Jo's Poems

Simple Gifts

Who made who feel at home?

Who sent the invitations?

How many places were set?

Did they have reservations?

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Was the turkey smoked or baked?

Was it labeled"lowin fat"?

Could they pray or not?

Was it important where they sat?

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'Twas really very simple;

With no formalities.

The Indians and the Pilgrims,

Shared their bounty; in the trees.

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They all prayed together,

Being grateful; feeling glad.

Each thanked their God for simple gifts.

'Twas each other that they had!

                                         J. Heller  "1996"

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Be Witched

West of the witches hat

Flies a tangled web of hair.

Her piercing eyes of coal

Reveal a haunting stare.

Below crooked & warty nose

From a snaggled toothy grin,

Hangs hairy breath of beast,

O'er sharply jutting chin.

Gnarled bony fingers

Wrap her bristly broom.

In rustly ragged skirt

She churns about the room.

Baggy brown stockings

Wrap knocking knobby knees.

High black pointed  boot

Laces flying in the breeze.

Fire in the hearth,

Her caldron is a boil

Hair of goat,eye of newt,

Dash of deep red soil.

Prepared with frightful brew,

She dons black towering hat.

High up in its pointy peak,

Hangs a ferocious flying bat!

Do have fun tonight.

Be nice to black cat,

But beware of the witch

Wearing a flip-floppy hat!

LUVUJHB'04

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This poem was written about Jo's days growing up on the farm.  It was written with her sisters in mind.

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There is a tree, at the end of the lane,

Turn right and go over the hill.

 If you cross the creek and sit a while,

You will find her peaceful and still.

With her boughs out stretched,

She has dried a few tears,

Consoled wounded spirits,

And vanquished our fears.

Her branches brought shelter,

From the heat of the sun.

A tractor seat respite,

To commune, day's work done.

There was laughter from children,

Forbidden to wade,

In her babbling creek,

In the cool of the shade.

Of an evening journey, over the hill,

We'd amble and ramble along.

As the sun in the sky slowly faded,

So, too, the meadowlark's song.

She still stands watch, at the end of the lane.

Turn right and go over the hill.

Her family is grown, and gone from her days.

You will find her peaceful and still.