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!