The ranch on which I hang my hat, though short on most the frills,
Is thirteen sections, give or take, of rugged trails an’ hills.
We call it ‘home’, our little world, our very own frontier,
Amongst the cattle, sheep an' goats; the varmints, hogs an' deer.
Today I watched the breakin' dawn an' whiffed the mornin' air,
A time I often set aside for things like thought an' prayer.
A Mockin'bird an' Mornin' Dove, an' other birds at play,
Were there to sing an' set the mood to start another day.
This mornin' saw the strangest thing, like time itself had merged,
An' all the souls who once were here, appeared an' then converged.
In swirlin' clouds of mist an' fog, right off the bluffs they rolled,
Till all had gathered in the glen, the modern an' the old.
The Indians, conquistadors, an' other ancient men,
The soldiers from this country's wars, an' cowboys from back when…
They all had come from yesterday to help me understand
Our link with those who came before, to heritage an' land.
A crazy notion, so I thought, that they could just appear,
But as the morning went along the reason got real clear.
They rode along with me that day to show me things I’ve missed,
The things I’ve seen a thousand times an’ some I’d just dismissed.
Those wagon roads of long ago, still evident today,
Are carved in rock an' rutted earth, not apt to wash away.
They linked the missions, forts an' towns those many years gone by;
An' left their mark for all to see, as modern times grew nigh.
The artifacts an' weathered ruins attest to yesterdays,
When others came an' lived their lives in very different ways.
We've seen their skill in arrowheads they honed from fired stone,
An' craftsmanship in beads an' tools they fashioned out of bone.
At ever turn and trail we took was something to remind,
The Maker must have had a plan laid out for humankind.
The Earth He made’s been feedin' us a half-a-million years,
An' used it's wonder, force an' change to challenge pioneers.
I do not know if they'll return or if they’ll feel the need,
But I’m prepared to ride the trail, where ever it may lead.
We all are spirits ridin’ time with bodies of the Earth,
Whose time has come to take the reins an’ offer up our worth.
The land has been the legacy we cultivate an’ reap,
The life has been the heritage our father’s fought to keep,
An’ we are bound throughout our time with those who came before,
To put our hearts and souls to it, and make it something more.
Take me beat me and mold me
I am yours to do with what you wish
No matter what you do with me
I am still considered quite a dish.
I can modify your hardness
I can let you know when to boil
I can conduct a heat in you
And I will never let you spoil.
I don’t react harshly, if you get me moist and wet
You’ll still love me in the morning, on that I think I’ll bet
I will still be malleable, no matter what you do
You can beat me to transparency, and yes you see right through.
I am a bright yellow colour, with a lustre some would die for
Keeping me in condition, would never become a chore
If you really wanted too, you can put me in your mouth
I can even adorn your body parts, North, West, East and South…
I don’t react to an acid tongue, except those that are vitriolic
But you can dissolve me with the acid, called nitro hydrochloric.
You can pour me when I’m so very hot too hot for you to play
Then you can finger me when I have cooled, and play with me all day
You can eat off me, or with me, the choice will be yours
They say I came from outer space, in fact in meteors
But one thing I will say I don’t wear out or lose my lustre, it is told
So if you pick me up treat me well, I am you little nugget of gold.
© 14/12/2012 ~GG~
YOUTH AND OLD AGE
Get off your galloping horse of youth’s impressions
Stop looking down upon old age with contempt
You still on the planes of doubt and uncertainties
Having not yet made in life any real attempt
Not even a hill of problems have you ascended
Neither have you faced a serious thunderstorm
How is it possible for you ever to be assuming
Without experience your elders to reform?
You better stop and think for a single moment
All those whose heads have turned white or gray
How many hills of harms and mountains of troubles
Have they been through and climbed to this day
Your youth, a spectacular time, for you to enjoy
Dreams to make of what you would wish to assure
Sadly though the future for you a possibility is only
For everyone knows that nothing in life is for sure
So the preferable thing you ought to be doing
Is to listen carefully to these experienced old folks
For better it is to learn from mistakes they made
Than knowledge to gain from your very own faults!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
30 NOVEMBER 2013
A WORD IN A BOOK
No book is written with one word
No matter how vital it may appear
For that we carefully have to think
Every word, for the book, is so dear
A verb, an adjective, a noun one may be
That describes what we are and do
Or he is a period, a colon or a comma
That emphasis puts and gives us a clue
Each of us a meaningful role plays
In life’s voluminous book sublime
On the chapter titled “Humanity”
In the paragraph of space and time
None of us more significant must feel
From the other words next in line
Regardless how trivial they may seem
It is them that our functions define
Our gratitude to all words around us
At every instance we have to show
For without their valuable presence
We would never be able to glow
What kind of a word “king” would be
What sort that of a “general” of glory
If “subjects” and “soldiers” were not there
To assist them write their story?
