When I think about you
Sun starts blazing…
Moon starts gazing…
Stars start jazzing…

When I think about you
Some thoughts come by & by…
My heart joys…
My heart cries…

When I think about you
Wind starts to blow…
Time passes slow…
My heart fills with sorrow….

When I think about you
Some thoughts take me high…
Some feelings turn me sigh…
Some reminiscences make me gay…

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at WHEN I…...

 Trees decked out in Joseph’s coat

Reds, yellows, orange, rust, green

And every hue in between.

 Leaves dancing and fluttering in the wind

 Drop to earth

In a dizzy spin.

This wonderful display

Is short lived.

Winters winds will soon move in,

 Earth takes on a

Different glow

With the arrival of first white snow.

Bundle up and brave the cold

Use both hands

Your hat to hold.

Quickly scurry to where

You’re going

Because the winds are

Coldly blowing.

Hurry home where the fire glows.

It will toast your frozen toes.

Have yourself a nice

Hot toddy

It will quickly

Warm your body.

Slip off your shoes

Turn the TV on

 Watch the news.

Sleepily walk up the stairs

For your nightly snooze.

Say your prayers

 jump into bed.

Let the winds howl

And scream

While you enjoy

 Some pleasant dream.

Thomas Fenning

10/22/04

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Autumn.

An Angel helped me write these lines-
She is always here with me!
Im sending HER to you today,
In a dreamers poetry!

I tell her “fly away out WEST!”
“Across the prairies wide-
And help a heart to find her rest-
The lonely bed beside!

Thy say there is a better land-
And it must surely be-
Or else why would an Angel come
And…..stay an hour……with me?

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at A Better Land.

Dreams, Old Dreams, is a funny old man-
For you never, never can tell0
Which of his dreams, when the night time comes,
HE…..IS BRINGING TO YOU……TO SELL!

It may be a dream, of the “Hellava” time
When Herrman crossed the divide-
Then…durried home….tho no alone…..
For…..Joan….was by his side!

Or it may be a dream of a HAPPY day -
I think it comes in June-
When the Kissners get sick
At the “Big Picnic”……..
Then…..drive home…..under the moon!

Or it may be a dream, of the “Golden Days”-
With all the world in a WHIRL-
And you had bot, that “Hellava” watch-
That you gave…..to the wrong girl!

For all these dreams come drifting home-
When the wind down the river is fair-
You can see them roosting, all alone,
On the Damn Antenna, there!

And….SOMETIMES a dream oof an Unknown Lan,d,
Tho it is not so far-
Te home where we all have to go someday-
The “Land where the angels are”

For every person has his dream
Where ever the wnds blow free!
And I have sent in Golden Rime-
These Dreams….to you from….me!

At ast each dreamer, from his dream,
unwillingly, awoke!
And…neither of his precioius dream
unto the other spoke
But of the love they bore those dreams
Gave each his tender sign!
For…..THERE WAS TRIUMPH in his eyes-
And…ther were TEARS….in mine!”

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Remembering Howard and K..

Its all so different now, maybe my song can bring it back, for some of the farmers, of years ago.

Old Springtime

Oh the happy, happy Farmer-
He is getting ready now-
To harness up the horses -
and attach them, to the plow!

The wild geese, flying over-
Flying far- and flying free-
And the Prairie Farmer’s Dreaming -
There his greatest pleasures be!
He can hear the wild heese calling,
Flying free, and flying far-
And the tired farmers dreaming-
There his only pleasures are.

Theres a hill, away out yonder-
theres a field, that once was mine!
In the years, beyond tomorrow-
Take me back, to supper-time!

With the horses, standing chewing,
In the od grey barn, out there-
And the wind, just softly blowing,
O’er a land, of little care!

Take be back, to those old spring days-
When he Farmer, followed a plow,
And the world was way out yonder-
Past the hills- Forgotten now,

And the days, were long and quiet=
Even birds, had time to sing-
There were buffalo-trails to follow,
To get water, from the spring.

WE could hear, the wild geese calling-
From the clouds, that drift, and blow-
Drift and blow, across the summer,
And the spring-time, LONG AGO.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at The Dakota Farmer.

The endless plains reach on-
Nor know the dawning-
WORDS ON THE SKY-
WHO TAKES CARE OF MY SHEEP?

Who looks after the Fold?
Why did God MAKE THEM?
to seek for HOME, within
A heartless world?
The lonely wind blowns on–
Nor waits to answer
While winter comes-
With withered leaves underled-

Come to me throgh the dusk-
cross the cornfield-
Oh Dreamer, whome I knew
In years gone by-
Before the little DEER
Came to the prairie-
To leap in glad disdain
Through prairie sky!

The mother deer leaped
From her bed of brambles-
Or Russian thistle weeds-
And warmthless clay-
To meet a steelclad bullet-
Science molded-
To cut through her soft skin
Her heart away!

