QUIET MOMENTS

by Tom Voiss

"Quiet Moments"

A gift that keeps giving.

 

Now on hard cover

A beautiful book of poems and short stories

INTRODUCTION

        In an age of minimalist expression squeezed meanly from constricted, Lilliputian minds, too enamored of style and cool to engage fully with reality, let alone aspire to nobility, we are so grateful to be temporarily distracted that we rarely complain about the lack of heart, or meaning that we find in a preponderance of contemporary literature. This little book, Quiet Moments, Is a potent, almost magical specific for modern malaise. Herein the message is loud and clear, and it rings equally true to the seeking adult as well to the lucky child some discriminating adult might choose to read from this selection of home truths.

        In these writings of Tom Voiss, generally dashed off in late-night or early-morning sessions, thoughts from the depths of a warm soul emerge directly, clearly, as in good country music or good cowboy poetry. Though Voiss himself is an urbane player with a hat in any number of fast track rings, jousting with the world to buy freedom and time, his prose and poetry are straight talk based on that landscape of love he holes up in with his wife, Beverly, and their animals.

        On a superficial reading some might mistake Tom's unpretentiousness for naivete' , because cynicism and confusion are so imbedded in the coin of the realm of most respectable literati that positives expressed with clarity and feeling are suspect if not summarily dismissed. A careful reading, however, yields a philosophy both profound and difficult to live with in this part of the 20th century, a philosophy that coaxes and encourages the best parts of ourselves-love, understanding, bravery, full appreciation for the gift of life, and wisdom to not only know ourselves but also to act on what we learn rather than proceed at a half-awake lockstep through that most precious element-time.

        Sometimes Voiss simply brings to us individual moments he has observed, implying that what he sees is there for everyone to see if we just look. "Have you ever sat and looked, all alone at dawn, at a hillside as it gathers light till the night is gone?" Other times, he snaps us to awareness of the value of our own moments by pointing to the pains and treasures of his own hearts-his wife's smile as she squeezes his hand, what's it like to build an enchanted ranch only to have a wildfire burn all the dreams and works away, and always, especially, the animals.

        to Voiss, every dog and cat is special, with half-bobcat Bobbi perhaps a hair more special than the others, but the author is at his best when he tries to explain horses (the Peruvian Paso, in particular) to humans. (He knows the reverse is unnecessary.) Voiss' tribute to their great foundation sire, Incognito, is among the most touching eulogies anywhere, as is the poem Pistolita.

Tom and Bev Voiss introduced my husband Michael and me to the Peruvian Paso breed five years ago. Their knowledge, love and dedication to this magnificent member of the species equus is deep, informed, moving. so is the content of his philosophy; read these works (perhaps starting with "The Library") with patience, attentiveness; the magic can suffuse your life.

THE CALIFORNIANS MAGAZINE

Jean Sherrell, Editor

 

Comments by Dr. Laura Schlessinger, National Talk Radio Psychologist and New York Times' Best Selling Author, on the book "Quiet Moments":

        I've read some of your poems. If you don't send me your book,

        I'm going to lie down on the floor and cry.

On the poem "Laura":

        I'm going to frame it and put it on my desk. I love it.

On the poem "The Ranch":

        May I put this in my annual newsletter? It's wonderful.

                                                             Dr. Laura Schlessinger, Author

                                                           New York Times' Best Seller

    It's wonderful. I'd recommend your "Quiet Moments" to anyone.

    Thank you for sharing it with me.                                                

                                                             Valerie Harper

                                                               Actress, Humanitarian

    The best writing comes from the heart and that's how Tom Voiss

    speaks to us in his wonderful collection of poetry and prose.

                                                               Leslie Gomberg, M.A.

                                                                Psychotherapist

    Here is Tom Voiss at his best - wondrous, human and

    multi-dimensional.

                                                                Joseph Sargeant

                                                               4-time Emmy Award Winning

                                                                 Director

    A touching, moving, reaffirmation. A graceful soul's journey.

                                                                 Carolyn   Nelson, Founder Free

                                                                  Arts Clinic for Abused Children

    You read these, and I guarantee it'll take the fat out of your brain.

    Who needs a fat brain?

                                                                   Jack LaLanne

The following are Poems and Short Stories taken from the book.