© Demetrios Trifiatis
01 NOVEMBER 2013
Together the Owl and the PusyCat were married
Then again sailed out over the deep blue seas
Searching forever for the great Land of Nod,
To the place where they could find true peace.
True peace, true peace… Where they could find true peace.
The love that twined forever within their hearts
They sought throughout all the wonderous lands
Going to the place where they would live in peace,
A place where true peace, rules and lives in the hearts of the land.
The land, the land… Where true peace lives in the heart of the land.
Alas, the love of the heart, though truly not easy to find…
Is easier to find than the love of peace, found throughout the land.
So it’s said they will continue to sail, until that day comes true,
And when they land for the final time, will be up to me and you.
Me and you, me and you… That day will be up to me and you.
I remember the day when comments were the main
They're all very instrumental to the Soup's mainframe
Some comments are influential that created other writes
And many were like tuition that kept us crisp and bright
But there now appears a drought growing larger every day
We need to increase our comments as they help us write our says
Maybe it's time for change, for the Soup to alter it's route
Many foundations have recently left, will others follow suit
The columns showing us the views, tells us nothing at all
How many have clicked on a poem thinking that's a bit of a trawl
So another poem was open and not a word was read
So basically the views are worthless, because comments are our thread
We can learn from our comments but we will never learn from the views
It's our democratic choice for all, of what we do and choose
Nothing stays the same for ever as it appears to be
It's still the worlds best poetry site, that's down to you and me
Eeney meany is what I will say
Which God shall I pray to today
It all depends on how I fee
And which one gives the better deal..
The work I did was playing with the angels
We read and painted, dressed up for Halloween as rangers
The Universe so close from dry, paper mache
With older kids we even wrote an Etheree
The work I did was traveling to Europe
With twenty of my students and an antelope
We colored windows facing the lights of Paris
and even opened a brasserie "Gateau de Bliss"
So, Carolyn, you made me smile opening this album
When asking "Where the Wild Things Are? " Ka-boom!
Again it's "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs"
...but empty are long gone Elementary School halls...
Riddled face, weary under clouds quite late,
night of hope screeches of decent meal to eat.
A boy cups his hands again, a hunched fate
plucking tin can on lanes primed for the elite.
Cold the body wrapped like soiled paper bag
approaching cars and men with dollar points,
and bypassed like a nameless stamp, a rag
while he coughs for some gentle plea: coins, coins.
Then, the waif rushed to me near the helm
claiming a folder got pinned on my backseat door,
with pure kindness in his eyes; I felt ashamed
casting doubt on his intent, my breath appalled.
“Thank you”, let’s talk a while was my invite
as we dined, the stench of poverty I dismissed.
Gazing at a warm face that spoke of grim plight,
he longed of math and arts , important on his list.
This boy, stirring me back to values of kindness,
received a free education in lower grade school.
The folder he saw, a prize I won as bonus
reclaimed my sense of charity, my inner jewel.
Thank You Contest: Patricia Ellis
Oh how well I do remember
Dear Miss McConnell’s typing class.
Fumbling fingers seeking home keys,
And so afraid I wouldn’t pass.
The quick brown fox jumps over the…..
I was assigned that exercise.
No lettering on the keypads,
My fingers had no help from eyes.
Dropping out was not an option,
In Miss McConnell’s typing class,
For she tolerated failure
About as well as she did sass.
So with real determination,
I had achieved to some degree
Enough success for Miss McConnell
To give a passing grade to me.
These were manual typewriters
A secretary’s tool for years.
There was no way to fix our errors
Than with whiteout and messy smears.
My expertise on the typewriter,
Won me a job and first pay check.
I was so happy Miss McConnell
Had saved me from the hunt and peck.
I was wary of electrics.
I didn’t like them very much.
They would stammer and keep typing
When they felt my heavy touch.
But of course one can't stop progress,
And my manual was replaced.
But not until today's great wonders
Could errors simply be erased.
Written April 16, 2013 for contest "The Typewriter"