We pass through the November doorway into the season set aside for celebrating our faiths, reflecting on all we are thankful for, giving gifts, and sharing. In that mindset, November’s Poet’s Nook is dedicated to Mr. Sidney  K. Schoenwald – 12/17/12 –  8/24/07. Sidney practiced law more than sixty years in Rochester, New York. The Infinite Writer’s founder, Dahris Clair, worked for him only two of those sixty years, but that was enough for her to cherish his contributions.  “Known by his peers as the ‘Grand old man of law’, he was fair and just, but always compassionate,” Dahris shared with me.

            “When a family emergency forced my relocation to Florida, we enjoyed a thirteen-year correspondence, an occasional phone call just to hear the other’s voice. You know, Sue, he worked until only a few weeks before he died so Amy, his secretary, could be kept on. He worried what would happen to her when he was gone . . .  that’s the kind of man he was. I was blessed by his friendship, his encouragement, his caring. His soul came through his beautiful poetry. I’ll never forget him.”

Yes, poetry can be an unceasing gift because most times it is of the poet’s very heart, mind, and soul. It’s a giving of self, often a crying out of anguish, or a pouring out of love. It lives on to give to each who may read, often for generations. This page is for Sidney, the grand old man. And, Dahris, it is for you. I was recently gifted by a poet’s song, too. I’m compelled and privileged to pass it on.

Winifred Leiser is eighty-eight years old. She resides in a Hospice facility in south Venice, Florida. Now in the winter of her life, her elderly husband, who’d gotten my contact information through the Florida Writers Association sent me a treasure with this note ~

            “The enclosed poems are those of Winifred Leiser who has been writing them for  most of her eighty-seven years with no thought of publication or critique. She is now within days of leaving this world so I thought I would do it for her. If you find them of little note, please return them to me for my memories. ” I sat down to read Winifred’s songs. Shortly, wiping my tears, I dialed the number supplied at the bottom of the note.

            “Your wife’s poems are beautiful and if possible, I’d like to tell her that, I told him.”

The following Monday, I went to the Hospice Center to meet the author of the words that had so moved me. Winifred is a tiny, fragile woman. She can’t move much and talking takes its toll on her, but her eyes twinkled brighter than any star when I told her she had written beautiful poems. Her husband, himself an amputee in a wheel chair, squeezed her hand gently. I removed my ever-present Author Button from my lapel and pinned it to Winifred’s gown. You’d have thought I gave her the Congressional Medal of Honor. I could tell you more about this special pair, but I’ll let Winifred do that with her powerful words. 

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~ ~ ~

The Children

Please don’t cut me down, for I am young.

I live within the sound of axes swung.

I tremble through the turn of each year,

And lose spring’s joy in winter’s fear.

Because I’m young, I bend with every breeze.

I bow before a wind that topples bigger trees.

And, when the winds have passed and trees are gone,

My supple, sapling self lives on.

Please don’t cut me down for I will grow.

I’ll replace those lost, loved trees you know.

I could fill that empty space where now

There is no leaf, nor twig, nor bough.

Yes, I could lift green branches to the sky,

And offer shelter to the passer-by.

I’d count the seasons of my vernal life,

And stronger grow despite tempest’s strife.

Through my hibernal boughs the wind could strum

Sweet melodies of summers still to come.

I have so many songs as yet unsung,

Please don’t cut me down, for I am young.

~ ~ ~

Her husband an amputee, herself with sight diminishing,

Winifred penned this to him . . .

Life’s Treasure Box

I have, among my treasures,

A hundredfold of these . . .

The scent of rain in springtime

The lace of flowering trees.

A scattering of diamonds

Upon the morning grass,

And willow boughs reflected in

A millpond’s looking glass.

Trailettes of sunlight dancing

On a fern-green forest floor,

And Morning Glory nets spread out

Upon a sea-laved shore.

But there are all too few of these . . .

Of quiet moments spent

In knowledge of a job well done,

And placid self-content.

Of times when I have put aside

My egocentric plan,

And spent those talents which are mine

To aid my fellow man.

For I am weak and selfish

With a lazy turn of mind.

I leave undone too often

Things industrious and kind.

And so, though I view beauteous things

And love that which I see,

There’s all too little beautiful

And loveable in me.

~ ~ ~

Across the lawn, the shadows trace

Their sun-spun skeins of twilight lace.

Against the sky, the soft wind weaves

A tapestry of twigs and leaves.

The breeze becomes a censor swung

Through tree-arched aisles where vines are strung.

With scented blossoms, every vine

And garden flower pours its wine

Of honeyed nectar from the lip

Of chaliced bloom for bees to sip.

The evensong of nesting bird

Chimes through the air. And now are heard

The cadence of insect choir.

Crescendos sung at sunset’s byre.

The earth’s an emerald altar where

Mist rises like a perfumed prayer.

And to this searching soul of mine

There is no chapel more divine,

Nor great cathedral more of worth,

Than God’s green, glowing, growing earth.

~ ~ ~

 An  Endtime Thought from Winifred . . .