Floyd A. Balman

Farmington Hills, Michigan

My grandfather, a young British emigrant, brought the Balman name to America in 1871. Homestead lands were available in Midwestern states ultimately leading him to Kansas. His pioneering spirit and gift of written works has influenced my life. My writing has covered several years and appeared in newspapers and The National Library of Poetry. I've never written to gain fame or fortune -- the objective has been to write something that has a chance to live longer than I do. The greatest satisfaction came from the poem written for the memorial service for Robert J. Regenhardt Jr., "A Vietnam Casualty". The grief stricken mother seemed emotionally lifted by the words of the poem. She made copies for every mother that she could find who had a similar loss. To me, it was remarkable that such little effort on my part could inspire so much compassion.

Sounds of Surf

A man is blest when he can see
The splendor in the restless sea --
To feel her touch and hear the tone
That speak to us when we're alone.
She tells of strength - unwavering will
Of tenderness, of power to kill
Consumes the vain, denies the bold
And keeps her story much untold,
She counts no years, reveres no name
Forever changing, yet the same
She reaches out her beckon hand
To touch the shores of every land.
In common tongue she speaks to all
Who hear the sound and heed the call
What does she say to you and me
Of life and love and destiny?
She gives to each a secret key
And no one else can hear but thee.

Regenhardt Farewell

I am not the first to die
And roads beyond bring ever
more
But I must hope that someone's
son
Will speak of war no more.
I did not choose this age to live
Or seek a soldier's martyrdom.
This lonely land I barely knew ---
So many miles from home.
In Spring of life and Spring of year
It is goodbye, my task is done.
For April shall not come for me
And I will feel no summer sun.
To live, believe and understand
Was all I sought to do.
But fate decreed it otherwise,
My cross must pass to you.
In spirit now my hand extends
To all with war distraught.
Oh grasp my hand and still the fear
That I have died for naught.

The Beginning

First we feel the sting of strife
In slapping forth the breath of life.
And so it's been a thousand years,
All enter in a stream of tears.

Yet through these tears of infant sorrow
Begins the scene of our tomorrow.
For each there is a different plan
In breadth of view and living span.

No matter how we earn our keep
Or where we lay ourselves to sleep
We share a hope to be engrossed
In those pursuits we cherish most.

For me, the friends along the way
Have kept a brightness in my day,
and I shall cherish to the end
That you're my brother and a friend.