Life’s Special Blessings and Other Poems

By LaVern Spencer McCarthy

Life’s Special Blessings

Originally published in Poetry Society of Texas Book of the Year

I do not need a keg of gold,
or diamonds in a velvet case.
I only crave a mockingbird
that leads me to a peaceful place
along the reaches of my soul
no thief can steal, or time, deface.

I do not care for grand estates
with riches flaunted everywhere.
They cannot hold me when I weep,
or soothe me with a Sunday prayer.
A hovel by the road will do
if God and all my friends are there.

I do not yearn for diadems
except for dew the meadow brings,
the sunlight and the morning star,
the harvest moon when autumn sings.
With many treasures I am blessed,
for life is full of special things.

Blessings

Originally published in Poetry Society of Texas Book of the Year

I do not own a grand estate
with golden knobs on every door,
or host of crystal chandeliers
that sparkle on a polished floor.
My furnishings are bleak and bare.
My humble home is dark and poor.

But I have rainbows in the mist,
a love song and a morning prayer,
a robin in the willow tree,
my darling’s kisses, always there.
With all these things I know that I 
could build a palace anywhere.

Nightly Topic

Originally published in Visions International-2021

Summer nights on the porch,
conversation would begin
with fair-weather hymns
and corn-field benedictions--
no hint of the apocalypse at first.
Then, my uncle would spit,
and it would be time to preach
about my sister.

No letter had arrived with postage 
stamp from far away places--
no foot-prints on the dusty road,
	love, coming back.

Coughs, sighs, scraping of chairs
evolved into a murmur
that became as strong as
the whirlwind that took Elijah--
how my sister with painted face
and red high-heels should be 
	banished forever.

My uncles agreed and said amen,
but before I went to bed
I'd catch a handful of fireflies
 as prayers in my window
	to light her way home. 

An Old Man’s Wallet

Originally published in California Poppy Times Newspaper–2022

His wallet holds the scraps of yesterday
with faded photos dearest to his heart;
A raffle ticket, notice of a play
attended when his daughter had a part;
A stub from some wild party in the rain
at college when he went where laughter led;
A tiny rosebud wrapped in cellophane
from his true love's bouquet when they were wed;
A snip of ribbon done in earthy tones
from some dead soldier's grave across the sea;
Such pieces of his life are all he owns,
each remnant bringing back a memory.

These treasures, and a letter from a friend
will hold his world together till the end.

The Garden Gnome

Originally published in Pennsylvania Poetry Society 2020

In my back yard there lives a garden gnome.
I bought him from a wizard long ago.
I put him there in his forever home
to guard the grass and watch the pansies grow.
But he does more to earn his keep. His trace
of magic keeps unfriendly winds at bay.
Pink roses sprinkle petals on his face.
Petunias love him in a tender way.

His kingdom thrives. I only wish I knew
how he can make a weeping willow sing
or form tiaras from the morning dew
to crown the heads of tulips in the spring.

If not for him those daisies by the wall
would scarcely have the will to bloom at all.

A Chip Off The Old Writer’s Block

Originally published in A Galaxy of Verse-2017 and Indiana State Federation Of Poetry Clubs

I chipped
my stubborn
writer’s block.
I knew 	
I must subdue it.
It lets me write
nice verses since
I took a hammer to it.

A Field Of War

Originally published in National Federation of State Poetry Societies, Inc, Encore–2018

A hallowed field of war is never still.
Tall grasses rustle from immortal pain.
The earth moves sharply with a haunted will.
A soldier's ghost bestirs the wild terrain.

Tall grasses rustle from immortal pain.
It rises from below on waves of fear.
A soldier's ghost bestirs the wild terrain.
His ghastly screams make other ghosts appear.

It rises from below on waves of fear,
a never-ending sound that chills the air.
His ghastly screams make other ghosts appear.
The lonely cries commingle with despair.

A never-ending sound that chills the air,
the endless wailing makes the flowers weep.
The lonely cries commingle with despair.
We find the ones who perished do not sleep.

The endless wailing makes the flowers weep.
The earth moves sharply with a haunted will.
We find the ones who perished do not sleep.
A hallowed field of war is never still.

Garden Sale

Originally published in National Federation of State Poetry Societies, Inc—Encore 2022

I sold a dozen villanelles today.
Each word was beautiful, unique and whole.
My sonnets went for more than most could pay.
I grew them in the garden of my soul.

Each word was beautiful, unique and whole.
My wild haikus were taken, row by row.
I grew them in the garden of my soul,
a special place that only I would know.

My wild haikus were taken, row by row
I planted them anew for later on.
A special place that only I would know
will care for them until their words have grown.

I planted them anew for later on.
The sunlight will caress them for a while--
will care for them until their lines have grown.
My poetry abounds with grace and style.

The sunlight will caress them for a while.
I wrote them with the colors of the sky.
My poetry abounds with grace and style
with bright quatrains for sale to all who buy.   

I wrote them with the colors of the sky.
My efforts made them somehow more divine.
With bright quatrains for sale to all who buy,
I polish them with joy and make them shine.

I wrote them with the colors of the sky.
My sonnets went for more than most can pay. 
With bright quatrains for sale to all who buy,
I sold a dozen villanelles today.

What’s That You Say?

Originally published in League of Minnesota Poets-The Moccasin-2016

He’s chasing me! He’s chasing me  
though I’m not young and dewy.
His smile seems amorous and sweet.
His eyes look wild and woo-ey.

He’s shouting something I can’t hear.
I can’t suppress a giggle.
What’s that? Just now I thought he said
he likes the way I wiggle.

Hr’s chasing me! I must apply
mascara, gloss and glitter.
I’m nervous as I welcome him
with my ‘come hither’ titter.

I think he’s eager for my charms.
I always knew I had ‘em,
But then he says, “Wait up a sec.
You dropped your Gas-X, madam.”

She Flows In Splendor

Originally published in Waco Cultural Arts Festival 2010

The Mississippi River is a queen.
She flows in splendor, off to lands unknown.
She visits places I have never seen,
the by-ways of America, her throne.

She flows in splendor, off to lands unknown.
In regal style she glides from shore to shore.
The by-ways of America, her throne,
the Mississippi rules forever more.

In regal style she glides from shore to shore,
majestic in her passage, wild and free.
The Mississippi rules forever more,
her purpose, always striving for the sea.

Majestic in her passage, wild and free,
she wears a crown the color of the sky.
Her purpose, always striving for the sea.
No force can hold her should it ever try.
			
She wears a crown the color of the sky,
her jewels, reflections of a starry night.
No force can hold her should it ever try.
She reigns supreme, unequaled in her might.

Her jewels, reflections of a starry night,
she visits places I have never seen.
She reigns supreme, unequaled in her might.
The Mississippi River is a queen.

LaVern Spencer McCarthy has written and published four books of short stories and seven books of poetry. Her short stories have appeared in Fenechty’s Publishing, Anthology of Short Stories, The Writers and Readers Magazine. California Poppy Times Newspaper and many others.  She is a life member of Poetry Society of Texas and lives in Blair, Oklahoma.