Friday, October 17, 2014

My Poetry: Living Between the Light and the Shadows (original)

Found this copy of the song lyrics I wrote,  I reused this with different lyrics in "Your Heart Will Burn."  But this is the original, written before I went on my mission.
Living between the light and the shadows
The lines and the curves
The right and the wrong.
Wanting to be somebody good
                To do what I should
                                To know… the way.
But life goes on.
                And I sit and I cry
                While wondering why…
                                                                Why Lord?
Living upon the edge of the morning
                The crest of a mountain
                                The tail of a breeze
Singing the lines of a sweet song
                Which longs to be free
                                But doesn’t rise from my throat.
And life goes on.
                And I sit and I cry,
While wondering why
Why am I here lord…
                                                Oh why?
But somewhere... 
                Inside of me I know
                           That someday Me you will show
                                                Just why I am here.
But till then…

Thursday, October 16, 2014

My Poetry: As I Traveled to Her

As I Traveled to Her
As I traveled in my ship,
Looking through the window I saw the moon and the stars.
I saw the lights of the city
Their reflection on the glass.
As I traveled to see her I felt alive.
I felt every emotion I knew—as to her side I went:
I felt nervous; I felt hate;
I felt love; I felt anger;
I felt home; I felt happy;
I felt envy; I felt sad…
As I traveled that errant voyage,
Going to and fro along my way,
I realized I would never arrive to her side;
Her face I would never see again.

I wrote this probably in that period after mission and before I met Sheri.  I don't know why I wrote ship, reminds me of a space ship or something,  

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Poetry I like: Sin Llave (Without Key)

Todo el Amor en Poemas: Antologia: Ellas, Grupo Editorial Tomo, Mexico City, 2005.
I cannot recommend this book.  It is not very much about love, and more about love making, so I found myself having to skip over much of the book, and still not finding much which I would say was really about love.  In fact, just one poem touched me.  This poet is from Spain.
Sin llave
Me tienes y soy tuya. Tan cerca uno del otro
como la carne de los huesos.
Tan cerca uno del otro
y, a menudo, ¡tan lejos!...
Tú me dices a veces que me encuentras cerrada,
como de piedra dura, como envuelta en secretos,
impasible, remota... Y tú quisieras tuya
la llave del misterio...
Si no la tiene nadie... No hay llave. Ni yo misma,
¡ni yo misma la tengo!
Ángela Figuera Aymerich
Without key
You have me, and I am your; So close one to the other
like muscles of the bones.
So close one to the other
and, at times, so far apart!
You tell me, at times that you find be closed,
like from hard stone, surrounded in secrets,
impassable, remote... And you would like yours
a key to the mystery...

But no one has it... thee is no key.  Not even myself,
I don't even have it!

Senior Year Utah State: Geology, Spring Quarter 1981

I graduated from USU in 1981.  Why I was taking a 101 level course my final quarter before graduating could be explained by my fear of collage science and math courses.  I was looking for an easy way to get my math requirements our of the way.  Geology qualified as a physical science credit.
I enjoyed geology.  The new kind of material stimulated my thinking.  I found the study of rocks interesting; particularly geological formations.  I was fascinated in thinking about how the geography around developed; which rocks were older, and how the geology had changed. 
Geological deformation fascinated me.  These included : anticlines (frownie faces in the rock layers); synclines (smiley faces); mono clines (sort of curvy lopsided faces) and faults. 
I also enjoyed studying formations, and how sometimes the oldest rocks got thrust up and the younger rocks pushed down—so a mountain doesn’t always have the young rocks on top and older ones on the bottom. 
I also enjoyed studying erosion and the formation of deltas, alluvial fans, dunes and such things.  The formation of valleys and how rivers and mountain evolve, the falling away of rock through freezing or chemical erosion leaving balanced rocks, pedestals and arches, and the formation of deposits in the sea making atolls, bay bars and lagoons.
We also studied fossils and dinosaurs, which I found less interesting.  We talked about some basic techniques to find oil which was interesting.
One thing I liked about the class was being able to do well in the class with relative ease.  I figured this was because most of the students were newer and not as experienced as I in terms of taking tests and studying effectively.  I sort of let down for the final however.  I figured I didn’t need to study hard and do well because I had done well enough on the other tests to slide through. 
We went on an end of the class field trip.  The professor took us around and we looked at fossils, faults, synclines and other fun things.  We looked at the banks of the old Lake Bonneville on the hill sides, with alluvial fans and benches.  The professor was older, but he enjoyed running and climbing.  He took us up Logan Canyon where we found trilobite fossils in the rock.  It was all good.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Oh My Father, Seminary Pictures
We were able to sing many religious songs as part of the choir, and this is one example.  We even sand at a stake conference.  I remember we sang this song, as well as Battle Hymn of the Republic at the conference.
I highlight some seminary teachers, activities and council in this presentation.  Seminary was a big part of my world, and represented one class each year.  I had Brother Scholes as a sophomore, Brother Stevenson Junior year and Brother Lundahl Senior year.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

My Poetry: Desert Road

Desert road, strait as an arrow
Lingering on; like an endless narrow
panorama of brush, rocks, happen-stance
Desert nothing, the bore has me entranced.

But from that lonely road I've seen
A hawk take flight, the beating of eagle wings
Coyote and antelope across the road have raced
Wildlife spots this barren waste.

And on this desert people have lived
But some with no livelihood have fled
Abandoned relics whisper their cry.

But also spotting the barrenness those who've survived
Those who have fought the land, and held.
Held onto their way of life--won't let it die.

This is a Duckwater era poem, when we lived on the desert.  We are one of those families who fled.

Poetry I Like: Paul Revere's Ride

789. Paul Revere’s Ride

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)

LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, ‘If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.’

Then he said, ‘Good-night!’ and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, ‘All is well!’
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed.
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.