Another Cuppa - New Poems

My eleventh book of original poetry just written has gone to press and it available from Amazon.  The introduction was written by our pastor and friend John MacArthur.  and the volume contains the Christmas poem "Roi's Tale" which is the traditional story from the shepherd's perspective, and also "Happy In America", "Winter Coming On", "Spinario" and "The View" , so it will make a nice Christmas gift.  I hope you will enjoy this latest effort and comment on it so others my hear of it.

Mount Pleasant Community Church, Oregon

The Mount Pleasant Community Church

If you are looking for a traditional Christian American "early church" experience, and you are in the Salem, Oregon area, look no further than the Mount Pleasant Community Church. Sound biblical preaching from Pastor Richard Neely is proclaimed at a simple rustic pulpit in the most charming little church. Founded in 1854 the pews hold just forty worshipers, and the aisle has the original bare wooden floor with a runner woven from soldiers uniforms. Standing the test of time it is the oldest building of its kind and was the subject of an article by in the Statesman's Journal.
Sunday service at 10.00 a.m.
Call (503) 859-4457

Where it is!

Listen for a moment to the congregation singing the old Scottish hymn "Abide With Me"

Pastor Richard Neely

Pulling Together - A rowing tale

Pulling Together On The River - Neil McLeod

I used to row at Guy's Hospital in the early 70's, and the premature demise of a colleague and fellow member of the Beverly Hills Academy of Dentistry, who rowed for Cornell, caused me to reflect on his exemplary life and what it takes to be a good oarsman.


Pulling Together
for Eric Loberg

Guy's Hospital Rowing Club

There’s flashing of oars in the water 
When the sunlight shines back off each blade, 
And the image below is reflected
As a perfect picture is made.

Watchers on shore at the bank-side
Repine and in their hearts say,
In a lost misty-eyed contemplation,
“Oh, I’ll be an oarsman one day!”

We are all going down to the boathouse,
We cannot be turning up late
Together we’ll reach in and toss the shell
We don’t want to make others wait.

We’ll walk the shell down to the dockside,
Step to and lower it with care
Gently down into the water,
For that we need every one there.

Commitment is needed to be in a crew,
To bend your back to the oar,
To lean in time and draw it through
When the coxswain’s demanding more. 

Control is essential to follow the stroke,
To feather your blade on return,
Then do it again and again and again,
When a smile is all you will earn.

It takes grit to turn up at the dockside
On a day when you’re facing a race,
Giving your all when the flag goes down
Responding, (if beaten), with grace.

But the art is to love being part of a team,
Pulling together in time,
When muscles and sinews comply with your will
In tune with the rhythm and rhyme.

There’s flashing of oars in the water 
When the sunlight shines back off each blade, 
So rejoice in the feat of a race well run
And the perfect picture it made. 

As the blades feather out at the surface
The water just closes again,
Like the life of a loved one vanished away
Only ripples and memories remain.

Eric Loberg

Dr. Eric Lewis Loberg, 69, passed away March 15, 2016, at UCLA Medical Center following complications from lymphoma. He was a longtime resident of Westwood, and an avid Bruin fan. A past president of Westwood Village Rotary Club, Dr. Loberg was also an eight-time US National Rowing Champion and seven-time Canadian National Rowing Champion. As he used to say, "I'm just a simple country boy from upstate New York trying to make it here in Tinseltown."

Ashes To Ashes - loosing a child

Our friends the Ramseyers lost their son A.J. two weeks ago. Knowing the reason for this loss is not as important as understanding the immense loss.  I was asked to contribute a poem to be included in the celebration of his life which was held on Saturday 2nd. April at the Lutheran Church on Colorado in Glendale.  I have included it below. A J was my son Oliver's age. One can only imagine the depth of their sorrow:

AJ Ramseyer and Oliver Murdoch McLeod

 It Takes A Lot Of Time

For Al and Francyne Ramseyer

It takes a lot of time until a broken heart’s restored,
A lot of love and patience ’till the pieces are secured,
And even when you think you’ve left the aching far behind
A sight, or sound or smell will bring it welling in your mind.

There are an awful lot of things that cause a heart to ache,
Dashed hopes, lost love, and then of course, words you can’t retake,
But as you view the range of sorrows that can not be undone,
There’s nothing quite so sad as losing your own daughter or son.

