What I owe you I must pay. The love that tried its young shoots Between our concrete hearts Will try again in a distant life Far from the rough clods we used to be.
Between us is a whirlwind — We have no fairies to blame. We feed our fires with our own fantasies. I have seen the lighted match in your eyes.
You have seen my hand tremble on the doorknob. We have spoken of the storm that topples empires. Nobody claims losses such as ours As we walk away from the heart of our heat.
Between us is a whirlwind — The gyres are wont to play love our graves.
Love dropped me naked in the middle of this riddle And when like a fat tick, I fell from the hound of life, My bloodless mother and soulless father Became statues in the hall of questions.
Love dropped me naked in the heat of possession And when like a ripe melon I grew a belly and rounded the cape of womanhood, My gutless husband became a mindless boil On the ass of marriage.
Love dropped me naked in a wax of indifference And when like a sculptor I shaped my opinion, Rage convinced my heart To feed upon itself in a birdless cage.
II.
Love leads my hand through pages of lore Where ageless wisdom plants seeds of knowledge. I pluck weeds of doubt by the light of Thy smile: I water tender shoots of Truth with the rain of Thy care.
Love tilts my head to look to the stars Where eternity plays its game of light and dark. I feed on echoes That remind me that I am a soul—timeless, deathless.
Love tempts my heart with the passion of passions Where blood is quickened by divine ardor. I sing only to glorify Thine image To magnify Thine image Thou hast fashioned in me.
after the gift of our friendship when I am alone to see myself for what I am, how slow was my awakening –Malcolm M. Sedam, “Poem to My Father”
So I finally came to know that failing to be grateful for the gift our fathers give us, we fail to live.
In Memoriam: Bert Richardson January 12, 1913 – August 5, 2000
Each human heart beats for love In the ever-new-time-place of Now— My father gave his heart’s love And I began to search God’s gifts For I was slow to awaken to giving.
Passing this world off to offspring Takes a fearless, mature being. Pain endures in sorrow’s valley Where age eludes wisdom Where each brush with pride
Engraves a puffed up chest. Waiting to hear the footsteps He followed to the river of doubt To the sea that forced its silence On the day that bore me,
I had only tears to purify my past— God bestows the gift on beings Who erect monuments to love’s legacy To keep the child’s growth fixed For eternity and focused on nobility.
Image: The Old Homestead by Ron W. G. The image is a painting by my sweet husband, Ron, who relied on a photo taken by my sister, Carlene Craig, who still lives there. The old homestead is the place where I grew up—a place of beauty that holds many memories of a young girl growing up in the turbulent times of the 50s and 60s.
Welcome to My Original Poems
My literary focus remains primarily on poetry and songwriting, but as a life-long creative writer, I have also dabbled in many other forms: short stories, flash fiction, memoir.
I also compose literary and expository essays, focusing on a variety of topics including history and politics—even some science/medical issues, especially those that remain controversial.
This room in my literary home provides links to my original poems.
Literary art—somewhat like science—is never truly settled or complete; thus I will be continuing to add—and even to revise— material from time to time.
As a poet, I take the art of poetry very seriously and thus I swear to the following oath:
As I, Linda Sue Grimes, engage in my career as a poet, I solemnly swear to remain faithful to the tenets of the following covenant to the best of my ability:
I will respect and study the significant artistic achievements of those poets who precede me, and I will humbly share my knowledge with those who seek my advice. I will dedicate myself to my craft using all my talent while avoiding those two evils of (1) effusiveness of self-indulgence and (2) pontification on degradation and nihilism.
I will remember that there is a science to poetry as well as an art, and that spirituality, peace, and love always eclipse metaphors and similes. I will not bring shame to my art by pretending to knowledge I do not have, and I will not cut off the legs of colleagues that I may appear taller.
I will respect readers and ever be aware that not all readers are as well-versed in literary matters as I am. I will not take advantage of their ignorance by writing nonsense and then pretending it is the reader’s fault for not understanding my disingenuity. Regardless of the level of fame and fortune I reach, I will remain humble and grateful, not arrogant nor condescending.
I will remember that poetry requires revision and close attention; it does not just pour out of me onto the page, as if opening a vein and letting it drip. Writing poetry requires thinking as well as feeling.
I will continue to educate myself in areas other than poetry so that I may know a fair amount about history, geography, science, math, philosophy, foreign language, religion, economics, sociology, politics, and other fields of endeavor that result in bodies of knowledge.
I will remember that I am no better than prose writers, songwriters, musicians, or politicians; all human beings deserve respect as well as scrutiny as they perform their unique duties, whether artist or artisan.
I will not rewrite English translations of those who have already successfully translated and pretend that I too am a translator. I will not translate any poem that I cannot read and comprehend in the original.
Image: Robert Frost in 1943. (Eric Schaal/The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty Images)
Robert Frost’s “Departmental”
The speaker of Frost’s oft-anthologized “Departmental” observes an ant on his picnic table and imagines a dramatic, little scenario of an ant funeral. The use of personification and the pathetic fallacy mixes a colorful drama suffused with human arrogance.
