Poetry by Terry

All creative work on
this page
and
on this web site

is copyrighted by
the
Author,
T. W. "Terry"

Proctor, J.D.
and all rights
are reserved
CHRISTMAS IN
THE WOOD-1999

Pen & Ink drawing to go with
Poem by the same name
HOME PAGE
MASTER INDEX
PHILOSOPHY PAGE
GIFT SHOP
Self-portrait
using eART SCANNING
March 25, 2000



Terry wrote his first poem, which he recalls, in 1940, as a first grader at
Ridgetop Elementary School in Austin, Texas, where he was born.

It went like this:

"I asked my mother for a dime, to buy a glass of lime.
But instead I bought a stamp, to help a Soldier in a camp".


NOTE: In World War II, Savings Stamps cost 10¢ and you pasted them in a book until you had it full for a bond. Bonds costs $18.75 and matured in about 8 years for $25.00 maturity value. They were often given by loving grandparents to their grandchildren and as other gifts, to help the war effort.



On this page are a few of Terry's 50 or so poems, written over a period of over 50+ years.

If you wish to purchase Terry's book of Poetry, Philosophy, Pen & Ink Drawings
and eART SCANS, called "Messages of the Mind" you may do so
by clicking here to go to the GIFT SHOP page. (NOTE: Now out of print, to be reprinted in the future)

Here are ten of Terry's over 65 poems.
[in 2010 one poem won First Place in national competition in Adult Advanced Poems
before the American Federation of Mineralogical Societies--not posted here however]

ENJOY!!!






To my Friends in acting

To my fellow Artists and other lovers of Art



THE ACTOR AND
THE ACTRESS



He bounds upstage left,
With a smile on his face;
His cue was clearly heard,
So he takes his place.

The audience will never know,
That his heart just broke;
That he wears his smile,
With his heart in his throat.

She drifts up center,
With a tear in her eye;
Filled with such grief,
That there's not an eye that's dry.

You would never guess,
That her heart is all afloat;
She was just engaged,
And won---a new swank coat.

When the script says 'smile'--
The real hurt, cannot show;
And you must hide your real joy!
When it calls for tragedy, you know.

The show must go on, of course,
But even more than this!
The crowd must love you, when they're to love you,
And if they're to hate you, they must hiss!!!

The character you are to portray,
Must be more than just a part;
You must step into that person,
And give the audience your heart!!!

You must know I love the theatre,
And playing a part to please you;
So come and see our play,
Opps! gotta run, that's my cue!!!


2000 TERRELL WILLIAM PROCTOR, J.D.
15 December 1978 7:00 P.M.
Houston, Texas (revised 9 March 1998)


THE ARTIST


What is an Artist? and Art?
Someone who slings paint?
Perhaps. But that's only part.
An Artist may appear quaint.
A soul who marches to another tune!
Passing up a show, for a sand dune.

As you drive along a route,
only trees, may appear in view.
But, to the Artist, a flora tribute!
Branches and leaves, all askew.
A wide spectrum of color green,
from aquamarine to olivine.

In a sunset you may note,
an impressive display of light.
To the Artist, day's creative endnote,
and a prelude to moonlight.
A grand palette of many a hue,
From champagne to Prussian Blue.

You may see a portrait person,
With warts, wrinkles and smile.
An Artist sees tones, shades and dimension,
The embodiment of a lifestyle.
The human body may charm or disturb,
To the Artist, it's a creation, superb!

I had but a limited vision,
lacking faith in self to draw.
I feared from others, derision,
never expecting my work would awe.
You cannot know the pleasure of Art,
Until you let beauty, come into your heart.


2000 TERRELL WILLIAM PROCTOR, J.D.
15 May 1991 5:38 A.M.
Houston, Texas


For the Lonely A Christmas poem for outdoor people


THE LONELY WRITER


At dusk, the sounds of the city quiet,
From the throbbing clamor of the day;
From the radio shouting---Buy it! Buy it!
Power mowers noisily turning grass into hay.
Children happily chattering at each other,
The neighbor's new puppy yipping for its mother.

Telephones which have been busily ringing,
Now sit idle and take a night's rest;
Employees, who had gone about their work singing,
Have now headed home to their nest.
The birds in the trees, rustle and call, n'
A cicada gives a last blast, from an oak gall.

