Long Farm Poems. These are the most popular long Farm by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Farm poems by poem length and keyword.
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They were the best of friends to the best of friendship
They did everything together to the best of friendship
The three wise men that came together from different locations
One from the north, one from the west, the other from the east
These three friends has three different lands in different locations
Trees with different fruits filled their lands; it is a feast
The three friends visited each others farmland anytime they wish
Everything was perfect; there was never any cause to quarrel
The friendship was intact as palm fruit to the hand of a squirrel
So close they live close; always friends.
These friends have another friend that has a brother; both from the south
The three friends met this southern friend and his brother at different time and place
One friendship linked to another friendship and they all became friends
The friend from the south also has a farmland that the friends were free to visit
The five friends have many things in common that brings them regularly together
Everything bound by the seek for fun; anything that gives fun is welcomed
Even though these five friends are close, some are more close to another
The friend from the east is closer to the friend from the west
The friend from the north is closer to the friend from the south
The closer they lived close; still same friends.
There are two or more special trees in the different farmlands of the friends
Since these friends visits each others farm, they became automatic friends with the trees
These special trees are all matured with fruits; anyone can pluck and eat them
These friends have special trees they feed on their fruits from other people’s farmland
There was no rule not to feed on the fruits of the special trees in the friends different farmlands
Somehow it feels natural not to desire fruit from the special trees of the friends’ different farmlands
Nobody said but it seems natural that the fruits in the special trees the their friends farmland is sacred
Believing fruits in the special trees are sacred, there was a natural limit to interaction with the special tree
You can see and talk to the special trees but never to touch and pluck its fruits let alone eat it
Any outsider can pluck and eat the fruits of the special trees but out of bounds for friends.
It happened that the friend from the north has a liking for all special trees irrespective of where it is
It’s interesting to know that every special tree has a liking for the friend from the north irrespective of who he is
This friend from the north got close and closer to the special trees in his friends different farmlands
The friend from the north became more of a friend to the special trees more than his friends
Two special trees became more attached to the northern friend; they don’t mind giving out their fruits to him
The friend from the north asked his friends if it’s okay to pluck and eat the fruits of the special trees in their farms
The friends responded its okay so far they remain unaware when he starts plucking and eating from the special trees
For the northern friend, he has been issued a Go-ahead warrant to pluck and eat as much as he can
The friends were insincere with the approval given to the northern friend he cost them much
They really cared about the special tree so much they can’t let anyone eat it not even friends.
As days passed, the northern friend plucked and ate the fruits of the special tree in the western friend’s farmland
Time come time pass, he plucked and ate the fruits of the special tree in the eastern friend’s farmland
The two special trees grew very fond of the northern friend; they over-fed him more than he asked
The two special trees are ignorant that they are both eaten from; they hear the rumors and ignore it
The northern friend grew very fond of the special trees that he weeds their surroundings
The two special trees are struggling to make sure he ate from only one of them; he ate from both
The special tree from the west forced him to commitment with a promise to feed him all season
The special tree from the east is confused, just doesn’t know what to do as its owner is acting boss
The northern friend still feeds from other special trees; this northern friend has sworn to gluttony
With a smile and an innocent look; the weeds beg to feed him their grasses all through the season.
These friends shared many things in common but some things can never be shared
They can’t share the special trees they feed on and they can’t share the ones in their farmlands
The northern friend plucking and eating grew out hand; the western and eastern friend can no longer tolerate it
One common predator that preys on their farmland; ravaging, plucking and eating recklessly
They tried every strategy possible to stop the northern friend’s quest for ‘feed me more’
These efforts was a waste; when the friends don’t visit, the special trees visit, feeding enhanced
Since all solutions failed; the western and eastern friend proffered another solution
Draw line to the friendship; desist from visiting the northern friend’s farmland
No longer close friends, they exchange fake smiles and other pleasantries
End of friendship for the best yet the feeding continues for the worst.
The Story of History
Beyond those beaten days’ depleted daylight
Beyond the bathos of a pandemic bondage
With the resurrected sashay’s charmed night
Down in the dumps at the pretentious proscenium
A shy orchestration sans bark and bite
Afloat in the air of inarticulate mind games
Intuitive rains, first ever, like the touch of Midas
Informed dense minds and filled their dented bowls
Birthing the quartet of Vedas and similar works
There was this epic, longest ever , they say
Bales and bales of tales in miscible moral wraps
With a natal nugget, on tall righteous props
The Mahabharata with the Gita, like Mata, Pita
And its transcendental twin revered more
For a daily hosanna..the Ramayana with a deep lore
Banish-evil-battle-cries, confronting blasted minds
Search lights, self’s unfoldment and its kind
Her children made but never did dig history
But loved digging up its bedraggled mystery
To find bone dry drains, history’s torn veins
Below multi layered mud and muddled bricks
Twisted and labored logic on tensile testaments
Sites that suffered blights thru unknowable nights
To find the four battens , the debacle, to follow
Someone on the way labeled it Harappa .