Introduction with Text of “Departmental”
In Robert Frost’s “Departmental,” the speaker muses and speculates about the thoroughly compartmentalized lives of the busy ants. He then creates a fascinating little drama, featuring the machinations of ants going through a funeral process.
The speaker speculates about the thought processes of the ant world. He seems to pass judgment on the lowly little fellows by insisting that their behavior represents a thoughtless kind of rote response.
By failing to account for the influence of instinct on species below the evolutionary level of homo sapiens, the speaker reveals a supercilious attitude that injects a kind of bitterness into the narrative.
While the speaker engages heavily in the pathetic fallacy, he does so with such aplomb that readers may come away from the piece without even noticing the sleight-of-hand that has been dealt them.
The interweaving of personification, comedy, and human arrogance give the piece a dramatic flare that entertains while at the same time gives a glimpse of ant behavior that would be so easily overlooked, if not looked at by one who has special powers of observation—as most poets do possess.
Departmental
An ant on the tablecloth Ran into a dormant moth Of many times his size. He showed not the least surprise. His business wasn’t with such. He gave it scarcely a touch, And was off on his duty run. Yet if he encountered one Of the hive’s enquiry squad Whose work is to find out God And the nature of time and space, He would put him onto the case. Ants are a curious race; One crossing with hurried tread The body of one of their dead Isn’t given a moment’s arrest- Seems not even impressed. But he no doubt reports to any With whom he crosses antennae, And they no doubt report To the higher-up at court. Then word goes forth in Formic: ‘Death’s come to Jerry McCormic, Our selfless forager Jerry. Will the special Janizary Whose office it is to bury The dead of the commissary Go bring him home to his people. Lay him in state on a sepal. Wrap him for shroud in a petal. Embalm him with ichor of nettle. This is the word of your Queen.’ And presently on the scene Appears a solemn mortician; And taking formal position, With feelers calmly atwiddle, Seizes the dead by the middle, And heaving him high in air, Carries him out of there. No one stands round to stare. It is nobody else’s affair It couldn’t be called ungentle But how thoroughly departmental.
Robert Frost reads “Departmental”
Commentary on “Departmental”
In this widely anthologized Frost poem the speaker observes an ant on his picnic table and concocts a dramatic, little scenario of an ant funeral. He seems to amuse himself with the rigidity of his own ideas about the functioning of nature.
The literary device known as personification is employed by subtle means in this piece. Human judgmental factors also enter into mix, making the poem a complex of entertainment along with a smattering of attention to scientific detail.
First Movement: An Ant’s Duty
An ant on the tablecloth Ran into a dormant moth Of many times his size. He showed not the least surprise. His business wasn’t with such.
The speaker observes an ant walking across a tablecloth; as he ambles forth, the ant happens upon a dead moth that is much larger than the ant. The ant is unperturbed by the dead moth, hardly even takes notice of it.
The speaker speculates that the ant was not surprised seeing the large moth and because the ant had business elsewhere, he hardly gave the creature a second thought. The ant, according the speaker’s musings, “was off on his duty run.”
Second Movement: Imagination Engaged
Yet if he encountered one Of the hive’s enquiry squad Whose work is to find out God And the nature of time and space, He would put him onto the case. Ants are a curious race; One crossing with hurried tread The body of one of their dead Isn’t given a moment’s arrest- Seems not even impressed.
The speaker now thoroughly engages his imagination and concocts a whole scenario in which the ant happens upon a fellow ant lying dead. Again, as with the dead moth, the ant would not be perturbed; he would “seem[ ] not even impressed.”
The speaker again seems to desire to find some human element in ants, and that notion causes him to look down his nose at the little creatures. He makes certain assertions based solely on the fact that he is an evolved homo sapiens, many levels above the little guys he is observing.
Third Movement: His Own Kind
But he no doubt reports to any With whom he crosses antennae, And they no doubt report To the higher-up at court.
However, with those of his own kind, a series of events will take place and without any doubt there will be a traditional set of events that must occur. The speaker is heavily invested at this point into anthropomorphizing these tiny bugs.
The speaker continues speculate about things he could not possibly know. But readers also must keep in mind that the little drama is entertainment not enlightenment. While the speaker may be revealing facts of details, he cannot be revealing any important truths about nature or nature’s Creator.
Fourth Movement: Ant Language
Then word goes forth in Formic: ‘Death’s come to Jerry McCormic, Our selfless forager Jerry. Will the special Janizary Whose office it is to bury The dead of the commissary Go bring him home to his people. Lay him in state on a sepal. Wrap him for shroud in a petal. Embalm him with ichor of nettle. This is the word of your Queen.’
The Latin word for ant is “formica”; thus the speaker cleverly claims that in the ant language of “Formic,” the death announcement is heralded: Jerry McCormic has died, he was a “selfless forager.”
