sons this day
They prove so many ways:
That freedom is ultimate prize
But, someone always pays.
So, remember now my other children
Who bask in the freedoms you’ve “acquired”
There are certain requirements
To keep what you’ve desired

Freedom is not without cost,
Or, injustice would not be.
Someone must step up and fight
For the weak, that’s you and me.
And now, my children, rest assured
When the call comes in two hundred years
That there will be the willingness
To fight, to halt, the tears.

For tyranny is why I sent you
To die on battlefield.
The unwillingness to live beneath
Another’s thumb with no yield
For gentle despots may be kind
And easy in their ways;
Yet, freedom cries out to the bonded
And, cuts through the enslaved haze.

Now, remember those who died for you
To give you choice to make,
Whether or not to burn the flag
In freedom that is fake.
You whine and cry about your duty
Yet spend the money free.
We still could be under English rule
And, drinking cream in tea.

I cry now not for those before
Who, in search of freedom, die.
But for the children now called upon
Upon whom their descendants rely.
For starting with our freedom’s war
I watch my children grow,
And, help the ones less fortunate
Freedom’s gift to know.

So now, from cannon and flintlock musket
To tank and sub and plane,
I tearfully send off the ones
Who fight, but not in vain.
For I will welcome them back home
And, tell them “Job well done!”
While those afraid to fight for right
Will fling at them jabs of scorn.

The warrior’s reward is not in those
Who ridicule their gift.
Rather in knowing, they have done
All possible to heal a rift.
And, those who do not make it home
We’ll not forget the loss.
For God will welcome home the ones
Who gave all for the cause.

I cry my tears and say goodbye,
To those now off to war.
I know not all will be returning
It’s not changed since days of yore.
I cry my tears and welcome home,
Those brave enough to go
My tears are those of the liberated
The ones who really know.

So, I will weep and shed them freely,
The tears of joy and pride.
For my children stepping proudly
To aid those who must hide.
So think not ill of those who fight
And, hang purple hearts upon a shelf.
They earned the right of appreciation,
For you would not go yourself.

© 2005 Rheeta-Lou Roepke
1/31/2005