In the quiet woods where shadows fall, A woodpecker's tale begins to call, To the task at hand with patient care, Finding a tree that stands tall and fair.
The deadwood trunk, a hollowed prize, Beneath the gaze of autumn skies, Becomes the canvas, rough and true, For a winter's feast in every hue.
With careful beak and measured pace, The woodpecker starts to carve its place, Each hole a cradle, snug and tight, Neither too large nor small in height.
Too wide, the thieves would have their way, Too small, the bounty would decay, So, in between, with master’s hand, The woodpecker crafts a storage grand.
Summer's end, the work complete, The ripened acorns, smooth and sweet, Are tucked within the wooden walls, In secret chambers, nature’s halls.
Fifty thousand, a mighty store, The woodpecker's winter—famine no more. And as the cold winds start to sing, The bird will rest, content with spring.
A testament to patience, skill, And nature’s will in seasons still, The woodpecker's legacy, so fine, Is etched in bark, a steadfast sign.
In shadows deep, where wild winds sigh, A pack emerges, howls to the sky. We are the guardians, hearts unchained, To save the wolves, our spirits trained.
In forests dense and mountains high, We hear their calls, their mournful cry. With strength and grace, they roam the night, A symbol of nature’s ancient might.
Our small band, with hearts so bold, A tale of love and care unfolds. To repopulate, to save, to mend, These noble creatures, our dearest friends.
We bring them food, we bring them cheer, To keep them safe, to keep them near. No hunter’s snare, no poacher’s game, Shall dim their light, or taint their name.
For in their eyes, a world we see, Of wild and free, of destiny. With every step, with every breath, We stand against their threatened death.
Together strong, we forge our way, To brighter nights and safer days. A promise made, a vow to keep, To guard the wolves, awake, asleep.
So let the world hear our refrain, A song of hope, amidst the rain. For we, the pack, shall always strive, To keep the spirit of wolves alive.
In July's embrace, the airwaves come alive, From July first to seventh, hams strive, A celebration of history and the thrill, Of the thirteen colonies' spirit and will.
From New York’s echo to Virginia’s call, Special stations rise, one for all, K2A to K2M, their voices soar, Across the ether, tales of yore.
On HF, VHF, UHF bands they play, In CW, SSB, and digital display, Operators gather, young and old, In a contest of stories retold.
Certificates await those who seek, Thirteen callsigns, unique and sleek, QSL cards, a treasure to behold, In the hands of those, brave and bold.
A bonus station here, another there, WM3PEN and GB13COL's flair, Reminders of allies and history’s friends, In this contest, where learning blends.
The 13 Colonies, a test of might, Connecting the past with signals bright, Promoting the hobby, a bond so true, Uniting operators, old and new.
So tune your radios, set your gear, For the 13 Colony Contest is here, A week of challenge, joy, and quest, In the spirit of ham radio’s best.
FRANCE – JUNE 01: World War II. Normandy landings. American reinforcements landing from barges at Utah-Beach (Manche) to deploy towards Cherbourg, June 1944. (Photo by Roger Viollet/Getty Images)
On Normandy's shores, where history was made, Brave souls in the dawn's first light arrayed. Eighty years have passed since that fateful day, Yet their courage and sacrifice never fade away.
Let us remember those who stormed the beach, Their valor and bravery beyond our reach. But also the medics and chaplains who cared, In the midst of chaos, they bravely dared.
With bandages, prayers, and comforting hands, They brought hope and healing to war-torn lands. Families of these heroes, in our hearts, you remain, Your loved ones' service was not in vain.
We ask for prayers, for strength and grace, For those who faced war's grim embrace. May their legacy of kindness and love, Shine down on us from the heavens above.
On this 80th year, we honor and pray, For the medics and chaplains of that historic day. Their selfless acts in the darkest of times, Echo through the ages, in our hearts, they chime.
Good morning, echoes through the dawn's first light, A tale of valor, sorrow, and might. In nineteen-oh-seven, a boy was born, To a widow whose heart was torn.
His father, taken by a brother’s hand, Left a young widow in a desolate land. He grew up fast, a child no more, Dropped out in fifth grade to work, to toil, and bore.
Four brothers looked up to his guiding hand, In the logging woods, he made his stand. Married young, and children came, Seven in total, three angels to name.
In forty-four, when the world was ablaze, A month-old baby, he’d have to leave in a haze. From Harlan County to Normandy’s shore, This Kentucky boy faced the horrors of war.
Men fell like rain on that blood-soaked beach, One young soldier’s sanity just out of reach. “No need for a gun,” he cried out loud, As chaos raged and death's shadow shrouded.
Liberation brought tears to his weary eyes, Death camps unveiled humanity’s demise. In a foxhole, with a testament lost, He crawled through the night, in the cold and frost.
Hands bleeding, searching for hope, Found a Bible, bloodied, a way to cope. Twice wounded, he persevered, Shook Patton’s hand, a memory revered.
Post-war missions with Lt. Schaefer’s call, Hunting war criminals, he gave his all. Came home broken, inside and out, Shell shock, treatments, a mind full of doubt.
Twenty-five years, he battled unseen foes, A hero in shadows, the pain only grows. No bridges or highways bear his name, But his sacrifice remains, forever aflame.
A military family, devoted and true, To God and country, their hearts they imbue. When flags are trampled, in anger and pain, Remembering the fallen, tears fall like rain.
As taps play softly, a tribute to the brave, For your dad, your husband, the memories you save. In their honor, with pride, you stand tall, Heroes remembered, one and all.
Created by MarkWaldrop
Taken from a story on Facebook “Journey of a Mountain Woman”
Invisible threads traverse the sky, Radio waves that whisper, shout, and sigh, From earthbound stations, voices rise, Reaching far beyond our eyes.
Through the ether, swift they soar, Bouncing off the ionosphere, exploring more, No barrier holds their eager quest, In endless space, they find their rest.
Just like our prayers, both loud and meek, In moments of despair or peace we seek, They travel realms unseen, unheard, To touch the heart with every word.
In silence or in fervent plea, Our voices find divinity, Beyond the clouds, beyond the stars, In faith, they break through cosmic bars.
Both wave and prayer, unseen yet strong, In their journey, they belong, A bridge between the here and there, Connecting hearts through space and prayer.
So when you send your message high, In radio waves or prayerful sigh, Know that both are heard, embraced, In realms beyond our earthly pace.
Created by MarkWaldrop KE4WA Bible Fellowship Net bfn2.com
At five thousand five, where skies entwine, We gaze upon the quilt of earth unrolled— A tapestry of farmlands, woods in line, And small towns, stories yet untold.
Lake Greenwood, vast in splendor, lies A puddle 'neath our soaring flight, As we, in metal wings and birdlike guise, Join clouds and fowls in lofty height.
A T-6 Texan, from wars long past, Bears us through the air with propeller's song, Two and a half tons, steadfast and fast, Among the clouds where birds belong.
Yet in this expanse of open skies, Where worlds below us freely sprawl, A voice through static softly cries, Shrinking the universe to a call.
"Are you ready?" echoes, clear and bright, A challenge as we dance on high, To grasp the reins and feel the might, And learn to truly fly.
In moments vast, yet closely drawn, The world expands then tightens near, In the cockpit, where the dawn Of new horizons suddenly appear.
