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

Between Fire and Moon

"May I weep, now?" she asked
as she stood before the fire
among the maple trees.
The pools of wetness spilled from her eyes
down her cheeks
evaporating in the night heat.

She looked at me
I wondered why she still stood there.
The shadows of forgotten dreams
lined her face.
Her eyes still young
with her stare back to the fire
the flames danced in her deep
brown reflections of her eyes.

I could not speak
my tongue silenced
it wouldn't matter anyway
her mind was made up.
No words of goodbye
as she pulled the hood over her head
reaching down for her scythe.

As she stepped toward the flame
she paused to look to her hands.
Smoke replaced her form
to drift in the breeze
and dance in the moon-glow
until a whisper flit then gone.

A dream that I need to work through. Sometimes these words arrive in the dream mists between slumber and awareness.

Addendum: The woman is not anyone I know or have known. The impression I have is there is a deep regret that I don't understand (yet).

Or... I could be all wrong.

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United: Writers' Pantry #19: Birthing Hope