Please click on the title to retrieve poems and stories.

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My Child  

        The joy of being a good parent.          

The Fire Hydrant

        A comic metaphor on human values.

Christmas

        The true meaning of Christmas.

The Library

Knowing ourselves.

Just A Quarter

The value of harmonious thought.

The Carousel Horse

        At the darkest hour there is still the light.

The Package

        A humorous look at being pretty.

The Master

        Letting people be who they are and loving them for it.

The Waterfall

        A reflection on God's bounty.

Bev's Calabasita

        Love never dies.

Soldier Boy

        The futility of violence.

My Child

        On a moonlit beach in paradise we joined in ecstasy,

Under shading palms, found treasures that set us free.

        In those warm moments afterwards, wrapped in each other's arms,

Unbeknownst to either one of us, you joined us with your charms.

      

        The miracle that's you began, our genes in perfect blend,

Contributed the form you'll use until your journey's end.

        And for this trip you've chosen well, my precious gift from God,

For we'll love and guide you as best we can without the need to prod.

      

         I welcome you into your life. You're unique in every way.

and who you are and what you bring are the cards that we will play.

        It's not our chore to mold and bend but to guide and understand.

Your personal growth is your goal for this trip that you have planned.

       

        So thank you child for choosing us and giving us the chance

To help you grow along the way and watch you thus advance.

          We'll try to keep the baggage down that would slow you on your way,

And let you move with personal freedom to learn lessons day by day.

       

        Before you joined us on this path you carefully chose the set:

The time, the place, the people were all criteria met.

        So now we have the chance to grow in loving harmony;

Enjoy your trip little one, while bouncing on my knee.

 

        And as the years move through you life with your form in constant change,

Time will dictate, not our love, but our roles will rearrange.

        As I lie cuddled in your arms at the end of my brief trip,

I'll think of you with love and joy as from this world I slip.

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The Fire Hydrant

        Some say I'm short and squat and I don't really mind.

Some place their shoe on top of me for a lace they've had unwind.

        Some plop their rump to rest their feet, they've come a long, long way.

And some dogs do things that we don't talk about but it seems to make their day.

 

        I'm perceived as many different things as my day comes to a close.

You might think it makes me insecure, all these different roles.

        But far from that, I don't resent their perception of who I am,

And I don't mind to help them out if they're in some sort of jam.

 

        I must admit sometimes it's hard to keep my top on straight.

And when dogs approach me I shut my eyes and wait.

        I know there is no malice; to him it just feels good.

So I accept this small indignity in my life because I should.

 

        What happens to me on this trip doesn't make me what I am.

It's how I respond and live that shows I give a damn.

        Cause way down there deep inside I know I'm still okay.

And other folks' perceptions aren't what make my day.

 

        Whether it's a mansion or a shopping center or a tract of humble homes,

No one builds without me all squatty with my domes.

        Cause if they ever get in trouble, they know I'm always there.

A friend's a friend in good or bad, in weather foul or fair.

 

        So with that thought of comfort about my real worth.

I live my life and do my thing in harmony and mirth.

        It's no a bad existence;I know some who have lots more,

But when the ball game's over I'll be happy with my score.

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Christmas

        Christians celebrate the day that Christ was born for us;

Other folks just go along and add to all the fuss.

        The whole world it seems is captured in this joyous festive mood,

And in every town and hamlet there is laughter, gifts, and food.

 

        But most of all a mood exists that shows on every face.

It's from inside, this miracle; some would call it grace.

        Deep down inside each living soul there's a need to give,

But drapes off fear hide it well and stilt the way we live.

 

        And then along comes Christmas and this pleasant change occurs.

the chant becomes to give, to give whether hand me downs or furs.

        We rush around and do our thing, and everyone's the same.

We see ourselves reflected in this rush to play the game.

 

        It's really very simple: instead of seeing black or white,

We look beyond the color, and for once we're not uptight.

        We don't take time to criticize, no need to deal from fear.

We're all too busy giving; in fact, that's why we're here.

 

        If only we could retain this mood that makes us feel so good.

We'd have Christmas everyday on earth. That's right, you know we would.

        It's not so tough to smile and give a guy a break.

It's easy just to bend a little and not always try and take.

 

        Let's promise ourselves this year to stop and give some thought

To other people's fears and doubts and burdens that they've bought.

