This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at why do we ponder.

or how the PRAIRIE wind…..goes singing by!

I will not pause an hour again to build
A castle….in the far dim land of DREAM-
Or how the wind flows ever whispering by-
Or bright with GOLDEN LEAVES
THE OLD TREES LEAN!

I think there is an ANGEL very near-
Who tells me how to weave each word….and line:
Then we together sing this SILLYSONG-
Or play it on this Old Violin of mine!

I can not climb again the prairie hills-
Or walk for miles, or dow some dusty lane-
So let me KEEP this only land I know….
Of stars, and gleeming sky……
AND…..FAR OFF RAIN!

Thats as fine a poem as I can write… I didn’t write it, the ANGEL DID….as I say in my song. If its good enough for her, its GOOD ENOUGH FOR ANYBODY…..even John F. Kennedy, only HE is dead. Woner how long it will be before they SHOOT BOBBY?

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

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 wind was blowing the prairie grass-
Both of us boys were poor-
And PA said “JONNIE WILL NEVER COME BACK
TO THE “Old Farm” ANY MORE!”
He took with him my Violin-
He took with him my dreams-
And all the stories, all the joys,
We had in Happy Days!

I plow as then, the Old Home Fields-
The meadow sings its song!
And all the winds of summer weave
A down the rows of corn;
The wild winds of the Prairie,
However far they roam-
CAN NEVER LIFT THE CART DUST
OF THE “WANDERER”…COMING HOME!

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at When J.O. superintendant left home at seventeen..

Out of the GOLD of the fading west,
On strings of the slanting rain;
ANGEL….bring me another song,
On the slanting strings of the rain!

You can laugh about “WHOSE BOYS THERE ARE”
In the shade of the appletree…
I have woven them into an ANGEL SONG….
AND THE SONG BELONGS TO ME!

Out of the DUST of a prairie road,
Softly the melodies chime-
Wrote on the clouds of the evening sky!
Played as the wings of the wind go by-
THIS SONG IS NOT YOURS……IT’S MINE

The road was steep and dark and long,
And though a bleak and lonely land-
but God gave me the GIFT OF SONG,
And put a lantern in my hand!

And I am faithful to my rhymes,
And though the dusty days they sing;
And where the wild wind leads away-
So short, the fleeting hours of May.

They have left her out there in her grave
North of town….
She can write no more letters to me;
But a BLUE FEATHER came, through the night,
Drifting down……
And I know that her HEART is set free!

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at This Song is Mine.

Without the contemplation of my endurance.

Endless tears gush, yet, strong to conceal from the world.

Worse dawn and unkind dust, but still, memories are at its finest.

Staying alone, want to shriek and sob what would I have to do, flipside the worst?

Life, isn’t a bliss without you, waiting in wish, like I do?

Hope seems to die, lost the sport of love and life.

Still alive yet dead.

Out of globe need to know, what fun had deity?

Making his own child, depart life in despair for love.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Devoid of Love.

Copper mirrors, reflections haunting
the stain’s remain.
Amber cinnamon figures taunting
the snuff- colored dead.
Sepia clouds burnt sanity’s
mintage eye.
Stable needles through salt’s
seed.

Coral tears of pain.
Cursed blush of fear.
Grass consuming tanned sin.
Sienna dust-covered leaves.
The river along the shadowed valley
glazed the moonlight.

Beauty, a paragon devil
embalming fluid for the graves
and the crystals shared silver
stars breathing the night’s
tomorrow.

(Copper sweater the angel wore backwards
with neon toes)

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Half Silver, Half Gold, Copper Sweater.

jorc709

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Pandora’s prayer.

I pray
Every night before going to bed.
Before and after
Every meal.

No man
Has seen my face
Since the day I turned 13
Except my husband.

My daughters
Are good
I teach them well
But take no praise
Upon myself.

The Holy Book
I know by heart
Recite it in my sleep.

Cut my flesh
To show my pledge
Devotion eternal
I said.

But….

Last night
They came and took my child
Flesh from my womb
Blood of my blood
Killed her
Threw
Her remains into the dustbin
With flies, wrappers
Banana peels

Then I know
Within my heart
You God
Are not a woman.

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This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at God is a Man.

it’s been more than a year now,, since father left us,, mother, and i alone.. things have not been easy,, but we are making our way,, in this strange world,, into which we’ve both been thrown…

with father gone, and little in the coffer,, after his illness and burial and such,, our one saving grace,, has always been, the ivory keys on fathers old piano,, under mothers gentle touch..

every eve, after we’ve sup’ed,, in the dim light before we go off to bed,,, mother sits down, and speaks thru those keys.. they are her words… words left unsaid….

she speaks sometimes of her love for him,, and the music is soft and sweet,, it is playful and ticklish and smiling,, sometimes i have noticed her blush,, with a thought,, perhaps indiscreet….

and others she will wail,, and bang down hard,, on the surface of black and white keys.. reliving her days of frustration,, whilst fighting that horrible disease..

the wasting sickness that swept up father,, like a pile of old spent leaves,, and carried him away to the dustbin of life,, like a swift cold unforgiving breeze…

sometimes she will play,, and i am sure that it is,, hope i hear springing to glorious life,, and as she continues i pray that it wont spiral down yet again,, filling her heart with strife…

it has been for us both,, a blessing and a curse,, our nights spent around that piano,,, catharsis, and hope,, anger and joy,, she’s accompanied us,,, mother and i,, where ever we go..

and tomorrow when they come,, and haul her away,, to her new home in a place far from here,,, we will look on with sadness,, as if we are losing a friend, one we have both held most dear..

i cant help but wonder how we will fill our nights,, with both her and father reposed,, just mother and i in the still of the eve,, after supper,, when the drapes are all closed..

will we sit every night in the darkness,, speechless, thinking solely,, never saying a word?? or will it draw us closer,, on this road full of losses, which together she and i,, have incurred..

it is my solemn prayer,, that one night very soon,, mother will draw me to her bosom and say,, “tho’ it hasn’t been easy i’m richer by far,, having you,, daughter,, here with me each day…

by: paisley

photo:
At the Piano by James Whistler

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