| 2/7/2008 1:18:20 PM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | | 
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| Hi folks. In 1980 just before my grandpa died, he gave me his collection of poetry and credo with a note expressing his hope that I might some day find something of meaning or even useful in his words. I have and do. Much to my surprise his words have inspired an interest in me which unfortunately I never before dreamed I would have. It is never too late, though I would have been a better student in boyhood days gone by had I of known such latent interest existed in me. I would like to share some of his collection, (as well as my own feeble attempts), from time to time here as a token of my appreciation to his hope. I also share his hope in that you too might find something of meaning and or usefulness in the collection. Feedback is always cherished. Critiques of my work is mandatory. LOL Well, at least is expected. I do enjoy the company no matter what the capacity, so, thanks. I am pleased to introduce my grandpa, Victor Hugo Croxton.
----Buddy, wipe your feet-----
There's one small phrase from boyhood days that I shall ne'er forget.
It seared its part into my heart and grew so tiresome, yet,
It would be welcome music now, for these old ears to greet,
To hear familiar voice within, "Now buddy wipe your feet".
It seems my play, most every day, had to do with dust and dirt.
As I recall, she'd never bawl me out for grime on pants and shirt.
I'd rush up to the door in haste, but never could I beat,
That stern command intoned within,
"Now stop and wipe your feet".
That constantly she watched for me, I never stopped to ponder.
Just how she knew, when near I drew, never ceased to cause me wonder.
But now I know it was her plan, my pagan entrance to deplete.
'Twas just her way to furl my sails with,
"Buddy, wipe your feet".
Perchance, someday, I'll find my way unto the pearly gate.
I'll try the lock, then briskly knock and settle down to wait.
I shall be disappointed, quite, if there's no voice so sweet,
To say, "Come Buddy, welcome home, But pause and wipe your feet.
V.Croxton
| | 2/7/2008 1:20:35 PM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| As an introductory bookend, I will present another of my favorites from grandpa.
----Huckleberry Pie------
A lingering recollection fills my wandering thoughts today,
Of a hot and steaming kitchen of my boyhood, far away.
Of a buxom, smiling lady, kind and generous to a boy,
And cross the years that lie between, my heart leaps back in joy!
It seems to me, the things between, for thrill could never vie
With when mother strapped her apron on for huckleberry pie.
She made her preparations with a fervor nigh to grim
And threw some stuff in pot and pan and coyly covered them,
To keep from anxious prying eyes, if not from toying fingers,
And toy but once, we surely knew, would bear the brunt that lingers.
So well do I remember, as the strings of time I tie,
When mother strapped her apron on for huckleberry pie.
A certain sort of stillness was the price that she demanded.
No racing past her sacred oven, long as she commanded.
She'd poke and stoke the old wood range and bear the torrid heat,
So we, the kids, could have a thing she knew we loved to eat.
The sun could fall, the storm could rage, the world could go awry,
But still she'd strap that apron on for huckleberry pie!
Now years have gone the way of years and gray is in my brow.
Though time has dulled my sight and hearing, I can taste it now.
She long ago, has gone to claim reward in blessed rest,
I live, convinced more every day, that time of life was best.
'Twill be a pleasant memory 'til the moment that I die,
For I miss that apron strapping on... and huckleberry pie.
V.Croxton
There is a great deal more of his that I will yet employ. As I do... but pace myself too, I hope you will enjoy. 
| | 2/7/2008 1:38:34 PM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| This one is my mother's favorite.
-------Bend in the River-----
Grant me the right to the freedom I knew,
As a boy by a river.
Give back the feats only boyhood can do,
On the banks of a river.
Let me return to that old fishin' hole,
Equipped like a monarch, with cut willow pole,
Breathe back contentment and joy to my soul,
That I knew by the bend in the river.
Give me joy in the birth of a day that is new,
That I knew by the river.
Bring once more the sight of a sky, really blue,
As it smiles on a river.