Automobile traffic thins many fold,
And the noises of industry grow still;
Now the night truckers take the road,
Dusk turns to dark, giving the air a chill.
A lone auto travels the broad street,
As a late worker is heading home.....beat!

In stillness of night, I sit all alone,
My fingers race over typewriter keys;
I glance at the clock---it's too late to phone,
Thinking to myself, how the busy day flees.
But now alone, the hours have s l o w e d,
And memories through my mind have flowed.

I'm lonely now, just myself and the clock,
And long for someone to care for me;
Someone close......besides old 'tick 'tock,
Someone to hold, seated on my knee;
Happiness once, with family I knew,
A joy known today, by only a few.

How many others, I wonder tonight,
Know the fullness of life, as I have known?
Having seen their hopes and dreams take flight,
Now sitting in dark stillness, thinking alone!
I ponder...if life, might again be made real,
Or if I'm destined forever, only to write what I feel.


2000 TERRELL WILLIAM PROCTOR, J.D.
8 November 1976 4:30 A.M.
Houston, Texas


CHRISTMAS IN THE WOOD


There's gay and gaudy celebration
in the streets of the town;
with parties and inebriation
tuxedos and fancy gown.

There's carolers walking the street
cheering up each friend;
with songs for each they meet,
melodically, their voices blend.

There's Christmas at the church,
quietly, reverently, in prayer;
A parishioner there in search,
of ancient truths with such care.

John the Baptist, went to the wood
to think in his coat of hair;
Christ, too, went to the wood,
so He could meditate there.

If in a forest, you've never stood,
listening to nature's sound;
Then go you out, to a wood,
until yourself, you've found.

The mysteries of creation await,
while you breathe in that air;
You and nature, seem to mate,
to God, your soul you bare.

Its Christmas time once more.
Not just a party season.
For the Christ child we adore.
Yes, Christ's birth is the reason.

At Christmas, where will I be?
I'll celebrate as I should,
A most peaceful place to be,
I'll spend Christmas in the Wood.


1999 TERRELL WILLIAM PROCTOR, J.D.
6 December 1999
Houston, Texas


For Honorable Judges everywhere For the comfort of the survivors
of one who lived right


THE JUDGE AND
THE LONELY BENCH



To the lonely bench, the Judge ascends,
As the bailiff calls, 'All Rise' ;
A human conflict, on the docket pends,
"Court is in session", the bailiff cries.

Everyone is seated as the courtroom grows silent,
From the bench, his Honor looks at the crowd;
Some appear peaceful, while others look violent,
But no disrespect to the Court is allowed.

What is a Judge, that we must stand in awe?
Whom lawyers say, "May it please the Court";
Why have we a Judge, to decide the law?
Then abide by his ruling, in Probate or Tort?

Because now duelling and combat are gone,
And witches need not burn at the stake;
With a Judge and Jury, we have a new dawn,
Now only the guilty have reason to quake.

In our democratic society, the Judge stands,
Between civilization and anarchy;
Equal justice rules us, not roving bands,
Here we're governed by law, not monarchy.

The Judge must keep a sacred trust,
Always putting the law above self;
Humbly dedicated to do what is just,
Regardless of passion or wealth.

We must show our respect for a Judge,
But the robe, not the person, is the reason;
Decisions of Court, are without grudge,
In America, JUSTICE is always in season.


2000 TERRELL WILLIAM PROCTOR, J.D.
12 November 1976 11:45 P.M.
Houston, Texas (Written while serving as Municipal Judge of Jacinto City, Texas)


THE VICTORY IN DEATH



Death is not a disaster,
Death is a victory!!!
The grave is not the master,
The passing is not a tragedy.



The spirit is free at last,
Free from its tired old form;
Free from the sacrifices, past,
Calling Christians above the norm.



Christ died, so when death comes,
No tear should be shed.
The soul arises, to the roll of drums,
And glows a halo 'round the head.



Rejoice we now, together,
As the earthly form is shed;
Our friend's soul has arisen,
Just as our Savior said.



2000 TERRELL WILLIAM PROCTOR, J.D.
14 May 1976 2:00 A.M.
Houston, Texas


For Rockhounds Everywhere A philosophy of Life


THE ROCKHOUND


The day is dark and wet and cold,
A high level of ozone and mold;
It's a great day to stay at home,
This is no time to get out and roam;
It's a time to write or paint or read,
Getting cold and wet, I don't need.

