I recently attended a party held outdoors in farming country. Near the road was an old piece of farm machinery, slowly rusting.

I wrote this poem for what is past and unchangeable:

Waiting long:
For men to bind me to their task.
For sun and wind and dirt and grass.
For purposed motion past that tree.
For harvests that are not for me.

As the sun set I was struck with the awareness that each of us has had times of achievements — of getting things done, of doing well — but feel now that time is passing without the arrival of new successes.

Looking at this rusting machine, I realized that I too have rusty parts — signs of wear, not quite as fit, and holding on to old ideas of how things should be done and said.

But looking at this rusting machine, I realized that I am changeable — that my rust is reversable, that I can be renewed.

There are truths of purpose and truths of things worth doing. They all involve people, helping each other to move forward, even if moving forward means to sit and share a smile.

We are not a rusty machine or a tree stuck in the ground. Shake off the rust. Shake off the dust.

Try hard. Be kind. Make more of today, together.

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I went for a walk at twilight, in the early spring, and came
upon the lamps at our neighborhood school.

Red Lamps at Twilight

In day ignored as children play.
At night aglow but colours fade.
At twilight lights stand crisp and red.
They wait to shine from upraised head.

Rob Hueniken

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Winter sky

The winter sky looks on and dreams
of warmer times of grass and streams.

It scowls along from here to there
and broods about the goods it bears.

A snowflake here, or sleeting rain:
its harvest leads us to complain.

But there’s a secret that it knows:
just past the edge of winter grows
a bright new face to give us joy
when spring does winter sky deploy.

By Rob Hueniken

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The sky is amazing.
Trees are amazing.
Animals are amazing.

And we get to experience them.

Life is amazing.
Love is amazing.
People are, well, fascinating, and it’s amazing that we can get along.

And we get to experience them.

That there is any world here to experience is amazing.

Believe in God or not.
But just stand and breathe for a moment.
Just look and see what is here.

If all we had was just a moment of experiencing the world, isn’t it amazing?

What about a moment?

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My Twitter friend, Mike Todd (miketodd07), was out raking today, and sent this tweet:

Raking leaves in the sunshine, listening to Owl City on the iPod, thinking about poetry.

So I wrote this poem on Twitter:

Leaves & sun, together,
sounding crisp & smelling soft,
like earth and summer memories,
fallen but still remaining and reminding.

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Anyone who has teenagers knows the sadness of their leaving to start their own home.
For parents with children the advice is clear: play with your kids; spend time doing things together — today!

This is a poem I wrote for my son, whom I love dearly.

Cleaning the Workshop The time has come to clean the room. To move big pieces and use the broom. And lift the layers time has spread Which spin back memories through my head. Against the wall a wooden box Raised up on legs with screws is locked. And on the front my son’s full name By his own hand it does proclaim. And there within a child’s treasure: Bits cut from wood without a measure. Tiny tools for a young hand That now belongs to a young man. How long these treasures lay in dust, His interests elsewhere but here I touch The time we shared and built a toy When I was the father of a small boy. I clean the box and throw out strings That may have been the start of things. I keep the projects that have shape And with a camera a shot I take. I miss that boy and the simpler times When shapes and tools were on his mind. But here’s his hammer in my big hand. From the things we built we made a man. By Rob Hueniken

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Here is my poem from the 2008 Waterloo writers’ anthology, “Words from Here”, ISBN 978-0-9682520-1-7. It speaks to the surprising situation and feelings one can have about our busy world when we are forced to experience a time without power at night. This poem might inspire further thoughts about how we spend our time, and whether we are truly happier being steeped in technology.

No Power Tonight Tonight the power dimmed and went. A popping sound then lights were spent. The brightness of our pre-sleep home Replaced by flashlights and a careful roam. I peered outside and down the street. The dark was wide and the quiet deep. The only sound came as a voice As neighbours talked about their choice, Of having every night as dark, To see the stars so clear and stark; Or have the comfort of the glare Where nighttime lights do fog the air. But I knew soon the lights would start So I walked back home through quiet dark And tucked in bed like in times of old When dark meant rest in night’s deep folds. By Rob Hueniken

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