All the while Light ruled, but rigours too brewed
Calling often for a reordering of ways so crude
Then there were slices of truce..
Of collapsed black holes the horizon was full
Faded for once their gravitational pulls
Exploding back as eternal stars ..
Alongside kings ruled and kingdoms rolled
‘ Ruler’-coaster-rides on thrones and thorns followed
Till bandit chieftains erased the all important lines
To the dance of dust from an advancing west
Battling to drop anchors on motherly chest.
Bare-faced brigands. Among their odious offspring
Some stood out to shine with a stupendous ring
Either putting up statecraft’s show pieces
Or scripting epitaphs in eponymous edifices
Till dissipated and deterred they too heard
The trenchant call of folks come from far to trade
That would spell , in time, your damnation
In manacles of measured manipulations.
Against its prolonged , protracted reticulation
Rose legit gripes from gregarious formations
That would coalesce under the one and only Gandhi
Into their momentous waking into life and freedom
Split up, as it were, into two bickering fragments
To play fitfully, for ever, their petulant fiddles
Averse to complement under demagogic detours
Falsely comfy under the convenience of inheritance
Six decades of self rule on, your children feel conned
Not for failed hopes, but for the disharmony that haunts.
An one- sport -nation fixated with a fixing -fame-game
Movie-obsessed , and with its TV
Blank beyond trivia and brand names.
Money and food are no problem for many
But, for too many, they are; vehicles are plenty
But roads aren’t ; laws are varied and abundant
Some redundant , but every pervert who counts
Interprets them different and funnily implements.
Health care wears a five star halo sans humaneness.
It never frees a dying adult or kid from its kinky tubes
Nor permit the company of kin to them for one last time
Ignores the terminally and unmovably sick stuck at home.
Agriculture does well, but farmers don’t ,.. and kill themselves
Petty retailers are swell making a killing, selling farm produce.
Stupidity grows muscles to muzzle humanity
Hunks grow on vitamins, video games and vanity
Freed millions press after pelf and power, plays hell
With the weak and the women , their perennial fair game
Profiteering, covert, overt, and across the board
The sick, the student, the seeker after any service
Any victim or one with a gripe being its victims
That’s by the very cream , no less, all the same
Media scream with scam and spam all the time
Even the ones,( that’s about all), with their own aims
The combined do’s of brash bravado and venality
A rash on governance and a blot on name.
Effete ethics and moribund morals, seniors mumble..
‘Equality before law’ means ’ Advantage to the outlaw’
Freedom for the grabs means restraints to many
Succour often hard-to -reach and reaching-too-late
Louts and lousy offices dot street corners and roads
Governance press after targets too disparate
To cohere or collaborate towards a wholesome goal,
Leaving holes for private or pet agendas to infiltrate.
Front-end-folks or prickly pears?
Menace, malice, avarice, lies, police…
Unrestrained delight in deliberate discourtesies.
Why -dad-anyway-Why- not- call-him-uncle-attitudes…
What does not tempt is in for contempt,
Being irreverent to the important, and indifferent
To the different, is the norm and the trend.
Democracy could well slip into demonocracy
Like when “Two wolves and a goat vote to decide dinner”**
In the absence of the Will to lift it to meritocracy?
PS: This poem ( 100 lines, 777 words, as it turned about to be ) is about INDIA, my country.
*”Mata, Pita ‘ mean Mother, Father
** Based on a quote seen somewhere.
S.Jagathsimhan Nair, 26 May 2013,
For Cyndi MacMillan’s contest.
Scent Of Paddy Flower
By Goutam Hazra
My father told me
I was just a boy then,
“Follow the scent of paddy flower
move with the wind it carries,
surely you will go to heaven.”
he would catch
fistful of wind
bring near to my face
“Isn’t it godly!”
Magically, opened his hand
but I never felt
what scent he meant.
Days of kind rain
“Son, see the misty wind
rushing all over the paddy field
comes every year
to drink the scent of paddy flower.”
Mere as a boy
I could see only
tides of a green plane
touching my little finger
and racing far… too far.
I would ask
“Where have they gone?”
Smiled my father
“Did not you listen,
they are going to heaven,
call the goddess then,
‘come goddess dear’
we all are ready with paddy flower.”
Curious was my face,
“Goddess will arrive smiling
her feet will be here
Seeing a pot in her hand
all those paddy flowers
delighted, will open their mouth more wider
and life will be poured…”
“Where these flowers come from?”
Remained my father smiling
speaking all his mind
looking high at sky
asked me to see there
spoke he again.
