From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

[goldvermilion87]

I wrote two poems in May of 2000.  They are both filed under schoolwork, but the first, if it really was assigned, and not just misfiled, is still very personal.

I cannot be snarky about this poem, even though it is lacking in literary merit.  I wrote it when an elderly member of our church, who had Alzheimers, died.  Once, a year or so earlier I had written an essay about him for an "Ordinary Heroes" essay competition, and it captures the way I felt about him better than anything I could write now, ten to fifteen years later:

If you stood in the parking lot of Trinity Baptist Church during a fall afternoon seven years ago you would have seen many school children at play. It was recess at the Christian school. There were some little girls at the edge of the asphalt. They were taking sticks, stones, and leaves and arranging them in the dirt as gardens. One little girl would look up periodically to scan the playground; then she would turn back to her labors. Once she looked up but did not go back to work. She stood up and peered at an old man coming out of the glass doors of the front entrance to the building. He walked slowly. The girl grinned and ran towards him. “Mr. Bischoff! See what I’ve done on my garden today!” She took him by the hand and led him to her “garden.” She pointed out new sticks, and explained their significance. He admired her work, then walked to his house. I, was that little girl. The man was Mr. Paul Bischoff, my ordinary hero.

Mr. Bischoff was a hero to many people. He served for many years saving lives as a Newark, New Jersey firefighter. He was a devoted deacon in our church. He visited the sick and those in prison. I was very excited to find his name on a list of people who visited the hospital when I was born. Mr. Bischoff also came on fire prevention week to tell little scholars about his experiences as a firefighter. However, those things were not what made him my hero. He was my hero because he was my friend. It was a highlight of my day to show him my “garden” and hear his praise. 

One day my Mom told me that Mr. Bischoff wanted to see me. We went to the church, and he presented me with two gifts. One was a plaque that said “Friendship” on it, and the other was a small wagon filled with cloth flowers. I was thrilled. These little decorations sat in an honored spot on my dresser for years.

Now Mr. Bischoff is unable to able to gladden others with his cheerfulness and helpfulness, but instead needs to be waited on. He suffers in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s at the New Jersey Firemen’s Home. When I went to the Home last Christmas to sing carols for him, I was choked with tears. To see him so frail and forgetful was very hard. I could not help but think of his smile as he looked at my little pile of sticks and stones. But those pleasant recesses are stored up in my heart. And I know that he is only waiting for the day when he will enter a better place without any suffering, and leave sweet memories behind.

Another long time member of our church died just this Thursday, and she, too, is where she has always wanted to be:  with her Savior where there is no pain, and no loss of memory, and no suffering.   This is the poem I wrote when Mr. Bischoff died, and despite it's artistic downfallings, I dedicate its sentiment to Miss Elaine Hiller as well:



Immortality

 

For him death hath lost its sting;
In him grave hath no victory.
Tho’ we on earth do mourn his loss,
And weep. For him who’s faith was in the cross,
There is no pain. Ev’ry tear has left his eye.
When we, left behind, do cry,
We think of his thrice happy state;
And await the day when we shall share his fate.
 

 
But, as this post is entitled "From the Sublime to the Ridiculous," here is another poem from May 2000 that is extremely ridiculous.  It was an exercise for English class again.  The teacher had wonderful pictures (I don't actually know what they were from...some game, maybe) of really bizarre situations.  In one way they reminded me of Norman Rockwell paintings, but they were photographs, I think.  We had to choose one, and write a poem or a story about it. 

I chose a picture of a very exasperated man at a desk with a cow standing on it:

The Day The Cow Fell In 
 
A roundish man with a baldish head

Was just beginning to get out of bed.

He got all dressed, put his glasses on tight,

And decided to go to his study to write.

As he wrote and wrote and scribbled and scribbled,

Small pieces of plaster on the desktop dribbled.

But still the small man, just got out of bed,

Did not know what danger hung over his head.

He heard a loud noise like the rumbling of thunder,

But when he looked out, he still saw the sun there!

He shivered and shivered and shook and shook

Just like every single book

On his Shelf. Then, Crash!

He screamed when he saw what had made the smash.

For there sat a brown little cow on his desk

Quetly chewing. Not minding the mess!!

Hehe!