Dairy Daze...and Now Beyond

In the fall I crunch through leaves and inhale the autumn spice I love so much more than any spice found in a kitchen. The scent of fallen leaves,  the musty forest duff stirred up underfoot, bruised cedar limbs and the tangy smoke from the  neighbor's wood fire, the cold air smelling of snow blowing on the wind.    

 Way back, it seems an age and an age, When time was an ivory page, unscathed By tarnished hopes or plans undone Back when victories were yet unwon. Way back then I made myself a bet That I'd live my life and not regret Anything anything I'd yet to do; And for the most part it is true.

 The thoughts I think, I've thought before My brain is a revolving door. The deeds I do, I've done before My life is a revolving door. When I was young I believed That things would change as I lived And so they have, things have changed But me?  I've stayed the same. 

Shall my small praise that I lift up Be heard by God in heaven Is it not drowned by higher laud That greater men have given? And these small good deeds I do During this my humble life; Are they enough to make a mark In this world that's filled with strife?

There are turkey and pies and cobblers left But no one could possibly hold any more. Everyone who'd snarfed at the table is now Draped 'round the living room furniture and floor, There was a mess left all over the kitchen  So the cook and an aunt or two Put on aprons and a pot of coffee Because there was so much left to do. The fridge is now stuffed with leftovers And care packages made to send home With the different friends and family We are so glad who got to come.   The dishes are washed, the tables wiped And now some games are underway, Everyone is awake and laughing because it's sure Been good to be together on this Thanksgiving Day!

 Paper Pilgrim hats with cockeyed brims, Drawing turkeys by tracing your hand And dangling the wattle from your thumb. Limp construction paper feathers in Native American headband taped to fit  Around our little heads.   A kindergarten Thanksgiving!  

 He cannot find his paperwork or his special pen I've looked through every pile, what a mess we're in. Things seem to disappear without the smallest trace I'm glad I leave my glasses always fixed upon my face

 Out in the shed, in a hole in the floor, Lives a little gnome that I’ve named Igor. He wears a wee bow tie and a tiny little hat That he puts down beside him when we have a little chat. Igor likes to listen to me tell about my day ‘Bout how I hate school and would rather play.

 Once there was a lady who stood up on the shore And watched the waves go in and out and heard their hiss and roar She felt the sand between her toes and smelled the salted air Listened to the gulls' shrill cries, felt breezes in her hair. She spun around, tossed her hair, threw her arms out wide Then turned and ran along the sand to her castle in the sky To be finished later...    

 I  have missed TWO days!  Whee! Have to play catch up now. 

I love the blue sky, the heat, the scent of hay and tractor grease I love the way the hay rake shuffles the dry grass into neat concentric rows. There is a sense of accomplishment at the end of the afternoon,  It makes for a peaceful night's sleep to know that the cow critters Will have full stomachs when the wind is howling and the snow blows.  

 A year ago I took this selfie of us, Completely unconsciousness That it would be our last selfie together.  We laughed together, as we often did.   This time you laughed to see yourself in this Strange gadget on your table. You exclaimed at how old you looked. I laughed because you were laughing. I thought I had more time ahead with you; Many months, perhaps a year or more. But that was not to be, for just 6 short weeks later You joined the Lord you loved so much and Had your first Christmas dinner with Him instead of me. And I have learned that grief and joy can be so intertwined  That is is difficult to know where one ends and  Where the other begins.   I grieve my loss and rejoice in your new freedom  From age and pain.   And I am so glad I got this last selfie of us, laughing.

 Long ago and far away as a child I’d play  Running through the grass and wood Without a care, life was good. I got a bike at age ten, I’d ride and pretend To soar above the the things Awkward adolescence brings. When at last I got a car, I did not stray far I kept myself company Alone was all I knew to be.  

How fleeting are the moments between dusk and darkest night, And how rare is the beauty then that is flung across the sky.

Sun is rising, the sky is clear Breakfast is over, but the coffee’s still good An owl hoots at the edge of the wood. Dinner plans settled, so I will sit here With the kitty and open the Word And be very thankful that I love the Lord.  

 Clearly I remember the summer fogs as they Ghosted the fields and slipped through the woods, They softened the landscape and muffled every sound, Gathered droplets on the trees and fell damply on our hoods. Clearly I remember as the evening shadows fell We kids made the fogs of summer swirl As we ran heedless, laughing, flinging fir cones At each other in the gloom, not a care in the world. Vaguely now I see the drifting fogs of time Slide through my days and blur my years, But I hail the soon-coming Son Who will Return to us our laughter and vaporize our tears.  

