On the Farm

Growing up on a small farm didn't always offer the glitz of city life, but I wouldn't have traded it for anything.


          The path started in a mowed field,
            and it was clear except for the middle
              where no steps had trod down the taller grasses                           
          It was easy enough to follow to get to
            the garden and the two plum trees.
               Hours were spent planting,
          weeding, and eventually harvesting.
            The hot sun parched our lips
               and  throat making the
          appearance of mother with her
            bucket of iced-cold lemonade
              a very welcomed sight.
          Late afternoon brought a time
            for fishing and swishing
               in  the deeper part of the brook
          that bordered our land on the west.
             Tall pines, firs, and spruce kept guard
               of our secret places to find
          the biggest trout.  A blast from
            a shrill whistle called us home
              for evening chores, supper,
           and an early bedtime
            that prepared us for
               the same routine tomorrow.
           

Her Eyes.....My Eyes

This poem was written after my daughter had left home, and I realized how much I had really missed that was there to see as I had been trying to make the "Almighty Dollar."

  Her eyes saw the piglet
          with curled tail and shrill squeal
                   crowding its way in to get its
                         share of the old sow's milk.
   My eyes saw twenty-five dollars
            or meals provided when the
                    cold months of winter made it
                          difficult to let the land supply.
    Her eyes saw the shadows crawling
             spider--like across her bedroom walls
                     bringing with them every hideous
                           monster her mind could construct.
     My eyes saw the coming of  evening when
               I could rest from the labors of the day--warm
                       shadows that brought sleep and caressed my
                             my mind, wiping away worries.
      Her eyes saw the yellow crowns of dandelions
               begging her to make a bouquet which would
                         be destined to become a wilted mass of
                              blooms on the bulkhead of the cellar.
       My eyes saw the weeds that were choking the green
                 grass of my lawn--an enemy bent on destroying--
                          worthless plants  that were
                               disguised in a golden allure.
       Her eyes saw the falling snowflakes  as crystals
                 of magic promising a snowman and playing a
                               a tune that  only  a child
                                 could fully understand.
        My eyes saw the coldness
                 of a snowplow bill, or the backache
                               coming from lifting mounds
                                  of the horrid white stuff.
         Her eyes saw the rainbow arching across
                  the gray sky framed by summer leaves and
                                drops of rain.  My eyes saw this, too,
                                    And, at last, our eyes had met.

Never Again

Some have said that truth hurts, but in a strange way, it can be freeing.

                               Tear-filled excuses,
                                  giving way to sorrowful explanations  that are supposed
                                       to be  believed and accepted,
                                keep coming with the expectation
                                   that it will be as it always
                                was before.  BUT NO!
                                   The game is up.
                                 Sixty-six years is a long time,
                                    to wait and hope it was
                                      truly different.
                                 Nothing to prevent him from
                                     doing what should have been
                                       done then.
                                 Too late...Too long..Too tired.
                                      I won't say anymore,
                                        "I understand."
                                 Because I don't, and I won't ever
                                    Fall under the pressure of
                                         making him feel wanted,
                                 and me having to untangle it
                                  and figure this out
                                          for myself.

Unfound, But Never Feally Lost

This poem tells so much about my life as it is and has been.


                             I cannot find
                                                 yesterday,
                             and I'm too tired
                             to look for
                                                  tomorrow.
                             I lost yesterday
                                                  today,
                             and others will
                             determine the outcome of
                                                   days to come.
                              My intention has
                              been misunderstood
                                                   today,
                              and perhaps will
                              never be believed.
                                                   Yet,
                              I cannot suffer
                              for what I never had
                                                   because
                               I've lived this long
                               without being able to
                                                    trust  anyway.

Gravy and Santa Claus

I wrote this poem when my disappointments broke through my normally strong wall of happy illusion.


                          You said there would be gravy for supper.
                               I knew you'd be too busy
                           when it came time
                               to make it.
                            I was used to having butter
                               on my mashed potatoes,
                            so it really didn't
                               matter to me.
                            Mom had said there was a Santa Claus,
                               however , I learned not to
                            count on a red suit,
                               or too many toys.
                            I now know that life has
                                too many corners to
                            look trusting around and
                                never find gravy or Santa Claus.

The Bargain-Bought Bicycle

 I distinctly remember the excitement my young son felt when he took his saved-up allowance money to buy a bicycle that the neighbor's boy owned.  I wrote this poem about it:


                                         His tire was flat.
                                             The boy who sold
                                                 him the bicycle
                                         knew it was just
                                              about worn out.
                                                  Sadly he studied
                                         the rubber that once
                                              had been round
                                                   and solidly firm.
                                         Trust was shattered
                                              and doubt raised,
                                                    while honesty hung
                                          as useless as
                                               his twenty dollar
                                                      bargain--bought bicycle.

Blackberries

I love blackberries, but it is a torture to pick them.  It has always been my job, however.  I wrote this in honor of  the sweet black things protected by needle sharp thorns.


                               The blackberries are ripe---
                                guarded by sharp thorns,
                                but sweet enough to risk
                                the pain.
                                She will use them
                                to make jam---
                                Purple sweetness loaded
                                with seeds to be
                                spread on toast.
                                Wearing scars made from
                                puncture wounds, it was my
                                job  to store the jam until
                                it was the right time
                                to use it to impress
                               some guests or relatives
                               that had come from a
                               long ways off.

The Sound

This is a poem I wrote for myself on a   melancholy day. I share now on my blog:


                                               I heard the noise
                                                    several times before
                                                           I knew that it
                                               was only the sound
                                                    of my own weeping.
                                                           Strange as it
                                                may have seemed then,
                                                     I knew it wasn't
                                                            because the clouds
                                                 covered the stars,
                                                      or that the wind
                                                             blew the tree branches
                                                  in the direction that
                                                       I knew I should
                                                             be going.

???????????????

This poem will have to explain itself because I'm not sure I can explain it.


                                       The night covers me,
                                         But no darkness can hide
                                            my thoughts or denials.
                                        I seek a cool drink,
                                          Yet the streams of truth
                                             dried up soon after the
                                        last storm.
                                           Walking through tangled
                                              leafless branches,
                                        I find no solace.
                                            Although no branches
                                               have slapped my face,
                                         the tears
                                             still fill
                                                my eyes.

Woodstove and Woolens

  When I was a child, I never walked into my grandma's kitchen when it wasn't hot.  I wrote this poem as a memory:


                                         Her kitchen was warm every day.
                                         Some say it was the biscuits
                                         that did it,
                                         But I knew better--
                                         It was the woodstove and woolens.
                                         Gram would never let them dry outside
                                         stretching out of shape and freezing
                                         into hard rocks that had been flattened
                                         and shaped by the hand cranked wringer.
                                         Selecting the right pieces of wood
                                         for the stove was an art
                                         learned from another kitchen expert.
                                         The white cat would pant from the heat,
                                         or perhaps from contentment,
                                         watching her cover the wooden rack,
                                         then put it in the right place so as
                                         the woolens would dry
                                         as she mixed the dough that would
                                         become biscuits--hot and ready
                                         for the newly churned butter.