Red-headed beauty

Red-headed beauty somewhat six degrees
on through life doing what she please
took a chance to sail the seven seas
some time ago in her dreams

Danced with peasants, popes and kings
erasing hearts every time she sings
she had time for all sorts of things
of the moments in her dreams

Dancing now in her purgatory
someday maybe we could hear her story
of her fall from grace and her glory
as she lost all of her dreams

In my sleep but only late at night
I saw the her dance in blue moonlight
only to drift softly out of sight
never again in my dreams

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Writers’ Pantry #63: I Say and You Say…

Fog on the road

 

The path is not always clear

Why is the biggest hurdle in the mind?
that quiet voice that casts shadows of doubt
thriving in the fog of uncertainty
hiding the road we must travel upon

Will the battle rage forever?
as I take up arms against this foe
this manufactured mire of my creation
the lost faith of the beginning

Did I hear that whispered voice?
those words that said, "forge on"
the sunrise crests the top of the hill
promises one day closer home 

Even in rain, the sun may shine

Spring 2021 holds some promise but offers frustration. In other words, a typical year.

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United: Writers' Pantry 61: It's Been a Year

New Years Day

New Years Day was yesterday
a day of New Beginnings
but today the mists rolled in
to hide the dreams of our making

The wise man up the street
said I was stupid or insane
the jury is still out
but the judgement only comes at journey's end

For that I'm thankful
else where would I be?
Yes, in that world of lost hope
and abject misery

New Years Day plus one
as today this fog burned off
and we can see the horizon
the dream over the hill is now seen

Today's contribution is a more jumble of cryptic thoughts that reflect the nature of where we are right now: a New Beginning - of dreams, of hope, of unexpected calmness that I cannot explain.

"When you come to a fork in the road, take it." - Attributed to Yogi Berra

We'll see where this road takes us... 

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United, Writers’ Pantry #59: Love and Loss

February's grim side

I understand this winter gloom
the Eversnow that stays
from that December past until Spring

That longing time seems always
over the next hill
but not seen until it comes to its ready

My patience (or lack thereof)
means nothing to the turning of the world
More snow
more grey skies and white hills

I know Spring is near
I hear her
but the Winds of the North
carry her further away

I can only ask for the melt
but she doesn't listen
Spring comes in her own time

This winter has given us more snow than I'd like (with more on the way today.) I can hardly wait for Spring but right now, we've struggled in deep snow drifts up this hill.

Snow on the hill

 

Wee Sprout

Wee Sprout doing well surrounded in a blanket of snow. We look forward to a spring when we can find this young seedling growing again.

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Writers' Pantry #58: Is it Spring Yet?

In the Way

It seems the winds
of this universe
could not plot more
to make it worse
while all our plans and dreams
even our enemies' hidden schemes
were blocked on each and every day
because now
Life just got in the way

Not much joy here
days filled with sadness
sprinkled here with
silent madness
here in my self-exile
I know I have to stay a while
so sun may shine again some day
but again
Life just gets in the way

The here and now
opposed to time past
I go forward
so this can't last
we rarely ever get to choose
the life we want - we sometimes lose
when light is dark and clouds are grey
command it
Life get out of the way

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Writers’ Pantry #52: Year’s Beginning

The Murder of Mr Dean

 Maggie Gordon lived on top of the hill
in a house shuttered from the sky
No visitors darkened her door
and only one person knew just why

No lawyer would take her case
of the murder of Mr. Dean
The DA vowed to avenge his friend
who lost his life there on the green

In the land of forgotten memories
and outright stolen lies
The county judge issued a warrant
Maggie had no valid alibi

Witnesses' sworn testimonies
painted a dark forbiding tale
Of a burning love affair
and of passion that grew stale

Then the hardware storekeeper
said he sold Maggie a knife
The same one found at the murder scene
the DA proved she took Dean's life

On that day of sentencing
after Maggie lost her case
She pulled down her silken scarf
and showed her red-bare scar on her face

Some say it was Mr. Dean
who cut her in a rage
Some said it came from a former love
when she tried to turn that page

Forsaken by all that knew her
while years in her prison cell
The true story behind the murder
not a soul she'd ever tell

I've been spending my drive times with Bob Dylan with a sprinkling of Leonard Cohen for much of the summer. I ask of anyone that comments to help me out and offer up a poet or writer to help expand my universe. I trust my regular readers and I thank you in advance for the help (I could use some lately.)

Linked at Poets and Storytellers United, Writers' Pantry #43: Sunday Morning Cereal

A last request

Standing on the gallows
under distant skies of grey
soon I knock on Heaven's door
but you can now walk away

Though my neck is in the noose
on this my judgement day
I look to your passing Grace
please go on and walk away

I pause in this short silence
as you take the time to pray
listen to my last request
forget me and walk away

As I near this my end
I view life in mind's display
your only choice to take here
is to turn and walk away

There is only one ending
for the last act of this play
heed my words before I go
I beg you to walk a---

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United, Weekly Scribblings #40: Walking Away

Now you're gone

Harbinger of Spring when my brothers return
songs caress the soul on summer days
no longer heard at this time before fall
sitting here I hear the catbird call
not the same as a blackbird song
One day you're here - now you're gone

I miss the melody that was sung
you went to the south without a goodbye
drying stalks of corn all that remain
neglected nest that was battered by rain
in the back of my mind I hear the song
One day you're heard - now you're gone

Now I miss the songs that seem long ago
in the fields and up on the wire
final words to those now on the wing
when Winter is gone and your return come Spring
in the meantime I recall your last song
Hear it again - now that you're gone

From Lang Elliot, YouTube

 

One of our red-winged blackbirds from an earlier Spring

 Posted at Writers’ Pantry #38: Ominous Times

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

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

Morning Rain

Random patter muffled overhead
the ping on metal with no rhythm
but also no wind today
just rain

A reminder that planting isn't finished
and seeds left in the sack
with the mud now in charge
and rain

All this means is outside work
is delayed for another day
right now we can't cut weeds
in rain

With no sun but these clouds
on morning's breath today
later time to maybe walk
the rain

This morning I awoke to the dread of rain in the middle of planting season. I should have gotten more done, but... time.

As a note, the phrase "walk the rain" was given to me in a dream and I have something not yet shared but it fits here as well.

Linked at Poets and Storytellers United: Writers’ Pantry #20: A Name by Any Other Name Can Be… Confusing