Rex B. Valentine a poet since childhood. His many poems (over 350) and musical compositions (over 50) virtually had no outlet until he had raised and educated his eleven children. He started to formally study and publish his work when he reached age 70. He has been acclaimed locally, nationally, and internationally as a great writer –poet. He has published seven books and numerous musical compositions. His rural background: raised on a primitive farm, dairyman, beef farmer, tree farmer, state forester, feeds and feeding specialist, general contractor, realtor, appraiser, dowser, etc.; gives him ample life experiences for writing. Also his 11 children, 42 grandchildren and 58 great-grandchildren, along with love of church and affiliates’ feed his daily production.
Mr. Valentine has a way with words, which captures a situation’s unique exposure to the reader, stirring memories of bygone days wherein said readers recall their similar experiences or those they would have enjoyed if they had had them.
When you were a child, on a warm summer day,
did you walk through that flowering field when at play?
Wild flowers with blossoms of exquisite bloom,
did you lie down and sample their sweetest perfume?
Can you put into words the feelings you had
while lying in flowers upon the earth’s pad?
Peeking out through the blossoms, a colorful field,
thinking no one could see you, as you were concealed?
Then watching the Heavens, a picture bouquet,
the fluffy white clouds on that warm summer day.
Were there faces and numbers and fairy ballet
as they danced with the flowers, a lovely display?
Oh, the Heavens have beauty, a gorgeous array,
but that field of wild flowers were best, where you lay.
The sky doesn’t know
To laugh or to cry,
So a rainbow will show
both the wet and the dry.
Rainbows are beautiful,
they are not here.
The sky seems so normal
then quickly appear
colors of red, blue,
yellow or green.
They come into view
as they burst on the scene.
The sun can be shining
its rays through the rain,
while Heaven’s divining
its beauty so vain.
Love from the sky
is the thought that I get
and I don’t know why,
but it lingers, and yet
I wonder what makes
this sensational sight?
Bows perfectly draped
in the rain with the light.
Yes, rainbows He gave us
that we wouldn’t doubt
in his love that will save us
if we are devout;
Giving heed to His warnings
and teachings, we’ll live
through black nights to bright mornings.
His rainbows will give
us more beauty to see.
And we have been told
at its end there will be
that pot of pure gold.
But don’t be deceived,
you’ll not find the end
like you have believed,
It’s only a bend.
So drink in its beauty,
its love, just inhale.
for love has a duty
and love cannot fail.
Old Father Time had come to me
“to visit”, so he said.
I must admit I didn’t see
a reason, so I fled;
avoided him, and bid him leave,
“I haven’t time,” I vowed.
but he was mean, with no reprieve;
said I was not allowed
to dictate to him what I thought,
that I, no power had.
That he would simply “call the shots”
for me, though they be bad.
But I was not to be denied,
my angels hovered ‘round.
They propped me up; said we would hide
from the one who wished me bound.
They loved and cared; protected me,
and gave me peace of mind.
Old father Time, no match was he,
for angels wise and kind.
A power struggle was employed
a stand-off did ensue.
Old Father Time became annoyed
at things he couldn’t do.
He couldn’t win my heart and mind,
but dancing he controlled.
It’s hard to hear, I’m partly blind,
but I do not feel old.
I feel God’s love exalting me.
My doubts and pains depart.
And though my body isn’t free
I’m dancing in my heart.
Are you ever asked to do a job
with sketchy plans, or guides?
Where you must guess, suppose, or rob
imagination’s brides?
Sometimes you take the easy way
and ask, but then it fails
to clear your mind, you hear them say,
“It’s all in the details.”
Time is short to do the task
and what to do is guess.
It’s hard to know just who to ask
to save you from a mess.
So call upon your Savior’s love
for instant mind emails,
And He’ll know what you’re thinking of,
then give you the details.
There is always a name that sticks
to a boy of four, or five, or six.
Batman, Superman, Spiderman; stay
the same as in an older day.
A boy aspires to show his strength,
to be a hero, then at length
he wants a suit to cover him
so he can fly at his slightest whim.
His power surge in cloak and boot
makes him a man in his super suit.
His mind is sharp, his muscles taut,
he solves a problem on the spot.
If there’s a damsel in distress
he saves her life, cleans up the mess.
The boy’s desires are like his dad’s;
same heroes as his grandpa had.
He drives the same sleek Batman car,
or flies like Superman afar.
He looks the same; he isn’t cuter,
but he can fix his dad’s computer.
There is something about a rushing stream
that makes me want to rest.
The exciting movement of the splashes have adherent zest;
until I sit and analyze just where the water tracks.
Now, if I sit there long enough, I realize the cracks
and troughs seem organized as though some power wills its spits and coughs.
The water fills the same ravines, and runs around same rocks.
It isn’t hypothetical as each repeated wave
reacts just like the one before and doesn’t misbehave.
I guess the beauty that I see includes the rushing stream;
as it performs it’s tricks to me in quality supreme.
My life is unpredictable, I can’t know or expect
to see the perfect way at times, I can’t always direct.
So as I sit in solitude, the stream stays on its course.
I watch, amazed, and won’t intrude, or worry of it’s source.
And while I’m resting, my resolve allows me to recall,
that life for me has had its pains, but I have loved it all.