Give me only the things I have learned in life's school,
That have taught me respect for one hard bitten rule,
That boys will be men and a man is a fool
Who is barred from the bend in the river.
Let me drop then this sham and pretense I have learned,
Since I've gone from the river.
Let me fan back the flame that's so lingingly burned,
For my place by the river.
Leave me to dream with my feet on the sod,
Land of my birth, where my forefathers trod,
And I'll bask in a bit of the kingdom of God,
Down by the bend in the river.
V.Croxton
| | 2/8/2008 12:46:48 PM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| Because this is indeed, a cyber dating site. I'll dedicate this work to those, like me, who share this blight.
------A Wish----------
Your suave evasive little ways,
Your calm and steadfast smiling gaze,
While I toss, in torment spiteful,
Go on and have your fun, delightful.
And if aught comes to bring a tear,
And life's perplexities you fear,
Think of he who cast a sigh
On barren soil, then hastened by.
Would you were maid an'I, your king,
Who could cammand you everything.
A mountainside, a rippling stream,
A place to breathe and love and dream.
The beauty of the petalled rose,
Contentment that the dreamer knows.
The fullness of a night to live,
The blessing of a thing to give.
The thrill that comes at springtime's touch,
All end to care and oh so much.
Of tearless joy and honest laughter,
With rare contentment coming after,
And may the coming years that fly,
Bring you peace and love and I,
In generous mood, might add to those,
Some tiny dimpled baby toes.
Alas! No kingship is for me,
So dear, let's face reality.
When winter comes, the rose has passed,
Too fragile, in the storm, to last.
Another dreamer will have gone,
Another heart to tread upon.
A song that's vanished in a prayer --
For I'll be here, while you are there.
V.Croxton
Written to my grandmother Rose while on Navy ship shortly after December 7, 1941
| | 2/9/2008 12:12:01 PM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| --------My Dog------
There's folks alivin' here on earth
Who don't ken to a Rover,
I mean the kind with ears on them
That keep aloppin' over.
They say he's clumsy, smells too bad,
They claim he eats too much.
With him, blue ribbons can't be had,
And this and that and such.
Well let me tell you this right now,
They never knew my pup.
They couldn't know and read his soul
As I, and keep from lookin' up.
He grew into my boyish heart
Before he opened up his eyes,
And has never lost that part,
Though many years between us lies.
I never knew his daddy for
No papers showed him to a tee,
But just that he could bite his ears
Proved him dog enough for me.
Although I live a thousand years,
That long shall I remember,
The first time little Fritz was up,
'Twas early one December.
Dire prejudice was the card he drew,
Didn't act the part, they said,
And only I had confidence
As into action he was led.
Twenty minutes hadn't passed
Before I heard that pup,
My spine was running icy
And my hair was standing up.
He played as beautiful a part
From first card to the showdown,
And from that time, to old dogs,
He could show and give the lowdown.
History that puppy wrote,
Into the sacred script of sport.
Money flashed before my eyes
But money couldn't buy his sort.
He clings within my memory,
Like lichen to a log.
No man has greater monument
Than my old huntin' dog.
So when you see an offstrain pup,
Don't glance and look away.
He might have something in his veins
For which we mostly, vainly pray.
V.Croxton
| | 2/9/2008 12:37:33 PM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| To my closest love, Sabastian, we explore life together. He is a kingly prince of cats. Alas, I will truely be heartbroken when he is gone.
-------Reflection------
The old cat sits by the open hearth
And dreams of a mouse infested earth,
Where one, between his yawns and stretches
Can just reach out and seize the wretches.
Where dogs, if there must be, all are tied,
And a silencer on each jaw supplied.
Or better still, when its resurmised,
That the whole darn pack should be paralysed.
Where a cow takes heed of each faint meeow
And stops alldithering, there and now,
And walks right up to the 'customed spot
And leaves what's from a cow is got.
But the old puss has his troubles, too,
And he'll awaken to find its true,
That mouse-proof housing has thinned the field,
That one wee beastie is quite a yield.