        Instead of looking down our nose at their problems or their shame,

Let's think, Merry Christmas everyone and show we're all the same.

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The Library

        As I move around this room I'm in and look upon the walls,

I see it's stacked with books and files recording gains and falls.

        And as I mosey through the nooks, I slowly come to learn

That it's the sum of my existence, me, at every turn.

 

        I stare up at the wall in wonder, as I look in retrospect,

At the wide divergence of my deeds and effects I did collect.

        I see why I am liked by some while other turn their backs,

And see the conflict or the pain a thoughtless deed attracts.

 

        Some rooms are dark and gloomy, they've never seen the light.

I've barred the doors and hid the key cause ignorance is my plight.

        I've bought the thoughts of other men who said to seek no more,

But through other windows open light has lit the door.

 

        So I open it just a crack and the light comes streaming in.

Then I throw the doors wide open, now the learning can begin.

        The darkness we took comfort in is now replaced by eager thought.

Now the process of enlightenment becomes our chosen lot.

 

        When I was very young, before I started locking different doors.

I looked out at all around me and bustled through my chores.

        I was told I must do this or that and fear those not in stride,

With lessons they were teaching me, so called wisdom they'd confide.

 

        Now the baggage that they heaped on me, I've learned to open up.

Some I put upon my shelves and some I've given up.

        I've learned to let the light come in and fall on any book.

I'm pleased that I can see them. A little light is all it took.

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Just A Quarter

       George Washington appears on it. That's what gives it worth.

Also, there's the fact it's from, the strongest nation here on earth.

        We toss 'em in a video game or sometimes play a song.

Or pump them in a coke machine, that's not to say you're wrong.

        But if you want to make that coin important in this plan.

You must give it some direction. Drop it in a can.

        You see, the coin's indifferent to the way it's used.

It's up to you if it has worth or if it's just abused.

        You aren't alone, the only one that has a quarter in your change.

There are millions just as fortunate. Does that seem really strange?

        These quarters clutter up your purse or weigh your pocket down.

Or they're the key to the survival , of a dying child in some town.

        You, with all that good in you, can start a simple trend.

Drop those quarters in that box, and world hunger we can end.

        It's not the millions dumped in haste, that will end this "war" we fight.

It's changing what's in the hearts of men, that will stop this human plight.

        A quarter dropped by one who cares, is a gift of love reserved for man.

Don't fight a war on hunger. Give a meal when you can.

        These acts of love will , in their time, change the way we think.

and with quarters dropped because we love, this problem we can sink.

        Because you cared, some little kid, will lift her grimy hands.

and get a bowl of rice or beans, and gulp it where she stands.

        Each one's a meal but more important, each one's a change in you.

Because we all become the who we are, by the things we think and do.

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The Carousel Horse

        It's been so long now; it's really hard to remember or maybe it's because of the way I feel or have always felt. when was I born? I could say when they carved me I guess or when they finished painting me, or when I was mounted on the carousel. But if I'm really honest about my feeling I'd have to go back even further, to when I was a part of a beautiful tree in the Black Forest. Oh so long ago. I have fond memories of my growing years. I learned to deal with the elements that are. I learned patience and I learned that you can be taken away from everything that you love and know, and be put into, oh such totally different circumstances and still live. Why even thrive. Yes, it's been a good life. I wouldn't say easy, but well on to my tale.

        I'm proud of the way I look and I must say my life before I was injured was full of compliments. Even when I was being carved, the expert woodsman remarked on my quality. "Now this is what I call a perfect piece of oak." Yes, I remember it so well. The man who carved me was quite old. His hands were rough but I didn't mind because he touched me so lovingly. He was constantly caressing me as he sought out the perfect horse that was captured inside. He worked slowly, puffing on his old pipe. Mmm, the smell was delicious. I can still smell it, even now. It kinda permeated my whole being as he carved and puffed for all those months. "Say, now that's a pretty one, Joseph." the man stood, hands on his hips, and scrutinized me closely. "I like the lift of the head and the way you've raised her front foot in the air. She's a real beauty." Joseph puffed on his pipe and looked at me as he ran his gnarled hands over my now almost completed surface. "Yes, this one's special", he mused. I was so proud.