But at home, I cannot stay,
Our Club's Field Trip is TODAY!!!
Boots go on, hat on my head,
Hammer in hand, get out the lead;
First a drive, then a walk,
Find the place--from the talk.

Looking for a fossil, mineral or gem,
In a cave or a mountain rim;
Luck and skill, go hand in hand,
On private or government land;
Tension builds, how will I fare?
Only Leverite, or something rare.

Its important that I know,
Rules of collecting, as I go;
Ask permission, before I pick,
Anything up, or break a stick;
I must protect our Club's good name,
Future Rockhounds don't need my shame.

No matter what, the conditions are,
or whether the location, is near or far;
When our Club has a Field Trip planned,
other things from my mind are banned;
Its time for stress to unravel,
Come on Rockhounds---Let's travel!!!


2000 TERRELL WILLIAM PROCTOR, J.D.
27 July 2000 1:30 P.M.
Houston, Texas Allenpark Inn--@ SBOT CLE Seminar


WORK


"Wear out my boy,
Don't rust out", he said.
"Work will be joy,
Get that, through your head.
A man ne'er amounts, to a hill-a-beans,
Til' he learns to like work, I means."


"Oh the Lord give ya muscle,
And bones and blood,
Ta git out and hustle,
Til' a man, ya stood.
Workin' an' sweatin', 'neath the hot sun,
Ya don't mind it, when ya make it fun."


"Work each day,
Like it's your last.
Forget the pay,
Don't make it your mast.
Set your goals, and set 'em high;
Then keep the fire burnin', don't let it die."


"When death at last comes,
An' brings ya, your rest;
And your work is done,
An' ya did your best;
Then folks 'll say--'thar warn't no doubt---
He didn't rust away, -- he jus' wore out.' "


2000 TERRELL WILLIAM PROCTOR, J.D.
24 June 1957
Tulsa, Oklahoma


In looking for a Perfect Wife To my fellow Human Beings


THE PERFECT GIRL

If I were to begin, a search today,
For the PERFECT GIRL for me;
Many a virtue, I'd best weigh,
--to unlock joy, requires a key!

I'd want a girl, with a mind of her own,
but not too hard to tame;
A voice like fur, on the phone,
and never look cheap, like a dame.

A girl who'd cook, and sew a lot,
watch our money like a hawk;
Oh so sensuous, that she'd make me hot!
and out in public, the guys'd gawk!!!

Soft and tender, --that's her all right.
sensitive also to my goals;
And, when necessary, she'd be full of might,
and tell others, I top the polls.

A wise voice, that others seek out,
and a conciliator, in every way;
Unkind words, wouldn't make her pout,
She'd always be happy every day.

My dreams would be, also hers,
Beside me, she'd always stand;
She'd never ask for jewelry and furs,
But just to hold my hand, in her hand.

She'd be a perfect mother to our kids,
And a respected civic leader;
So popular, she'd be up for bids,
But choose me, cause I need 'er.

At night, she'd snuggle up so near,
and purr against me like a kitten;
She'd love me forever and a year,
Just the greatest love story written.

As I search, with this in mind,
A big question, I now see!!!
While on HER virtues, I've been blind,
Why in the World, would she want ME?????


2000 TERRELL WILLIAM PROCTOR, J.D.
18 October 1981 3:06 A. M.
Houston, Texas


HUMANS--STEWARDS
OF THE PLANET
EARTH



Humans are not alone,
as creatures on this Earth.
From us, God will not condone,
destruction of His Planet's worth.
His spirit, within us, he placed,
all nature, by us, to be embraced.

Stewards we were meant to be,
trustees of this beautiful Globe.
Stewards of His creative glory,
to study, learn and probe.
This Orb, given us, majestically,
we're charged to protect, faithfully.

Our Earthly home is so replete,
with creatures large and small.
Humans must learn not to deplete,
things which jump, fly and crawl.
Everything living is connected,
Harm one, and others are affected.

If we poison the air we breathe,
and pollute our Planet's streams.
To our descendants we bequeath,
the end of the Earth, it seems.
As stewards of this Sphere,
God's creation, we must revere.

We have a divine calling,
to keep our Earth healthy.
To work with those who are stalling,
wasting Earth's riches, to be wealthy.
We can no longer allow spoilation,
of God's magnificent creation.


2000 TERRELL WILLIAM PROCTOR, J.D.
26 November 1993 4:30 A.M.
Houston, Texas