Newsletter for the World of Words by Elias Tobias
In a few hours, 2006 will be history, and the hopes and challenges of 2007 will be here. I hope everyone had a great Christmas. I had Saturday off after getting the LMT Business Journal done early on Friday before both holidays, and took Christmas off. I promise my wife I would, but Tuesday was a workday. The Year in Review issue was done by 9 p.m. I usually work to midnight or so.
Our fireworks will be the TV version, tonight along with a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling grape cocktails and real glass wine glasses. Last year we had plastic wine glasses since glass types tend to get broken around our house. We have four new ones, and we’ll see how long they last.
I didn’t make a Christmas list this year, and I was surprised. I got a clarinet. I played when I was in high school, and stopped my junior year to be the hiigh school feature editor. I didn’t play again until 1979 in the spring quarter of my senior year of my bachelors degree. I took a class as one of my electives since I had most of my major and minors classes completed. I also took badminton and co-ed jogging. Throughout my moves as a journalist, the clarinet was sold as excess baggage. Today, I put together the new instrument, and it came back to me after all this time. I’m not ready for my debut at Carnegie Hall just yet, though.
I got other stufff. I received my Cowboy things: a John Wayne calendar, pocket watch and tree ornament; a Beatles CD, a five-DVD set of the unauthorized history of the Beatles and the John Lennon t-shirt with his dreamer quote; note pads and pens in my boot (we don’t do stockings in Laredo), and two packs of t-shirts to replace those that seem to shrink with every wash. It was a challenge to open some of the presents considereing the way they were wrapped.
I have a poem for readers. Saturday morning, my wife and I discussed what was for breakfast. After our discussion, this is a poem I wrote:
Poem of the Month
French Toast
Come have breakfast with me,
and you can be
the coffee or tea.
I can be the butter and the French
toast and we can
have fun eating
each other as long
as the morning lasts.
Happy New Year
Elias Tobias
Newsletter for the World of Words by Elias Tobias
Happy New Year to those who are either getting to the Web site for the first time, or have transferred from the old Web site. The site is nine years old in 2007, and it was time to change again. I now have a blog that continues many of the features I had in the old Web site, and combines others. My 60 Favorite Poems are still here, but there is much more to come. I have a song with my lyrics that may can be downloaded, along with audio clips of the Love Notes Collection I have recorded. Video slide shows are in the works for the poem, The Mexican Love Song and a photo history since my birth. Who knows what all will happen this year?
The best thing about this is that you, the readers, have a better chance to be a part of the Web site. I’m thinking about restarting the Poetry First-Aid service to those who need help, and responding to the poems is easier. Comments about the poems will be posted. New poems will be in the newsletter, along with the Poem of the Month.
Poem of the Month
A New Year’s Toast
The glass for 2006 is full,
and there are no more refills left,
no matter how thirsty we may be.
The memories, fresh in our minds
as if they were yesterday, remain.
The glass for 2007 is in our hands,
and the challenges seem the same.
We can avoid mistakes from the past,
and cast the light on shadows so
we can have a better new year.
I hope that the change to this format will get more people involved with poetry, and this Web site.
Elias Tobias
The Architect
First, he digs a circle he calls a moat,
and starts to build the towers of a castle
on the foundation of wet sand surrounded
by the still ring of water.
Soon the walls are sculptered as he dreams
of living in his own castle. Windows are
etched in the indentions with a stick.
A blade of grass becomes the flag and it
is placed on a tower where the princess
is held captive by the King of Quartz.
Chains keep her from the windows.
Then the tide rolls in, gently, and then
faster, eroding the boy’s masterpiece.
But the architect can return to the beach
to live another day in his imagination.
Little Dancer
She smiles to no one, except perhaps herself,
as she dances with the music in her head.
The world around her is filled with talking,
and the people don’t hear a single note.
Her long, black hair rises as she twirls around,
and the skirt of her dress flirts with the air.
Content in her setting, she hears what she
wants to hear, and disregards the rest.
To read this poem in Spanish, click here.
Changing the Changless
Since we first met,
you have changed and
I have changed, too,
but our love for
each other has not.
Our love is endless,
and will never stop.
Listen to the poem: Click here.
Need QuickTime to hear this? Click here to download a free version here.
I’ve Got a Secret
I’ve got a secret.
It’s something you should
Really, really know.
In fact, you are a part of the secret,
But I can’t tell you because
It’s a secret.
I didn’t promise anyone I would
Keep the secret, so I won’t
Betray anyone’s trust.
I won’t tell you, because if
I do, it won’t be a secret anymore.
Carrousel
(Photo by Mike Hall)
A merry-go-round is at the entrance of a community fair in Indiana.
Carrousel
I see the bright lights go round and round,
And the painted horses go up and down.
The mall is filled with people from town.
Kids change to a smile from a frown
When they ride the golden merry-go-round.
Memories of my childhood are found,
When I listen is the music so loud. It stops.
Reality finds me again, when my son’s
Feet land touching the ground, safe and sound.
She Holds the Umbrella
She holds the umbrella in the rain,
and her shadow is plain to see
as if the sun shined brightly.
The shadow follows her around,
but, in her eyes, it can’t be found.
The shadow even follows her home.
Everyone has a shadow, you know.
She holds the umbrella in the sun,
and the figure has begun to hide
the hard-hitting heat from her head.
The shadow follows her around,
but, in her eyes, it can’t be found.
The shadow has no where else to go.
Stairs
The stairs continue up to the sky,
and I rest on the landings briefly,
but I can’t wait too long.
I need to reach the top, but my feet
get tired and I slip and fall.
My knees are bruised and hurt.
The metal clang of the sound of
the leather striking the metal
rings in my ears with each step.
I can’t go down the stairs, even if
I wanted to, because each stairstep
conquered disappears into memory
when my last foot leaves the plane.
I remain suspended in the light with
the option to succeed or fall into the
dark void below with the others who
have failed. I hear them call me.
Their voices get louder, almost as loud
as the sound of my heavy steps.
It would be so easy to let loose of my
grip on the handrail, and the next fall
would be my last.
See the Spanish version of the poem here
Land Mines
The wall is down…
Concrete is shattered
into splintered blocks…
Guards with guns are gone…
Only deep holes remain
where fence posts stood…
But land mines are still
planted ready to explode
the past into the reality
of the present.