Poems by Alora M. Knight

I was in a room the other day
Where seeds were being planted.
I could only hope and pray
Their growth would not be granted.

For many prejudicial words
Were the seeds so often scattered.
Though none were said in malice,
Just their use was all that mattered.

Most people there would be surprised
If told they were a bigot.
Still, two small children playing near
Heard words they'd not forget.

Deep into their consciousness
Contempt would start to grow
For those who differed from themselves
Because someone had deemed it so

The most fertile soil in all the world
Is in little children's minds--
Absorbing and retaining
Messages of different kinds.

How wonderful this world could be
If every one took care
To plant only seeds of kindness,
Then love could blossom everywhere.

So try hard to remember
That every word you say
Can make a difference in a child
As he goes along life's way.

What will it take to free this mind,
Imprisoned long in apathy,
Now reduced to mundane thoughts
That stultify activity?

What words might somehow trickle up
Through dormant webs of talent,
Releasing from the tangled depths,
A joy once prevalent?

I stand and peer outside my cave,
Security behind me.
Am I afraid to take the chance
Success might someday find me?

Can I withstand the pounding waves
That new ideas foment?
Or shall I once again retreat,
In dullness be content?

Time laughs as I now hesitate.
It says, "Can I keep waiting?
Afraid to leave my placid nest,
Just stay there still debating?"

No! Not when new horizons
Are reaching out to find me.
The glove is thrown, the die is cast.
I close the door behind me.

What does it take to be a volunteer?
Must you travel afar, or is there someplace near
Where there is a need that is evident--
Where someone would think you were heaven sent

For giving them just a little of your time?
A cheerful smile does not cost a dime.
Or maybe, they need a ride somewhere
But there's no one to call on that seems to care.

Some people find it a difficult task
Being handicapped and having to ask
For help in doing the simplest things.
You can't imagine the joy that it brings

To know someone understands what they need--
A trip to the store or a new book to read.
Someone who doesn't make them feel useless and old.
Love and respect  are more precious than gold.

Now I know that this sounds like the same old story.
Still, I'd like you to take a good inventory
Of the things that you could easily do,
For someday the one who needs help may be you.

Though words are written
About mothers, that is true,
Still, I know that no one ever had
A mother just like you.

I never had to wonder
If your love was there for me.
You showed it in so many ways
That it was plain to see.

You helped me see the beauty
Of this world in which we're living.
You showed me how much happiness
Can come from cheerful giving.

Your faith gave me the courage
To pursue those distant goals
That might have seemed impossible
For less encouraged souls.

So let these heartfelt words of mine
Be included with the others,
For you have been the very best,
My own beloved mother.

Outside my window flowers bloom
In a rampant disarray.
They pay no heed to color schemes
In their wonderful display.

I thought I heard a pansy say
In a low voice to a lily,
"I simply do not understand
Why human beings are so silly.

They will argue about color,
They will argue about size,
They even seem to disagree
About the shape of someone's eyes.

Though we're crowded in together,
There never seems to be
Any sign of agitation,
No disrespect that I can see."

An ageratum said,"You know,
Though I am low down on the ground,
I never feel that I am less
Than the tallest flowers around.

It is too bad that people
Cannot seem to realize
They should listen to their hearts,
Not just depend on ears and eyes.

It would help them understand
How much joy there then could be.
Accepting everyone as equals
Would give their lives sweet harmony."

We are never finished products,
No matter how long we live.
There's always something we can add,
Like learning to forgive.

It isn't all that easy
To release a long held grudge.
For years it's been a part of us.
It doesn't want to budge.

I often wonder if that is why
Some of us live so long
In what seems needless suffering.
Is there still need to right a wrong?

Perhaps we're given extra time
To clear our hearts and mind
Of many thoughts so negative
That peace is hard to find.

Forgiving past offenders
For the harm they did to you
Opens up a channel that
Will let His love come through.

Like a butterfly lies dormant,
Awaiting to expand,
So waits love's own perfection
In the chrysalis of man.