 In my brunette years in school I learned a proper poem needs structure, Syntax, meter, form, and of course rhythm and rhyme. And if you scribbled, erased and rearranged quaint phrases Bold ideas and pithy thoughts, well, it’d be a masterpiece in time. And then I thought of aging and adulthood as a poem  Of structured perfection, where one has formed one’s life  Into a sublime sonnet, opulent ode, or elegant elegy, And managed to smooth over all pain and strife. But as I’m growing silver I see ever more clearly That poetry and life are formed of jagged pieces. And broken phrases, broken people, lacking rhythm, lacking rhyme  Can also create a ballad of beauty that grows gilded over time.

 Once when I was young I was enchanted by our neighbor named Owl. His last name was Forrest! How perfect! He, his brother John, and sister Nellie All lived in a secluded house At the end of the lane. Such mundane names his siblings had. I spent my early years pondering The mystery of the man named Owl. I even asked my father one day. He laughed and said he wasn't sure How Owl got his name. It must have been my 13th or 14th year When my mother hooted her laughter at my question. "Owl? Owl?  Hahaha.... His name is Albert." My life lost a bit of color and romance that day;  Once when I was young.

I forgot yesterday’s poem!  I was busy getting Ellen off to her FBLA trip to Denver.   I think yesterday’s poem would have centered around kids growing up so stinking fast and being so eager to take off on their own.  Then you are left at home without them.  *sigh* 

 Smile pretty girl, the world is waiting for you to touch it with your soul And though much is marred, or broken and shattered A smile takes a small shard and makes it whole. Smile pretty girl, for hearts are waiting for you to touch them with your soul So many people are wounded and battered A smile can touch, uplift, enfold. Smile pretty girl, though loss and grief have shadowed your way Your own heart will heal as you give healing A smile will reflect brightness back into your day.

A poem can be a rhyme, or not, A collection of words on a passing thought A poem can be lines of love Smooth as cream, tame as a dove. Anger, adventure, a deep lament; Poetry is so the poet can vent And send his feelings through words a-wing Across the pages and through the ages To show us the magic words can bring.   (Oy, so my poetry is suffering a smidge for lack of many things.  But I think I am doing pretty good on the fly.  Most of these are just bits and rhymes that I will eventually put into longer poems that will make more sense when I work them over.  That is the joy of words; you can mold and model them to fit like lumps of clay.)

   Ever do the woods beckon me To trek the leafy paths and lanes.   To seek paradise lost in Winter And in Spring find it regained.   The call of bird and sigh of wind Are music to my heart and soul So I seek God the Creator In the woods He makes me whole.

 Be very careful, baby Bucky. We are all praying you’ll be lucky.  

 “About as effective as a bump on a log” Is a phrase I have heard all my life. And as I sit, having finished my daily slog I think I would like to be a bump on a log.   To just hang out with shadows and moss And visit with creatures tracking across.  

Spun by the wind in circles of sameness Sometimes slow, sometimes fast  Monotonous twisting as time goes past. But one evening, as it set, The sun flung its fire on high And the windmill’s silhouette   Etched a poem against the sky.  

  Earthbound it reaches for the heavens Tracing a solar journey across the skies In slow arcs.   A tower of a flower. Unfazed at not reaching the upper Stratosphere it pauses And then explodes into brilliant bloom. A tower of a flower  Bowing its head it welcomes All: bees and birds seek Pollen and seeds and perches for rest. A tower of a flower

                                                     Green life renews itself each spring  Tethered betwixt celestial and terrestrial Where wild winds blow and robins sing    A lovely life of tenuous beauty This life to live is only life to give An ephemeral life of chlorophylling duty   Those who survive wind, rain, sun Finish their story colored in glory Fall free with grace, life's duty done    

Anyone remember that?   It is also NaNoWriMo, but I am not a novel writer.   I am going to try and blog post every day this month though.  Quite often people do a month of thankfulness, since it is Thanksgiving month after all.  I have never done that one; and I am not going to do that this year either.  Haha!  This year I am going to try and work on my poetry skills.  Thirty poems in a MONTH!  Yikes!  We shall see.  Stay tuned!