Edmund V. Strolis
Biography of Edmund V. Strolis
I am just getting started.......
Edmund V. Strolis Poems
Each day she made her daily trip, down the lush green alley way. Yes 'down' for 'up' would hardly do, for the place that she was heading. Her dress all stitched and worn, the hems all thin and frayed. With pride her mother kept her clean, on the wages she was saving.
The Good Man
How did I know then what bravery was? It did not ride on horseback. It did not charge a hilltop. It did not pose with medals dangling.
But oh how he could speak, crisp rapid and with rhythm. And oh how he could take the pulse of the people in the street. And oh how he did press his views, man did they believe him.
Will you meet me on the morrow where the river meets the dale? With warm golden rolls and wild berries spread, and the tallest of all tall tales.
I have this dream of a valley, rich and high in the Smokies unchanged. and a long lazy cloud floating up, where my hopes for tomorrow remain. Yes the smoke in my mind's eye does rise from a fire that burns in my brain.
At first I thought he was a dandy, self-involved with mocking grace. My stomach churned. I felt disgusted. studying his smug bold face. It did not help that he was handsome and not so polished or over groomed.
Now the folly was revealed, the game played out. Moving lips mimicked motion, syllables that sang of doubt,
How dull it seems the haughty bellows of philosophers and kings. Or the bishops preaching sermons, flashing grins and gaudy rings. I would rather hear a blacksmith's hammer than to hear such twaddled yap.
In a curve on a river on a nameless muddy shoulder his boots in kicking fits tore up the shore that day
Captured in a floating world of limited expectation. Boundaries neatly set and dimensions defined in time.
Silence in still anticipation, a hellish storm is brewing in the west. A robins nest within the pines, will shred and cartwheel with the rest. Arrow straight across the stillness, the mourning doves retreat.
Flip the pillow to the cool side, kick the blanket from the bed. Why sleep to chase a dream, he chose to hold his prize instead.
September's cool nights and warm days tease and court our sentiments. In September dusk, magic beckons us to taste her autumn fruit yet still the warm afternoon holds us faithful to the high summer's waning song. Autumn in September is subtle and everywhere, calling us forward. But forward toward what? What misty memories await us just around the bend?
The Long Shadow
Now with possessions so few, hoisted and bundled on wagons secure. The measured remains still too many, to flee from the thunder of war. His family their faces so tired, will need all their strength to endure.
The Yellow Cup
Her tiny hands held the mug, fingers traced each crack and scrape.
Twas rare to find it out of sight for two moments in a day.
Worn was the handle, near vanished the rose, a mere hint of pink inlaid.
but the cup of yellow still held its' brilliance, as if by angels made.
Was it true the story of a mother lost and the depth of her dear sorrow?
Empty cup waiting for a yesterday, yet too full to hold tomorrow.