straight line winds - reprised

August storm forged east across the plain
straight line winds followed by the rain
Trees uprooted, limbs broken, roofs torn
laying over en-mass the acres of corn

Best corn that I'd ever grown
was my thought on Monday til
nature's wind being what it is
all creation bends to its will

And if I were a religious man
I'd heed the ancient words of
"After pride comes the fall"
but that's not all
not at all

Chainsaw serenade heard past midnight
house debris and limbs piled by daylight
Power out for nearly a quater mil
a hundred thousand without power still

A week later in recovery
the cleanup continues
in the battered landscape
in city and country views

And if I were a betting man
with neighbors like these
We'll rise up again
and will begin
to rest therein
(Yes, I remarked to My One the day before the storm that this was the best popcorn that I've raised.)

After nearly two weeks, there is still cleanup work to complete at the farm and in the community. One thing about Iowans is that we don't wait for help, we get to work. Those who had chainsaws started cleanup as soon as the storm cleared. Small food vendors have been preparing meals nearly every day for those who need them. Semi loads of food and water have arrived and distributed.

There's a lot of work left and about 10,000 electric customers in the area without power. The harder we work, the sooner we get back to our lives.

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United: Writers’ Pantry #34: Writing Is Easy

Grace calling home

Between the hills of red clover
the shadows still grow
beyond the whispering in my name
they still speak to me
in the still dark corners
where willows grow

I no longer heed the words
of my fathers
or of their mothers before them
but I hear their voices
and it saddens me still
as I am chained
to the past of lost tranquility

Keep on that path my friend
and don't linger
to hear the creek rush over smooth stones
for those stones are heavy
as chains of not so long ago
where once was peace
but now...

I see on the crest of the hill
the wake of the winds
it reaches down to the hearts
so hope may endure
for lost grace
to call me home again
Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Writers’ Pantry #32: From Case Studies to Plague Poetry

Under the black cherry tree

She came to me from the eastern hill
golden feather in her hair
to meet under the black cherry tree
branches reaching to the night sky.

She stayed with me through the night
near the fire we built
glowing ash floating to mix with stars
night shadows just beyond the firelight.

Then she smiled
that tilted smile
and I knew - oh, I knew
the ancient ones had given me a chance
maybe one last chance at the redemptive power
from the forgiving heart.

As daylight broke over the hill
she turned to greet the sun
and smiled again as colors gained
in the fields of red clover.

As she gave a last smile and goodbye
she stepped back to the mists
the golden feather fell to the ground
underneath the black cherry tree.
Found under a black cherry tree
A dream after finding the feather while pruning the walnut trees this summer. I have dozens of black cherry trees growing among the walnuts and perhaps more in the near future.

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Writers' Pantry #31: Here comes August!

Of words and doubt

Why put words into poetry
or write ideas into prose?
Can I create something brilliant
writing "a rose is just a rose?"

That small voice over there
in that dark familiar corner.
If I ended this facade
would there be a single mourner?

Yes that doubt of self
whispers in the left ear
but could be drowned out
when other voices come near.

But words are still heard
in rhythm or in rhymes
when there is one more story
that shows up here sometimes.

On wings of those dreams
or from the wind on the hill
the words are for the taking
and take them I... might.
All the stories locked away still to be shared (if those voices of doubt are drowned out) when the winds are calm and the work is closer to caught up.
In the mean time...

A little yellow to brighten up your day

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Weekly Scribblings #30: Writing as a Metaphor for Living

I saw the wind

I saw the wind
not the golden wheat swaying in waves
across northern fields of summer
though the corn bends to its will
in curved rows between the fence lines

I saw the wind
the wind that caused the trees to sway
that gave rise to the vulture's soar
the wind itself, I gazed upon and understood

Creator gave the sight that day
to see the wind that flowed as music
the tempo
the tones
flowing down the valley near
across the sky
to deliver me that sight
of unknown beauty
or boundless rage unleashed
on that breath on blessed earth.

I saw
the swirls of colors in my outstretched arms
to lift my spirit from within
to glide as that lone eagle
and kiss the moon in day's reflective light

As now I open my eyes
to my feet planted in stone
I ask of my Creator
to see the wind again.

Another dream that came to me a while ago. There was no "enhancements" to create this imagery, just an imagination of sorts.

As the eagle kissed the moon...(Picture taken at the Stranded Tree Farm)
Posted at Poets and Storytellers United:Weekly Scribblings #28: Seeing Things

Three Days

I gave her three days
the mistress of the hills
she asks for more than I can give
a jealous spirit she calls to me.

The more I spend with her
the more she demands of me
she shows me the skies of her wrath
if my attention turns away.

But she calms me tonight
after another long hot day
her subtle kisses on my wet brow
sooths me under the cottonwoods.

The sweat I gave her
soaks the earth below me
her thirst is insatiable
and the pump has lost its prime.

As the winds of the west
greet the peace of the setting sun
may I give her what she asks
in return to rest in the shaded path.
I often call our farm my mistress and I worked for three days, cutting weeds, mowing weeds, pulling weeds... You get the idea. There wasn't much time for anything besides replacing a pump that was broken after spending a couple hours trying to repair.

It's the nature of things on a farm.

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United:  Writers' Pantry # 27: We're Halfway There!

The Path

For the path built before us now
do we take the easy way out
follow the asphalt/concrete road
that everyone else travels upon?

Destinations matter only to them
the path means little
it flies by as a blur

Isn't the journey as important as the where?

If the smooth pavement of the road
is what you're after
then follow the leader again

Perhaps there is another way
a trail most forsake
overgrown with brambles and weeds
the patches of life
a hidden trail that no sun visits

Others run along the highways
let us take the path we are on
as the journey is part of the reward
Posted at Poets and Storytellers United:  Weekly Scribblings #26: Pavement

And this started with...

Faoin Scáth - Under the Shade

Faoin Scáth - Under the Shade ...and one day as you sit under the shade of the red oak tree hold a book of verse or short stories to...

Maybe you'll like: