Tag: Bayoll ne Trele

From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 27, 1914. By Bayoll Ne Trele.

A summer wood,
    A vagrant breeze,
A writing tablet
    On my knees;
A rhythmic swaying
    Of the boughs,
An anxious knitting
    Of my brows;
A hundred things
    With meaning fraught,
Yet not one single thought.

A seat of rock,
    A rug of moss,
A ceiling where
    Green branches toss;
A bird voice calls
    From some far nook,
A leaf spins downward
    To the brook.
A crackling noise,
    A cow! I flee—
The beast is headed straight for me.

My seat of rock,
    My ceiling green
Has just been changed—
    There’s a fence between;
And on that rock
    Whence I did scud
There stands the cow
    And chews her cud.
With placid eye
    She looks me o’er,
A-standing where
    I sat before,
And seems to say
    O you high brow
I wonder who’s
    The poet now.

From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 3, 1913. By Bayoll ne Trele.

This life is full of ups and downs,
    Just like a teeter-totter;
Seems like one minute we’re the fly,
    The next we are the swatter;
One minute we’re the under dog,
    The next the dog that’s got ‘im;
One day we ride on top our woes,
    The next we’re at the bottom.

One day we scale the mountain top,
    The next we’re in the valley;
Today our house fronts on the street,
    Tomorrow on the alley;
Sometimes we are “some punkins”
    To whom the public caters;
And then, first thing we know, we find
    We’re mighty “small pertaters!”

This life’s as full of ups and downs
    As a roller-coaster ride is;
Or a Ferris wheel; now we’re high in air,
    Now down where the under side is;
And sometimes in a swing we swing so high
    That up in the clouds we’re hidden;
And again we descend to the sordid earth
    And into the dust have slidden.

If life could be expressed in sound
    As a musical composition,
We’d find that without its ups and downs
    That ’twas scarcely worth the rendition;
And so let us blend our ups and downs
    Into melodies sweet and true,
For if uncontrolled those ups and downs
    Might make rag-time out of you.

From the Omaha Daily Bee, August 17, 1913. By Bayoll ne Trele.

Perfection is not found in man—
    Then make the best of what men are;
The stunted daisy do not ban;
    Its face doth not the landscape mar;
When eager hands have robbed the fields
    Of what shows fairest to the eye
The stunted flowers remain to bless
    The vision of some passerby.

Perfection is the aim of all,
    But since we’re made of mortal clay
Before we reach it, down we fall
    Yet let not this our hearts dismay;
Some trees tower tall ‘twixt earth and sky
    And proudly guard the great highway,
But more blest is the scraggly oak,
    Beneath whose boughs the children play.

And while ‘mongst humans some attain
    To dizzy heights above their fellows,
Some humbler laborers still remain
    In vales which radiant sunlight mellows;
And while successes crown them not
    Tho’ in men’s eyes they seem deficient
Their work may better stand the test
    When God shall judge with love omniscient.