        Joseph's wife was to paint me. I liked her. She would come into the studio always wit a a smile and a jolly laugh. "Oh, now that's real nice, Joseph. I love her big thick mane and her wonderful tail. I like the way it lifts and curls. Why Joseph, she's just beautiful." She always smelled like fresh baked bread and she always made Joseph happy. When she'd leave him he'd hum away and I could feel a kind of new energy through his hands.

        When it came time for me to be painted I couldn't help being excited and could hardly wait to find out what color I would be. White, black, chestnut, it was all I thought about for days. They chose golden palomino with a glorious antique white mane and tail. My saddle was burgundy with gold trim, and the draperies that graced my sides were rose and cream with dark green trim. I looked wonderful.

        I was installed on the carousel in early spring. It was all new and boasted rabbits and pigs and birds along with its many horses. I think it's only fair to say though, that, well I could hold my own. The children flocked to me. Even grown ups. I remember once a man lifted this pretty girl up on my saddle and as the music played and I moved rhythmically up and down as we turned, he proposed. she said yes. But ah, it was the children, the wide-eyed, happy boys and girls who wrapped their arms around me like they would never let go. I carried them gently up and down as we moved along the crescendo of sound and lights.

        As the years moved by I began to feel my age. My paint was cracking here and there  and finally I got pretty crackled all over. I had dried out some and there were even hairline cracks in my wood. Who'd of ever thought it. The carousel was getting older too and it creaked a bit and groaned at times but we all kept going rain or shine and the kids kept coming. I wasn't getting the compliments I got when I was young but I knew they enjoyed me and that was the most important thing. Then one day the engine quit. The children were very disappointed. I remember the little boy on me kept kicking me and beating me with his fists. I was more hurt than hurt, if you know what I mean. This engine trouble became pretty regular, then the trouble with the gears or something. Then it was just trouble, trouble and pretty soon the kids didn't come anymore. I felt terrible but that was just the beginning. they took us apart and discarded us like old worthless junk. I was thrown , yes thrown, they broke my neck, into an old dark warehouse. I laid there for years in the dark and the roof leaked. The rain would drip down from the high, dark ceiling and run in cold rivulets over my exposed side. It was awful. My paint, well, let's not even talk about it. I was a mess. Then one day they opened the warehouse doors and started looking through the piles left from so long ago. They laid all the carousel horses in one place and they looked us over. They inspected me. "Might as well burn this one. I think it's hopeless. Look, it's neck is even broken." a young man looked down at me. He touched my neck. Oh, it felt good. It had been so long. He ran his fingers over the cracked neck. His companion shook his head. "forget it. Come on let's check out the rest." He left.

        They spent about a week selecting the chosen ones and they put me in a heap, and not too gently, with the other rejects. I heard what they were planning for us. They said old oak made a great fire. I just couldn't believe what was happening to me.

        then they drove the truck into the warehouse. It was one of those cold, wet mornings. The sky was dark and I felt a chill run through me. They started throwing, yes throwing, us into the back of the truck.then the young man walked in. He walked over to me just as they were grabbing me by the tail. "Wait, I think I'll take this one home." "fine with me but I sure don't know why. It's a wreck." "I know, I know, but there's something about her." He reached down and picked me up and I fell in love. He carried me to his van and gently laid me down inside. I could have wept. He drove me to his home and took me inside. His wife opened the door. "Oh my, it looks like she's been through a lot." She touched me and I knew I was finally safe.

        He worked on my neck. He sanded me and polished me and rubbed oil on me night after night. I was beginning to feel pretty good, and oh his pipe, I loved his pipe. It reminded me of, oh so long ago. Then it came time to paint me. I had heard them discussing it. They were going to paint me exactly like before when I was young. I was thrilled and what a job she did. She couldn't have been more careful. I knew she liked me.

        They placed me by the window in a large kitchen and I look out over rolling hills of oak. The sunsets splash the last light of day on me every evening and I am content. She polishes me a lot and I'm constantly complimented. But Joe's my favorite. I mean, he saved my life but, I don't know, I just love him anyway. There's something about him. His wife walked into the room. Joe was reading at the table smoking his pipe. She walked up behind him and ran her hand trough his hair. The sun was setting and cast a golden light on the carousel horse. "I just love that horse" she said. He nodded, "Yes, I know. I've always wanted one. My grandfather used to carve them. Did I ever tell you that?"