Then orders are sent to the “special Janizary” to come retrieve the body, prepare it, “lay him in state on a sepal,” and bury it properly, according to ant procedure. This must be done because these orders come from “your Queen.” The colorful drama allows the speaker assume communications that are obviously relayed simply through instinct baked into formica behavior.
Fifth Movement: The Ant Drama Plays On
And presently on the scene Appears a solemn mortician; And taking formal position, With feelers calmly atwiddle, Seizes the dead by the middle, And heaving him high in air, Carries him out of there. No one stands round to stare. It is nobody else’s affair
The speaker’s imagination continues to develop the little ant drama. A “solemn mortician” appears and with a comic gesture takes up the body, lifts it high, and calmly bears it away from the scene.
The speaker reports that no one comes to mourn the victim or even show some curiosity, even though the speaker had earlier reports that “ants are a curious race.” The curiosity seems to be the lack of curiosity in certain affairs. Of course, no other ants come to gawk, because they all have their own duties to perform, and this burial “is nobody else’s affair.”
The nature of personification allows the creator of such narratives to engage any type of speculation that seems possible at the time. The process of “willing suspension of disbelief” remains a vital part of experiencing this kind of narrative, especially if any enjoyment is to be gleaned from it.
Sixth Movement: Labels That Fit
It couldn’t be called ungentle But how thoroughly departmental.
The speaker sums up his little speculative drama by asserting that the whole affair could not be considered “ungentle,” even though it might be labeled completely “departmental.”
The speaker appears to be captivated by the whole scene that he himself has concocted for the sake of his own dramatic entertainment. He must wonder in amazement at his commingling art and science in such a leisurely way.
The speaker’s attention to detail and facility with imagery have helped him concoct a fascinating bit of speculation, but his condescending air reflects a supercilious attitude that sours the ultimate effect of the piece.
Frostian Elitism
It would seem that a certain amount of sympathy and compassion for such lowly creatures would have seeped into the narrative of “Departmental”; instead, the speaker just runs with his holier-than-thou position.
The poet Robert Frost admitted to writing a “very tricky poem” with his “The Road Not Taken.” Not only did he write other tricky poems, but he also put on airs at time that belied his reputation as a humble, nature poet with a grandfatherly demeanor; he could also take the stance of an elite looking down his nose at his inferiors.
April 10, 2026: Our Nation and our States have planted themselves squarely and securely on the theory that all the powers of government emanate from the people. They stand as our sovereign. They are our national monarch. —Calvin Coolidge addressing dedication of Bok Tower Gardens, February 1, 1929
Rooms in Linda’s Literary Home
The rooms within my literary home include my library/music room where I compose and maintain my original writings in poetry, songs, literary fiction, expository essays, and poem commentaries.
My literary home also includes rooms of tribute and memorials to beautiful souls who have graced my life and influenced my penchant for literary studies.
In addition to literary works, I dabble in vegan/vegetarian cooking, so I dedicate my kitchen to holding and presenting the recipes that result from my adventures in the culinary arts.
Because I remain spiritual-minded, I dedicate a temple/sanctuary to that spiritual inclination. ~Maya Shedd’s Temple~ holds personal musings about subjects that influence my life, especially my spiritual journey.
Original Writings
The following rooms will remain works in progress, as I continue to add to them from time to time.
Image: The Whitewater River – Brookville, Indiana – Photo by Linda Sue Grimes
A Special Soul
One such room is an art gallery, featuring the paintings, as well as the prose renderings of the beautiful soul, Ron Grimes (Ron W. G., as he signs his paintings): Paintings and Prose. My sweet Ron has continued to bring out the poetry in my life for over half a century; our married life together began on March 10, 1973.
Also in my literary home, I dedicate another room—my kitchen—to the recipes that result from adventures in the experimental culinary arts.
I have been a vegetarian/vegan for most of my life, and thus I have found it necessary to revise or tweak most traditional recipes to accommodate my vegetarianism. So I am offering the results of that life journey.
My Temple Sanctuary
Finally, I have dedicated a sanctuary for meditation, prayer, and worship, “Maya Shedd’s Temple.” Before I rebuilt this lit site as Linda’s Literary Home, I maintained much of the construction here under the title “Maya Shedd’s Temple: Literary Home of Linda Sue Grimes.”
In the temple, I place all things spiritual. I begin with a brief memoir explaining by reasons for following my spiritual path.
The temple includes information aboutParamahansa Yogananda and commentaries on his poetic works, beginning with Songs of the Soul.
Guruji has explained that fallen humankind is under the spell of Maya or cosmic delusion. My goal is to lift that spell, thus “shed” the delusive veil of Maya: Maya Shedd.
Image: In my summer mode – Swami Park, Encinitas, CA – August 2019 – Photo by Ron W. G.Image: In my winter mode – My library – November 1, 2025 – Photo by Ron W. G.
Linda's Literary Home 