That what so rudely woke him up,
Was that half grown, lopeared, silly pup.
That she is there to his peace deride,
But cows still live in the country side.
So puss, I feel so bad for you,
For neither do all your dreams come true.
And I'm fast realizing that
One just as well be man... as cat.
V.Croxton
| | 2/9/2008 9:15:55 PM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| Thanks Dustin. This site rocks. The people, the site, and you are a godsend.
-----Just Bein' Here-------
Some folks like to sigh and frown,
Some others like to laugh and cheer.
There's some who like to act the clown
But I just like it, bein' here!
A gentle breeze in tropic seas,
The splendor of the moon,
The diligence of honey bees,
The screaming of the loon.
The blush upon an apple's cheek,
The leaves in late september,
The joys that boys in fishing seek,
The cares that men remember.
A hound dog's bay, a donkey's bray,
The fuzziness of peaches,
The warning to a heart, be gay,
As into space it reaches.
A friend to make, a hand to shake,
A home to lull, in coming years,
Of men so free! Kind destiny,
Of kindling loves and quelling fears.
A baby's hand, so soft and grand,
Advice from dad and mother's tear,
At beck and call but drat it all,
I just like it, bein' here.
V.Croxton
| | 2/11/2008 9:37:18 PM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| It was a beautiful sunny and warm day here in Oregon today. It was so nice to be out working in it all day that it inspired me to choose this poem to post tonight.
----------Spring------------
It's mighty fine to live on earth,
This time of year.
It's pleasant just to watch the birth
Of summer that is near.
To watch the peach tree bear her bloom,
To once more hear the lark,
To feel the sun that floods the room,
To see the day again, from dark.
To see the willow buds that burst
Into their sprightly dress.
To hear first robin's thrilling verse
And kiddie's bubbling happiness.
It seems that life has pulled away
From darkness that is cold,
And in its wake is laughter gay
And happy new assurance, bold.
I pray that when the Master calls
My number from the book,
That it might be when twilight falls
In spring. And I may turn and look
At every moment from my birth
On a life, full lived and free,
And say, "My presence lives on earth,
My soul I give to thee".
V.Croxton
| | 2/11/2008 9:56:52 PM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| Oh what the heck. Because I have this one on the same page I might as well add it tonight too.
---------A Life------------
A burst of spring!
A sun to bathe my spirit in and sing to,
As child and gladsome lad, a life to fling to
Happiness and beauty, love and trust to cling to
In everything.
Then ripening summer!
A vision of a life ideal, outside all cares and woes,
Great castles 'neath a starry sky, as no mere mortal knows,
A mighty portal there wherein, my lady comes and goes,
And I may come here.
Now autumn's cheer!
Perhaps my ship has struck some shoals I cared to miss.
Perchance my shaft has fallen short and yet, in this
I mourn not. I ventured all for just a baby's kiss
And things as dear.
Last, wintry ice!
It matters not that I did not great feats achieve.
It points no loss if I do not great marble statues leave.
But just if my posterity will one mere moment, grieve,
That will suffice!
V.Croxton
| | 2/14/2008 12:41:48 AM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
|  In honor of valitines day today, I share a piece of my own heart's say.
 ------Lost Find Endured-------
I observe that I’m acutely aware of life,
Its euphoric bliss to blazingly painful and strife.
Vividly ironic detail, and oh, so rife.
Seen, through this, would be my one wife.
I have tasted life’s worst, and it’s best.
There’s been no escaping that and the rest
Its brilliantly shown to me, and with a zest.
The queen of my species I see in you dear.
The most exquisite song ever, ever I’ll hear.
That I am not able to hold you near,
Sear.
Though my heart has your nectar visited upon,
Solace in just knowin’ you, I will smile on.
Shylywilling
[Edited 2/14/2008 5:11:59 PM]
| | 2/14/2008 6:34:07 AM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | | 
knittinkitten
Lady Lake, FL
age: 72
| Shy, no one has posted replies here, possibly so that the mood is not broken, but I find that I must tell you that your Grandpa was a Treasure....AND, Grandpa has bequeathed you HIS Treasure.