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The Package

        I recall when I was little, when I was growing up,

I remember how they dressed me, and pet me like a pup.

        They said I was a beauty, they raved about my hair,

They bragged about my dimples, and I lived without a care.

        I've gone trough life inside this thing that I guess I call my bod.

It's the form I pack around with me. They say a gift from God.

        So I wash it and fuss with it and sometimes I cut its hair,

And brush its teeth and keep it groomed, and dress it with a flair.

        They say I'm a gorgeous girl. It never seems to fail:

When I go shopping for my food, some jerk is on my tail.

        Some say I should be flattered by this attention I get,

But he's gawking at the package, that's what's got me so upset.

        He doesn't even care to find out what's inside.

To find that I'm a human being, I think he'd need a guide.

        How can I send a message to those who scan my rear?

That I've got brains and feelings too? That's probably what they fear.

        It would be nice to find a lad to look into my eyes.

And know that he's made contact, much to my surprise.

        He'd find a lass with warmth and grace, ready to relate

To tender thoughts and gentle ways of sharing our fate.

        I know he's out there somewhere, this man of all my dreams;

This girl has got her sights set, high, I guess it seems.

        And I know when I find him, it'll all be crystal clear.

Then I'll stroll up quietly behind him, so I can check his rear.

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The Master

        I came upon a piece of clay and squeezed it in my hands.

I saw to my amazement, it moved to my demands.

        I smeared a little dab of paint and watched some colors blend,

Then added colors here and there, and a picture was the end.

 

        I think of men through history who have shocked us with their skill.

Van Gogh, quite mad, they say, but he made the world thrill.

        For taking clay or paint or pen and creating genius proves

That in us all a master sleeps and gives us all the moves.

 

        It's how you perceive this potent gift to do or not to do

That makes you move along your path and create the you that's you.

        It's not only in the arts we learn, or push the clay to have our way;

It touches every thing we do this give or power play.

 

        No clay or paint or pen complains the way it's spent.

It yields to domination to any message that it's sent.

        So the artist is called a master of this medium and that's okay,

But a simple man can master self and that's not paint or clay.

 

        We tend to think we must control, that we're the one that knows best.

We take our dog and make him sit or lie at our behest.

        Nothing wrong with doing that. It's all part of God's plan,

for dogs and cats and horses will give themselves to man.

 

        It's other men some strong some not that prove it's not okay,

To try to push your thoughts on them to help you make your day.

        The world is not a stage for you to mold and bend to your demands.

It's filled with people just like you, full of trips and dreams and plans.

 

        Each one has his perception of what's right and wrong and best.

Each journey will be different, each fear, each joy, each rest.

        So let your neighbor go his way and make his own mistakes.

A little love and understanding is all it ever takes.

 

        And if he doesn't do his share, perhaps it's not his fault.

Regard him with affection , don't put your growth on halt.

        He's part of you, you're part of him, expressed in different ways.

You're his crucifixion or redemption but remember, compassion always pays.

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The Waterfall

        Falling water through  all time has given man a thrill.

Necks are craned and cameras snap; we never get our fill.

        Majestic mountains mere background when cascading waters pour

Into space and finally fall upon the mountain's floor.

 

        It isn't just, it's beauty that makes us stand in wonder;

It's the way it cools and fills the air with magic and thunder.

       The mist that sends a promise of life to every leaf

Is the gentle drifting blanket and a hot dry day's relief.

 

        The sound of falling water has always pleased mankind.

The surf at night, a gentle brook, calm a troubled mind.

        But the waterfall, Niagara, is a special place to me,

As are the magic falls of Milford Sound that never hit the sea.

 

        these wonders in this world of ours are not just for their looks:

They carry precious water to rivers, streams, and brooks.

        they nurture distant landscapes and make some deserts bloom,

They supply us with the plants kept in a room.

 

        It stand in constant motion, this tower of churning foam,

Dropping treasured water from its high and lofty dome.

        And the waiting world absorbs it and takes it to its womb,

So that it can nurture all its fields, and put daffodils in bloom.

 

        Yes, it brings its gift from high above like other gifts we know.

It lets us share God's bounty that makes the world grow.

