Oh how I wish
I could set free
the native American Indian
with pride and dignity
taking them back
across the great open plains
to their sacred home
in the lush green vallies
where buffalo are plentiful
so the Indians can live in peace
one with nature once more
where the eagles soar
setting them free as the wind
wild untameable as a magnificent stallion
running toward the setting sun.
Outrider early morn,
When training hours are borne,
They are the needed arm,
Sun, cold, wind, rain or storm,
Outrider in the sun,
Whose work is never done,
Where horses on the run,
Keep bettors having fun,
Outrider in the cold,
Ones with hearts so bold,
Their stories often told,
Of skillful ways they rode,
Outrider in the rain,
Sha'n't wait the weather wane,
Is there to help again,
When loose ones run insane,
Outrider in the wind,
An utmost needed friend,
May everywhere they wend,
Such godspeed be with them,
Outrider in the night,
No fear, no fame, less light,
Night racing at its height,
Make safe the riders plight,
Outrider by and by,
Whether wet or weather dry,
They heed the riders cry,
They're the best, we can't deny,
Many "Thanks" we horsemen reply.
LAKE OF THE WOODS
As I sit here gazing at my view of this magnificent lake I feel inspired, and simply genuine as a human being.
It is a cool April day, very sunny with a more than gentle breeze coming through my window.
The brown grass in a few weeks will be anxious to turn a velvet green after a little
more heat, and many more raindrops.
The birch tree beside my window is patiently waiting to produce its foliage
It is a peaceful time, and a gentle time on this late Saturday afternoon.
The seagulls play in the air and welcome me to their view.
May nothing upon this earth interrupt God's beauty of this place, and may the serenity of Lake of the Woods forever rest in peace.
Tall and pure oasis
So much has changed
You remain constant and lovely
Gentle, morning green grass
Breaks like waves, laps at the shores
Of white, gray, and yellow stones
Towering above me, silent and sure
Chiseled marble, granite spires, oak
Wrought iron, your scent is old
A familiar volume I keep close to me
The reflections in your pools
Still glass, not a leaf disturbs
Irises cling to your walls
The distance beyond you sways
Spreading lazily into shade trees
Sun-tinted pastures and weathered fences
I walk with reverence, still, after so long
Your ground is my sanctuary
It houses my past
I am a child forever in front of you
Atlantis, the last of the spacecrafts, left this exterior of world
For the scientific expeditions and to discover something new.
Such heroic spacecrafts search new planets, aliens and herald
New discoveries to us that delude our conscience like the dew.
Send no more spacecrafts to search Aliens (even if these exist)
But send some Land-crafts to the Planet of the Poor, this Earth.
The Poor wait, starved and neglected, with an empty open fist
Where to born as destitute is a Curse and cursed is every birth.
A single gram of meal for an Astronaut costs more, yes, more
Than the whole year cost of a poor man who lives to struggle.
Send a Land-craft, at least, to this unexplored planet of poor,
You will discover luminescence of God in their simple smile.
You scrape a living in a harsh barren land,
never ceasing the hope,
that rain will finally come.
Covered with spines, you brace, and wait out every storm,
yet bearing fruit, just those few days of the year.
You bring color to the desert, ever reaching to the heavens.
Brushing off dismemberment,
a new shoot where a severed limb once sprouted.
Seemingly the giant of the wasteland,
but often, merely a small potted plant.
Knowing full well that the next day may very well be your last.
The scorch of the noonday sun blazes down,
drying, burning, razing to the ground,
what has clung desperately to life.
But still, the Cacti, endure...
The small home fills as the beer keg empties,
A half moon hears each merrymaker’s call,
Cozy against walls are tufted settees,
And the rug’s been rolled up, waits in the hall.
She’s brought to a corner, then lifted high,
~Tucked under a chin ~ Queen of the Céilidh~
Fine tuners are turned, a tragic note drifts,
~When string strokes string hearts sigh~
The sad lament makes revelry allay,
An old woman scowls as someone’s knee shifts.
A new tune begins, a rollicking reel,
Hands clap gleefully as feet meet hard wood,
This mad melody drives both toe and heel,
They learned this step dance in early childhood.
She ends the second set, they demand more,
~So she plays a jig ~ Queen of the Céilidh ~
Her kiss of chords stirs ingrained memory
~When string strokes string hearts soar~
Their true homeland seems not so far away,
For music can built a bridge over sea.
A yawn is stifled; a child nods his head,
Song after sweet song has stretched the long night,
And yet her bow resists its satin bed,
As though it longs to play ‘til morning light.
One last air floats, a harmonious stream,
~Soft Gaelic she speaks ~ Queen of the Céilidh~
No words are needed, only lore and folk,
~When string strokes string hearts dream~
Hastening time itself to fade away,
Though eternal is the pride she evokes.
*By Cyndi MacMillan, Oct 10, 2011 (Thanksgiving Day)
**For Nette Onclaud’s “Sound Madness” Contest
***The instrument I chose is: The Cape Breton Fiddle
ABOUT THIS POEM
A céilidh (pronounced kay-lay) is a Scots-Gaelic social gathering where music is played and people dance. Impromptu céilidhs in homes still happen frequently in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. Step dancing is popular there.(similar to ‘Riverdance’.)
If interested, here is a short clip of a céilidh with fiddles and step dancers. FUN!! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_LzQG5tLZ0
Eternal Father, strong to save
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave.
Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep
Oh hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea
For Those in Peril on the Sea
A welsh morning blesses Church in the Sea,
I walk its causeway, lost somewhere in time,
St Cwyfan has stood for nine centuries,
Though ancient stone is now clouded by lime.
The wind chides to loud gulls, a tranquil hush.
Mariner’s hymns rise from beholden waves,
Land, ocean and sky careens and collides,
Hours would dare not rush~
As I remember the fallen and brave,
And here I’ll stay ‘til evicted by tide.
The arched door is closed, the windows are dark,
But a church bench provides a place to pray,
This islet is peaceful, though it seems stark,
Across cool waters, Shetland ponies play.
Thick walls retain stories, laughter and tears,
The mourning of death, the joy of new birth,
Praise to the Lord for the bounty of fish,
A fortress against fears~
This solid structure hewn from blood and earth,
Mainland’s exclusion, a shunning brutish.
I look down at my feet, see the headstones,
Sentinels all, guardians of this clay,
Above the sun shines, while I stand on bones,
Wale’s beauty revealed in all I survey,
Rugged, eternal, strength tempered by grace.
Rocks pillowed by lichen, green tufty moss
Grants plovers a dance floor; they do a reel,
God sings in this still place~
Regales me with joy, then whispers of loss,
Tomorrow I’ll think; today I’ll just feel.
*By Cyndi MacMillan, Sept 25, 2011-09-25
For Constance’s “The Church by the Ocean” contest
Church in the Sea (Yes, IN) was built on the mainland of Anglesey, Wales, but due to soil erosion, now resides on its own islet. Photos and info:
...a darling dear of time is when the tick-tock, of the clock stops, during a dancing wind chimes rendition of just how invisible things move me, to write, darling dear a rhyme,
the peak of a mountain top experiencing,
O' darling dear
a love letter,
just one of those things that
of the everlasting.
myrrh marred marinas and goose-stepped geese
set sapphire to salacious rhythm under the absent sun…
a fantastical flamenco curtailed caustic cues,
nine-balled eighths shot straight to the soul,
pool for the favelas, thought for the fools…