I read all his poems with such delight. They are MY KIND of poetry.....the thoughts may be deep, but the words are not.....and I hear what he has to say.........and I understand it.
I hope that his words (and they all rhyme) inspire you to look, listen and hear what treasures Grandpa had all around him and set them down on paper so that you, too, may help those of this generation "see the picture".
Sincerely,
KK
| | 2/14/2008 12:10:38 PM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| KK,
Your graciousness delivered an unexpected smile
It visited my heart and warmed it a while
Brought forth in an instant by your kindly reply
The joy then expressed further and tear'd up my eye.
That I had not expected this comfort aproaching
Adds value and meaning to your friendship and coaching.
Thank you so much KnittinKitten, it touches me that he is appreciated and that you would say so here. I will keep them coming as long as I can. Maybe about fifty more.
Shyly.
[Edited 2/14/2008 12:16:35 PM]
| | 2/14/2008 1:09:54 PM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| My life is not my own.
It is my soul's, I've always known.
I just breath and walk.
It is my soul that does the talk.
 Chuckle.
Shyly
| | 2/14/2008 3:25:26 PM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| I hear in this poem the cadence of a galloping horse. I think it might of been one of my grandpa's favorites and of it he said: "Written to Seabiscuit after glorious defeat of War Admiral." One of my grandpa's personal friends was the jockey Willie.
---------Thoroghbred---------
Just to run is to live
And to win is to give
To the honor of noble sire.
To the dam and the foal,
To a horse with a soul
And the flame of the thoroughbred fire.
It's the speed of the breed,
It's the hungering need
Of the feel of the wind in their face.
It's the spread of the saddle,
The jockey astraddle
And spirit no touch can erase.
In the clip and the clop,
Like the drip and the drop
Of the patter of scattery rain.
It's the strive for the straightaway,
Grace of the turf today,
Blood of their ancestors, violent and vain.
From the arch of the neck,
From the froth with a fleck
That can speak of a bout with the bit.
From that dash with a vim,
To be master of him,
Oh just for the love of it!
But no master has he,
For beneath, he's as free
As the plummeting eagle, awing.
And he dreams through the days
But it gleams in the gaze
Of the thoroughbred turfdom king.
V.Croxton
| | 2/16/2008 1:10:04 AM | Grandpa's collection of poetry. V. Croxton | |
shylywilling
Medford, OR
age: 47
| Tonight they took my neighbor away in an ambulance. He is in his 70s and I think it is his heart but he has been dependant on medication since I met him a few years back. He left his wife and her kids in L.A. to be up here near his daughters and grandkids. He lived alone but was often visited by his kids and their families. We were not close but I liked visiting with him occasionally and he is my friend, my neighbor. He would tell me about working for the railroad all his life and he has been teaching me a little how to make glass flowers, animals and ships. I would mow his yard. I don't yet know if he'll make it but it didn't look to promising when they shut the ambulance door. I am overwhelmed with sadness. A father, grandfather, a friend, my friend. I choose to type this poem tonight in honor of you and all lost friends Perry. Godspeed.
-----Friendship Gone to Seed--------
There are things of lasting beauty
In the ups and downs of life.
And there's times when pilgrim duty
Sends us turmoil, grim with strife.
There is hope of drowning sorrow,
In this vale of mortal need,
But there is little hope tomorrow,
For a friendship, gone to seed.
The comradeship of yesterdays
Can't bring itself to mind.
And though I search in divers ways,
No soothing solace do I find.
I try, in vain, to recollect
Where paths of patience lead,
And find but pain when I reflect
On a friendship, gone to seed.
There's something in the soul of man
That reaches out for friends.
There's something in the clasp of hands
That pain and bitter feeling ends.
There's something in the very thought
Of a kindly human deed,
Tonight I pray that ours is not
A friendship, gone to seed.
V.Croxton
|
|