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

Last Dream

Sleet began to fall
still mixed with rain
dark barely eased by the streetlights above.
Her threadbare coat
nearly soaked through
the chill reaching in to her bones.

The bench near the pines
out of the wind
the only shelter from the coming storm.
They sat together
husband and wife
this bench their rest for the night.

The shelters were full
the underpass
not a welcoming place for them tonight.
Their home long ago
taken for owed
taxes and sold to the highest bidder.

They sat on that bench
in those shadows
the cold and wet chilling to the bone.
He gave up his coat
to her, his love
then a tarp to keep under from the rain.

The temperature dropped
and darkness grew
she fell into a dream-full sleep.
They walked together
her hand in his
on the warm beach thirty years ago.

In each others arms
she in her peace
as he drifted into his new beginning.
Forever parted now
could she go on
as she dreams for the morning grace?

A dream that was relayed to me from My One and I must say she has some interesting ones. I diverged from my path of posting positive words in order to pass this along.

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Writers’ Pantry #26: “You can make anything by writing”

Stone cold

On that day of cold November sky
I looked down to a half-covered stone
somewhat blue-gray under mud
it fit in the palm of my hand
and weighed near a pound and a half.

A cold stone the size of a cold heart
a heavy weight on that old soul
chipped over time where it rested
unnoticed and ignored it was buried
without the light of a warming day.

In restless sleep I dreamt that night
that I sat by the warm oak-wood fire
in silence I listened to the stone's story
its grinding corn by weathered hands
of a grandmother so long ago.

As the stars of Orion crossed overhead
the stone grew in weight in my hands
the wind died and the fireflies fled
as the shout from the stone itself:
"I am not a metaphor!" resonated in my ears.

I woke to write these words down
before they were chased to the wind
trying to make sense from the scene
of stones not willingly metaphors
but really, what do they know?

I found what I think is an old grinding stone on the hill on a cold November day. I usually find bits of concrete or gravel but this was a nice find. It is flattened from apparent wear with a heart-like shape and a few chips from a disc or plow. Of the many possible uses, the grinding stone is most likely.

Or it could be just a rock.

Either way, I like this stone and I sometimes sit to listen to its stories as Orion crosses the sky.

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Weekly Scribblings #25: Well, That Was Unexpected

Thistle bloom

Thistle weed of purple bloom
growing on hilltop
that sunny afternoon.

The weeds must be cut
before they go to seed
and spread the acreage wide.

But still see the beauty
in the thorns among us
a reminder sometimes beauty bites.

These thistles are something we have been battling against since we bought the acreage. Herbicides aren't an option and it ends up to us with repeatedly cutting and and digging out the roots. I've had the small thorns break off under the skin - absolutely no fun.

It doesn't mean we can't admire the beauty of the colorful flower before the cutting.

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Writers' Pantry #25: Summer Solstice

Quiet time

Red on Sunday
a surprise to find color
planted years before

The sea of corn
waving on the lazy breeze
a cool wind from east

Tired Monarchs
and swallowtails
flit from clover blooms

A few minutes peace
until I return again
to the work that remains

This is the time of year that the amount of work exceeds the time available to us. Mowing, cutting weeds, cultivating corn, mending fence, pruning trees and not to forget repairs that delay everything. It's all there waiting for me.

It's the quiet times when one listens to the catbirds calling from the maple trees or watch the dance among the clouds of those turkey vultures circling overhead.

But not too long because there is work to be done.

Posted (late) at Poets and Storytellers United: Writers' Pantry #24: Mr. Frodo, I Do Understand