Isabel Neidig 

Denver, Colorado, USA 

Born in Mexico, raised in Michigan, Isabel began writing poetry, songs and short stories at age 15. She is now 81, a widow with 2 sons. Andres, with whom she resides, owns and manages a radio station. David is an MD and anesthesiologist. Her 5 grandchildren are the sunshine in her life. For 25 years, Isabel taught English as a foreign language in schools in Mexico. In January, before Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower took office, Isabel sent him an acrostic, as a gift, which he graciously acknowledged. "Life is a poem. Upon inspiration, live it, polish it!"

The Wanderer

Through woods and rocks 
a sportsman walks
Seeking both pleasure and game.
The heart of a youth,
The age of a man,
Courageous, good-humoured;
Detest fame.

At day's end, the hiker strums his guitar.
Fireflies dance, toads sing of romance . . . 
The chirp of the crickets
add to the trance
Of the night life, near and far.

The moon shines bright
his path at night.
Winds gently caress his face.
On brush to sleep—
Bonfires to keep
Him warm, and serve as guards awake.

To drink from brooks and 
eat wild fruits
As did caveman ages ago.
There goes a hare; there runs a deer!
Now silence—a shot is heard!

Can't take a ride, though
tired feet fight
Till he's reached the city gate.
Just a smile on his face
And a song in his heart
All for the fun and sportmanship sake.

He treads the virgin soil
not fearing death.
Continues blithely to reach his goal.
He's traveled miles . . . his purpose:
To hike. He hasn't met a soul.

But, lo! What is that,
That brightens the path;

That which he dreads to see?
Lights in the heights . . . 
Cabins in sight!
Alas, O, joys, farewell to thee!

Yea, farewell, ye leisures
And all forest creatures
That eased his soul and body soothed,
No more to walk—
and walk and walk
He'll put away his friends—
the boots!

The Poet

The proud and ecstatic poet on lofty ground
Stands . . . enthralled by diamonds waltzing on high.
Saucy hair, bewitched by the wind . . . 
This poet vain, sings and sighs.
Beneath him, a silver thread zigzagging flows
Until engulfed in mother's fold.
His exalted spirit treasures this rhapsody.
His is the universe; his to hold.
Silhouetted against the moon appears a flaming light
In frightful wonder he gasps, "wha . . wha . . . what?"
"Be not afraid," he hears a whispered song.
"'Tis He, Who bestows to all His love!"
The poet meekly says, "Never more
Will I exult myself a lore!"
And humbly kneels upon the shore
Of Truth . . . in penitent robe,
Now a beggar, for Eternal Hope!