A Little Bit Country

There are some things you live your whole life
without knowing, some facts that nobody cares
that you lack. Of course, if you’d be a farmer,
you must know  a mule from a horse.

If you are asked to write for Farm Journal
you should be aware that the fruit of the corn
is known as a kernel;  chickens gathered to eat
said fruit are rightfully called a flock.

A bullock (or ox, if you choose) has never
been noted for curls. That mentioned, two bullocks
are oxen, single one out,  it’s an ox. Furthermore,
if it’s a cow, it’s always a girl.

A sow  (as in cow)is a hog that’s had babies,
before that she was a pig, and even prior, in a time
somewhat remote, that pig was known as a shoat.
Then as now, in good times  and worse,
you can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse.

They Call the Wind Mariah*

Garden flowers sleep through the storm,
I wonder where  butterflies go
when it rains.  My window wears tears,
a myriad of trickling gems
with rainbows growing inside them.

There is something primitive about this night.
Gauzed in with fog shrouding the mountains,
I remember moonlight, a constantly changing
phenomenon.  Plato creeps into my mind.
It’s all a matter of perception

except for the wind.

**title of a song sung by the Kingston Trio

The Nature of Survival

The maples send out helicopters
carrying the next generation,
Seedlings, already smart
about genealogy,
seem unconcerned
about where they will land,
No hyperventilation about pedigree –
It is more than faith, it is
a certainty – the seed drop
will be a success.

The wind is with them.  Warmed
by memories of flirtations
with the mother tree, a breeze
gentles their landing.
Riparian rights
are not a consideration;
their roots go deep.  Propagation
is a sure thing. The fiercest adversary
is the possibility of fire
or Monsanto, an enemy
shared by man and tree alike.

This New Day

..begun with birdsong and dew;
and a  newspaper that’s  a smear
of condensation and sensationalism
(soon only the scandal sheets
will survive.)

Each day
marks the end of something…
flexibility, dexterity, temerity…
the probability that today it might be
the end of war and world hunger
is a jump even on this optimistic morning
when May and the sun conspire for perfection
but the possibility is there.

Hungry souls
sense what they never know.
Somewhere inside
all of us live alone.  Breathe deeply
as if consciousness expands
with the lungs.  Take that first sip
of dawn and with it a hit of reality…
This day will be what we make it.

This New Day

..begun with birdsong and dew;
and a  newspaper that’s  a smear
of condensation and sensationalism
(soon only the scandal sheets
will survive.)

Each day
marks the end of something…
flexibility, dexterity, temerity…
the probability that today it might be
the end of war and world hunger
is a jump even on this optimistic morning
when May and the sun conspire for perfection
but the possibility is there.

Hungry souls
sense what they never know.
Somewhere inside
all of us live alone.  Breathe deeply
as if consciousness expands
with the lungs.  Take that first sip
of dawn and with it a hit of reality…
This day will be what we make it.

A Door Closes, A Window Opens*

Silence roared,
followed
by the slamming
of a door.  The room
was stifling until
an open window
let a fresh breeze in.
Such is the perfect time
to be remembering:
For every exit
that demands its way,
an entry opens
on a brand new day.

The original quote, which is attributed to Alexander Graham Bell, is as follows:

“When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.”