POETRY CORNER: Impressions of the old farm

Impressions of the old farm

by Marilou Suchar
November 9, 2015

The farm was old –
I stood, and mused
So many families
Was well used.

The barn was gone
So long ago
Just rocks remained
Of the further wall.

Small outer building
On the hill
Useless now
But stands there still.

Stumps were showing
Where once trees stood
Some were sold
Some burnt for wood.

The rock walls stand
Where fields were made
Marsh water glistened
In the glade.

It was built in 1880
For a farmer’s home
And his sweet
Young lady.

Still it stood
The test of time
One more family
This one mine.


Be Still

by Marilou Suchar
January 4, 2015

God is not silent.
He whispers to us in the air
He touches us with the sun
He sings to us in the sea
He communicates among the clouds

God is not silent:
He reasons with us in our minds
He speaks to us in our hearts
He expresses through our bodies
He stirs us in our souls

God is not silent:
The open Bible is not his only channel
He visits us every day – all day
We need to be still and listen.
“Be still and know.”

God is not silent.

POETRY CORNER: She Can’t Remember (to Katherine)

She Can’t Remember
(to Katherine)

by Gary Haskell

She reaches out to me
with that same, sweet smile
Takes my hand and says, “It’s been a while.”
Though there’s a lot of pain.
I know she’s not to blame.
She can’t remember.

She’s been changing
for a couple of years.
We’ve watched her laughter
turn to tears.
As she stands in front of me,
It’s plain to see.
She can’t remember.

No, she can’t recall the nights,
we held each other tight,
as our bodies melded into one,
until we made another one.
She can’t remember.

We have to leave her here.
They’ve made it clear,
their care is best,
she needs the rest.
As we leave, we pray,
That someday,
She may, remember.

POETRY CORNER: Gone are the Days

by Marilou Suchar

The telephone rings
Who could it be?
Gone are the days
That they want me!

The cell phone chirps
I pick up to see
Nope! – just a hoax
Not a pleasantry.

I hear a ping –
Is it my texting friend?
I stop to read
I don’t comprehend.

Gone are the days
When the telephone rings
And it’s my family
To see how I’ve been.

POETRY CORNER: I am a veteran

I am a veteran

by Gary L. Haskell

I am a veteran,
let me tell you what that means to me.
It means I made sacrifices,
to keep my country free.

It means I did many things,
I really did not want to do.
But, when I was given orders,
I would follow through.

It means I spent many nights
away from those who I love.
Let me live to see them once again
was my prayer to God above.

Yes, I made sacrifices,
but mine were very small.
When compared to the thousands,
who sacrificed their all.

It means I joined a fraternity
that existed for many years.
Truly a brotherhood,
of blood, sweat and tears.

I am a veteran
for that I take great pride.
some for things I did, but much more
of the heroes who have died.

Protecting this way of life.
where choices can be made.
We kept this the land of the free,
and we made it the home of the brave.



by Marilou Suchar

Early snow is shining bright
It almost glows with inner light
It sparkles like a wedding gown
But that’s when winter comes to town.

I love dirty snow!

First signs of Spring, start to show
The ground gets bare, the dirt to blow
I don’t like mud and all that mess
And by now I’m sure you’ve guessed

I love dirty snow!

March growls in and brings more white
April showers bring delight
Flowers start to push up through…
All that…dirty snow!

I love dirty snow!

POETRY CORNER: Eat, Sleep, Repeat

by Mary R. Freeman

Of course, I like to eat –
I have three meals square –
Then I usually take naps –
“Like a hibernating bear!”

In spite of afternoon siestas –
I sleep soundly at night –
Before I even realize it –
The morning sun shines bright!

“This too shall pass” ­
Fits “The Situation” – we think –
Let’s put it all behind us –
Before we can blink!

We’ll go back to “Normal Living” –
Putting obstacles to rest –
Things are bound to get better –
I wish you all the best!


by Marilu Suchar

Time just seems to slip away from us.
The day of our birth and every year thereafter
Just marks a measure of time

I look back…..
I see a little girl running barefoot
Down a dirt road
I watch her pick a dandelion
To bring to her mom
I count with her as she skips rope.

Now she’s running through a field
With her dog – the sun reflecting
off her long shiny, blond hair

Then I hear “Pomp and Circumstance”
She is graduating.

I look forward ….
She walks with a limp as she tends
Her many flowers
She goes slow as she mows the
Grass from her lawn

She stands, stretches her back as
She shovels – just a little more snow.
Or creeps carefully over an icy spot in the driveway

Carefully she makes her way to the mailbox with a
Knitted cap over her gray curls. Hoping
For just a note from someone.

This is today – she has reached that magic year,
Time has run out.

Psalms 90: 9-10
“For all our days are passed away in thy wrath;
we spend our years as a tale that is told .
The days of our years are threescore years and ten;
and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years,
yet is strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off,
and we fly away.”

Where did the time go? How does it end?
God gives us just so much …..
Happy days – Sad days – worry days – all gone.


Sweet Dreams

by Marilou Suchar, Vassalboro

The gold, the red the shades of green, splash of fall colors, a brilliant scene.

It’s nippy, it’s cool – the breezes blow, It won’t be long ‘til winter’s snow.

The leaves come falling fluttering down, to spread out gingerly on the ground.

It’s not the time to moan and weep, it’s time to rest, to dream, to sleep.

The “Goddess Spring” will soon awake, and with her she will winter take.

“Spring” wakes up the leaves and flowers, and birds will sing for long, long hours.

Summer sun will dance and play, but in Maine it cannot stay.

Then, so soon again, to gold and red, the leaves will turn and go to bed.

POETRY CORNER: A Father’s Point of View

by Gary Haskell

Freshly freed from her mother’s
her tininess fills the sterile room.
First gulped air, airs her plea;
“Look at Me, Daddy,
Look at Me!”

With inches bought
by selling years
The baby leaves, a young
lady appears.
Dress-up, dolls, parties of tea;
different forms of “Look at Me.”

Another man stands by her side.
A band plays, “Here Comes
the Bride.”
On Father’s face the tears
flow free.
Perhaps the final, “Look at Me.”

Freshly freed from her
mother’s womb,
her tininess fills the
viewing room.
Laying in total serenity:
“Look at Me, Grampy,
Look at Me!”

Like to write poetry and would like to share them with others? Submit your work to The Town Line, by sending an email at townline@townline.org.