        I hope that as I live my life I too can leave a gift,

Perhaps a poem or a kind word to one who needs a lift.

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Bev's Calabasita

        The love we share with animals can take a mighty toll

Some get so far inside of us, They touch our very soul

        Such is the case with this fine mare, Who always made me smile,

There was nothing to compare to her, With her mischief and her guile

 

        A gorgeous Palomino foal, I was filled with awe and wonder

The first breeding done at Saddle Creek, Could have been a blunder

        But there you were for all to see, A miracle of perfection

And  I took you gently in my arms, And promised you protection

 

        I've hugged and loved you all these years, there was nothing that compared

To all the joy you gave to me, And the moments that we shared

        Now I'll go on without you, My heart a gaping hole

I'll try not to think about you, While adjusting to my role

 

        I dare steal silent moments, And reflect on bygone days

How I'd keep you near to me, Just to watch you graze

        I cuddled you and spoiled you, And made sure that you were fit

and every time I took a ride, You knew that you were it

 

        My God I'm going to miss you, But let me share a happy thought

I've got your perfect offspring, And that'll help a lot

        I love your Lisonero, And Carina can't be beat

And Zorro is a Palomino, And that is really neat

 

        So let me share another thought, Don't toss your pretty head

Pay attention Callie, Let's put this thought to bed

        I'll breed your Radiante stud, To Ritma, your old pal

then you can reincarnate, And again be my best gal

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Soldier Boy

        He didn't even suspect it would never be this way again. The fire was warm, his mother fussed over dinner and he sat polishing the stock on his over polished rifle. His brother looked at him and turned to their sister. "Jessie so anxious to get to war; he gonna git his ass shot off." she looked at him in shock. "Now you hush, he just wanna be ready for them Rebs." Jessie looked up, "I'm gonna get me a Reb all right. You just wait and see." He started polishing harder. His face filled with resolve. He was ready to go to war.

        A cold wet blanket of air swept across the low hillsides. They seemed to cuddle together to retain the little warmth they had from the sparse sun of the previous day. the wind carried the freezing air over the waiting hill and deposited an alabaster cover on everything in it's wake. Except the sea. As the driven clouds of morning fog swept across the turgid waves they merged as one and moved to the rocky shore. A crescendo of sound in sharp contrast to the screams and curses of the dying remnants of the morning's battle. Jessie was just congratulating himself on his survival. He wasn't even sure he heard the whistle of the cannon shot hurrying along on its mission of death. He was on the ground half hidden behind a tree when it hit. It slammed him against the tree. He hurt all over. His ears were ringing but it was his leg that sent electric shocks of pain to his brain. He almost passed out. Waves of nausea swept over him as he stared horrified at his mangled leg. As the acrid smoke started to clear, he gripped the turbid landscape through half gazed eyes and prayed he wouldn't die. Then with the help of his polished, scuffed up rifle and the tree that saved his life he got up and slowly moved away. He crept painfully into the cover of the shadowed trees then headed down to the path by the sea. He followed it.

        Jessie limped along the winding path that led up from the sea to the hills and beyond. He crouched against the biting wind and moved slowly step by painful step. A smear of blood marked his passing as he dragged his shattered leg. He used his rifle as a crutch. His face was contorted in a mask of fear and pain. But he moved along ever so slowly in his desperate attempt to escape the certain death he hoped to leave behind. It had been his first battle. It wasn't all what he expected. The bugles were silenced almost from the beginning and the brilliant banners and flags lied desolate beside the miserable broken bodies that had so proudly carried them only an instant or a lifetime ago. the carnage was the only reward for the bravado. The smell of death had filled his soul and his only thought was to flee. It seemed that no one was left alive. The fear a living thing that clutched his throat making it almost impossible to breath. the tears slid down his face and mixed with the mud. His black skin caked with filth. He wiped the mucous from his running nose with his coat sleeve and trembled as he looked around. He was sobbing softly. He had never been away from home before and the terror of the morning filled him with dread. So he cried and trembled from the fear and cold and just kept moving. He didn't really know where. Just away.

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If you would like more information or to order  Quiet Moments please contact  

Tom Voiss

Saddle Creek Ranch

9667 Nacimiento Lake Dr

Paso Robles CA 93446

(805) 238-6834

E-Mail sc.ranch@sbcglobal.net  

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