Her last call, like a
Falling star unheeded-
By men; but sent to bring
The young Faun home-
Was answered by the Father Deer,
Who hurried, to lend
His pitiful aid-
TO DAVE HIS HOME!
OUT THERE ON THE HEARTLESS
PRAIRIE…….all alone.

Those quick steps were his last-

He fell beside her-

His antlers in the dust-

Nor do they care-

BUT LAUGH, to see

the little FAUN come running-

the sunshine lingers-

on here silver hair.

The SHOOT IT TOO-

So they can get their LIMIT-

A Prairie Chicken calls

From far away-

They slip a noose around

Their head and pull it-

AND HANG THEM IN A TREE

FOR THEIR LAST DAY!

It was a old fall day

In earlt morning-

Even the drifting clouds

Seemed half asleep;

The endless plains reached on,

NOR KNEW THE DAWNING-

WORDS ON THE SKY-

WHO TAKES CARE OF MY SHEEP?

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Who takes care of my sheep?.

The news came from Washington,
right from the wire-
“Feed-the-poor-pheasants!” like
a prairie on fire!
John found a pheasant, its last
strength was shorn,
And it died in his hand, too late
to eat corn!

The pheasants get such a sad
gleam in their eyes,
When they take the last look, at
the wide open skies!
They can’t dig through snow, a
few weed-seeds forlorn,
And all that they need, a few
handfuls of corn!

The big Soil Bank acres, that’s
where they lay,
The snow is so deep, and they
can’t get away!
You find the big holes they dug,
struggling along,
With nothing to eat, and the
strawpiles are gone.

The spring-days are only a short
ways away–
The brook will be singing, where
soft breezes play:
The grainfields will wave, as the
warm wind goes by:
But not for the bird who looked
last at the sky.

They once were so happy, the
summer-days made
“A Garden of Eden!” in sunshine
and shade,
They died in a snowdrift, for-
saken, forlorn,
When no one came down the
road, bringing them, corn.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at “Save the Pheasants”.

The wild geese flying over-
Flying far- and flying free-
Oh, the Prairie Farmers dreaming-
There his greatest pleasures be!

He can hear the wild geese calling
Flying free, and flying far-
And the tired Farmer’s dreaming-
There his only pleasures are!

Theres a hill, away out yonder-
Theres a field- that once was mine-
In the years beyond tomorrow,
Take me back, to supper-time!

With the horses standing chewing-
In the old grey barn, out there-
And the wind, just softly blowing-
O’er a Land of little care!

Take me back, to those old spring days,
When the Farmer, followed plow-
And the world was way out yonder-
Past the hills, we saw put west-
And the days were long, and quiet-
Even birds had time to sing-
When I heard, the wild geese calling-
From the clouds, that frift and blow-
Drift and blow, across te summer-
And- the – spring – time — long ago.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at SPRING DAYS..

When prairie winds blow as the winter goes by
She sleeps there alone without me
And my fiddle keeps singing of a long ago summer
like the leaves in the cottonwood tree
Tho youth has gone by
And the young days are gone
Then she is here- with my fiddle and me
And we still are singing of the bright days of summer
The young girl and the fiddle and me

The last days of summer
When i was a young man
And her daddy asked me “when are you gunna wed?
I looked away across the snow, and I told him-
and i might-
“I’ll get a fiddle instead.”

Now the years have gone by
And the young days are gone
And the fiddle still hangs around with me
And the young girl is sleeping alone on the prairie
in her grave by the cottonwood tree

I remember the day and the cranky old man
and the girl who was still seventeen
and my fiddle keeps singing of a long ago summer
of school days and the sunshine and beam
Oh the years have gone by and the young days are gone
there are the songs on the prairie for me and the young girl is sleeping
thirty years along by the cottonwood tree

This was a pupil of mine when I was a teacher. I was her teacher fifty years ago.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Last Night of Seventeen.

John had been out here at HOME, in Dakota, and head seen the bundle-stacks,
and the HOBOS pitching them in the machine, and these bundles were the
“MEMORIES OF SUMMER”……

My heart, O it’s not in the city…..
With its crowds, moving where, no one knows!
It is out on the plains….that are pretty………
With their winds….and their storms……and their snows!

Its out where the sunsets are gleaming!
In purple, and russet, and gold!
And the freedom is great as is told in
The tales of the VIKINGS of old!

Its out where “THE MEMORIES OF SUMMER”
DO STAND IN THE TRAIL OF THE BO-
Who comes with his pitchfork, and “hummer”- (little tune he hums)
AND STAYS TILL THE NORTHERNERS blow! (NORTHERLIES)

THE PRAIRIES…..THE PRAIRIES ARE CALLING!
Me back to my horse and my plow-
AND IT’S THERE THAT MY BUNK I’LL BE HAULING
AS…..SOON…..AS….THE….FATES….WILL….ALLOW!

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Memories of Summer.