I had decided that it would awaken my muse
If I read the poems current publishers use.
When I looked at what is marketed now,
I couldn't help being puzzled, somehow.
The words do not rhyme, no story is told.
I simply felt I was left out in the cold.
I really can't say how many hours I spent,
But it all added up to complete discontent.
Somewhere, it seems, in the passing of years
There have been many changes. It brings me to tears
For words always have been such a joy to me
When they have been written in pure harmony.
So I went to the dictionary, and lo and behold,
This is the gist of what I was told.
"It's imaginative language, rhythmically expressed.
An art in which the beauty of emotions is stressed."
There are so many poets in my books on the shelf,
Including Will Shakespeare, the old bard himself.
If he, and the others, catered to rhyme,
It surely shouldn't be destroyed by time.
Would Thoreau now rest by his quiet pond,
Contemplating the heavens beyond,
Grasp what today's poets seem to be saying,
Or would he liken it to a donkey braying?
Would Whitman, if he lived in these present days,
Think "Leaves of Grass" just a passe phrase,
Or would he give in to the poet's curse
If he'd accidentally start rhyming a verse?
I'm wondering just what Thomas Moore would say
If he could read the poetry today.
With nary a word using rhythm or rhyme,
Would he back in his coffin gratefully climb?
When Edgar A. Poe wandered weak and weary,
Thinking about the midnight dreary,
And he heard the raven quote "never more,"
Did he think it was just a metaphor?
If Emily Dickinson came back to earth
Do you think it possible she could give birth
To words that have no connecting thought?
I doubt if that was the way she was taught.
Do you think that Longfellow could really survive
Reciting "The Children's Hour" on TV live,
Or would they boo him down from the stand
Before his rhyming got out of hand.
Today the Brownings would surely recoil
To think they had spent all their earthly toil
Perpetuating words of enduring love.
What could they have been thinking of?
Dear Robert Frost can peacefully lie,
Knowing that his poetry will never die,
But some poets today, though many are read,
Who will remember them after they're dead?
I shouldn't include everyone in this verse.
Good poets are still writing, for better or worse.
The fact that I love both rhythm and rhymes
May only show that I'm way behind in the times.
The need to express comes straight from the heart.
At least, it would seem that's the best place to start.
So I'll try to respect all poets today,
But for me to be happy, I'll do it my way.

A gardener, if he's very wise,
When it is planting season,
Will always use the best of seeds.
It only stands to reason.

Because he knows when harvest comes
He'll reap what he has sown.
If he's been careful, he'll be proud
Of all that he has grown.

It makes me realize that words
Are very much like seeds.
People use all kinds of them
That seem to fit their needs.

But, unlike seeds, the words we speak
Don't stay down in the ground.
More likely in a fertile mind
Is where they will be abound.

Where they are nourished by the thoughts
Of those who seek to find
A way they can express themselves.
The way of all mankind.

Especially fertile is the mind
Of every little one,
So we should be so careful
Before much harm is done.

A child will mimic what he hears
And not give it a thought.
He doesn't even realize
Just what he has been taught.

Still, when he's grown, his attitude,
And what he will believe
Will come from words that he has heard
And what his mind received.

If he's been fed on ugly words,
He'll grow up full of hate
For those he thinks are different.
A most unhappy state.

Because that hatred then will spread.
It can go on forever,
With nations hating nations.
Peace, a lost endeavor.

So take care when you are speaking.
Plant words that when they grow,
Will bring forth love and wisdom.
You'll be glad you made it so.

Perpetuating hatred--
It's happening every day,
While many who contribute
Would be the first to say,
"Don't call me a bigot.
I'm broadminded as can be.
It's just that I don't believe
In a mixed society."

So deeply has this poison spread.
The roots have long been buried.
Still, in a small child's fertile mind
Some seeds will still be carried.
If they have heard somebody
Speak out with great contempt
About a color or a race,
Then hatred will ferment.

It later will flourish
If no one interferes.
Racial slurs and epitaphs
Will frequently appear.
There is an old Indian quotation,
One that clearly speaks.
"Don't judge a person 'til you have walked
In his moccasins many weeks."

There is no person living today
Who wouldn't somewhere be an outcast.
If everyone would just remember that,
We might have peace at last.