You’ve spent time with your children, you’ve nurtured them for years,
You hugged them tight’ when they were hurt, and kissed away their tears;
Watched them grow and come of age, pursue a worthy goal
Though one thing never on the list was giving up their soul.

Around the house you will of course have treasures that you store
That ’mind you of the golden times when they were three or four,
Or older, yes, the paintings and the little things they made,
You keep them so the memory of sweet times never fade.

It takes a lot of time until a broken heart’s restored,
A lot of love and patience till the pieces are secured,
But gradually you’ll notice as it slowly starts to mend
That you have a host of precious memories with you ’till the end.

This poem will be published  in a new anthology which is called "Another Cuppa" and will be available with the other writings of Neil Stewart McLeod on Amazon

The Pallbearers - Burying Marje

Marjorie Neely (May 3, 1925 - February 24, 2016) was laid to rest on Thursday March 3rd. Her grandsons, Roderick McLeod, David Neely, Corin and Jason Fator, and her great grandsons Calvin Jackson and Tristen Coulter lent to the bar and bore her casket to the grave side. The small private service at the Monument Hill Memorial Park in Woodland, California, was attended by nearly fifty family members, and her legacy of caring prayer-filled love will be long remembered and sorely missed.

Following the interment a reception was hosted by Life Pointe Church in Woodland

Following Marje

If you ever received a letter or note,

Or a neat birthday card, small or large,

In a clear written script 

with love crammed in it,

I reckon you got it from Marje.

If you in the face of troubles and strife

Had a prayer warrior leading the charge

Imploring God’s Peace

for a cousin or niece,

I’m convinced that it was our Marje.

If you needed shelter and some where to stay

A shield of protection, a targe,

There’re many can tell

who know it well

They found that refuge with Marje.

The example’s been given and we in our turn

Should add the task to our charge,

To care for each other  

Each sister and brother

Each father and mother, like Marje

But now it is done, the race has been run

Her faithfulness gives us our cue,

To remember and pray 

For each other each day

Being mindful as Marje used to do. 

The Boy With The Thorn - a Bronze

At the Getty Museum there was an excellent exhibition of ancient bronzes, all stunning. Amongst the athletes and the gods there was this exquisite piece. It ached for a poem.

Spinario

The Boy With A Thorn

There are not many of them now,

Though vacant plinths abound,

Amongst the great antiquities

Where often they were found,

Depicting famous athletes

Who earned laurels at the games,

Or gods and heros, caesars, kings

With long impressive names.

The artisans who made them

Of copper mixed with tin,

Could flow the molten alloy round

So it was light and thin,

Yet strong enough to bear the weight

Of arms and legs in stride,

And at their best they long remain

The Greco-Roman pride.

Each one a distillation

Of God’s gifts manifest,

Capturing that inspiration-

Firing them to do their best,

Preserving for these ages long,

Should plunderers have missed their mark,

A glimpse of era’s far advance

That would but otherwise be dark.

There he sits, a boy absorbed,

Intent to find the sole-lodged thorn,

Cast in bronze he heeds us not

’Till from his foot the barb is drawn.

Head downward cast his gaze is firm,

Fingers set to pry the spine,

His youthfulness forever caught,

Never dulled with passing time.

Thin their ranks of beauty cast

Despoiled by barbarous lowly eye,

How could they dash and splinter thus 

The richest proof of days gone by.

How could the call of cannon or gate

Result in smelting of these forms

Yet this remaining tells so much

And history’s pages thus adorns

What A Haggis

Celebrating Robert Burns’ Birthday

For the fifth year Nancy I were invited to attend the Cal Tech Athenaeum Club to participate in their Burns Night. Truly it is a premier event in the best traditions, piper, haggis, poetry and song with a fervent audience in a venue of unsurpassed beauty. Chef Kevin Isacsson simply continues to out do himself in his attention to detail.




This year our piper was one of John McLean Allan’s pupils, Megan Kenney. Suffice it to say, she dismissed her duties in fine style.


The stately nature of the venue was enjoyed by us both. We were able to sit ensconced by the Scottish Fiddlers as the guests arrived.