“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
on the first day of its shower
kind rain would ask me to come here
with bagful of paddy seeds,
‘let seeds be spread all over,
let its eternal relation with soil
be the fertilizer’
when all said is done
starts showering its kind
make visible hiding life in the abyss of seed.
Happy wind changes color
being green all around
waits for the day
when the wind would smell the scent of paddy flower.”
Days passed by,
kind rain was still in waiting
sometimes hidden beyond horizon
or simply making sun blind with its smoky face
and whenever wind said,
‘Dry I’m now’
quenched the thirst.
Someday wind played naughty with sun
asked kind rain to make it misty
and with brushes of sun rays
painted a rainbow on the face of east sky.
Wait was over
green field blossomed with flowers
and wind said,
“Fill in my heart
with scent of flower
I shall bring life…”
Happy was my father’s voice
“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
green wind brining life
scent of paddy flower
is made so.
Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
kind rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours
with the scent of paddy flower.”
How old was I then
nine or ten
my father looked up
up to the sky
again and again
for a month long
only to see
change of sky’s color
from the color of a summer day to a long humid night.
Dry wind cried at last
over my father’s sweating body
“Rain, rain O kind rain, where have you gone.”
One day sudden
kind rain came again.
Cried to my father
“Why no green wind came this year
to bring me here.
Desert wind why
dry my breath
seeds you have sown
how could I then
enliven with my rain.”
my father had asked the rain.
Short-lived, hurried rain could spell its last breath,
“I am not that rain
as was your friend,
I am the curse of dying forest
I am the ghost of all pollution
I am born out of acid weather…”
Who knew, it left for where?
My father cried
As kind rain left him alone
hiding in a dry wind’s bone.
My father was still
going every morning
asking the soil
if soil could alone
make the paddy flowers to be born.
Year passed by,
came back the time,
for green wind to bring kind rain.
Rain came one day.
as a cloudburst
like an unkind monster
in the life of a simple farmer?
Dumb remained my father
for days together
sad was his voice at last,
“Run away, son, run away from here,
sky rain wind
river village land;
thread of this garland
who cuts it
go, stop now there hand.”
Draught and flood,
uncertainty of life
changed my mind
as of a farmer’s son.
Books, studies and education
reasons, truth and compassion
might have had fulfilled my father’s mission.
Does not this civilization
as the products to do more production.
Run, run and run
run ahead of time
let be it, at the cost of inhaling killer tension,
stress taking over your life.
Insomnia, cholesterol or cynicism
is our success’s companion?
‘A’ is shaped as ‘B’
and ‘B’ is sold as ‘C’.
but I found the basic
what it remain
as life’s supreme conviction
‘simply a fist full of paddy
and its grain’.
Scent of life
So here, I am again
standing in front of this green plane
searching for the shadow of my father.
Green wind surrounds my existence
I can see the dance of those bunches.
My mind whispers to my ear
echoes those words of my father,
“Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours
with the scent of paddy flower.”
I never felt so,
what I smell now
is the scent of paddy flower.
His Nameless Horse
The last horse my grandfather had
they shot one spring morning
behind the barn, in which it had
lived for many years without a name.
Peach trees were in bloom, pink
and striking, in chilly April air.
It was an old horse, its backbone
sagging like the roof of an old farmhouse;
it wore a gray matted coat of winter hair.
Its mane was dry like a spray of weeds,
and its hoofs were ringed with tufts
of dirty hair and bits of caked earth
and dung; its long tail fell listless
from its roughened rump
like a cluster of coarse bailing twine.
It was the last morning of its life.
It had eaten its last oats and taken
its last drink of well-water.
My grandfather entered the stable
and led the horse out to the outside
back pen. I followed behind as I had
so many times before. But that morning
the old horse walked with a limp
caused by a swollen, infected knee.
Surrouding the pen on one side, I saw
the men standing, pressed agaisnt each
other, faces drawn like mourners.
Then I saw it, the familiar rifle,
leaning against the weathered shingles,
the small red box of bullets next to
the butt. And I knew. I knew what
the old horse did not know. In dread I ran
back into the barn. I knew what the old
horse did not. And I pressed my hands
hars over my ears, and I waited. Waited
for the shot that would bring down
the old horse I had befriended, the old horse
I had talked to morning after morning,
the old horse I had fed pieces of carrot
and apple to; the gentle old horse whose
knotted mane and tail I used to brush,
the old horse I brought fresh water to
on hot afternoons, the old horse I used
to spread wood shavings over its stable floor.
I waited. And I knew what the old horse
could not know. I waited. And when
I heard the shot, my knees buckled
and I jerked as if the bullet had entered me.
And I fell to the ground and I groaned
and I cried, and I kept my hands hard
against my ears, shaking my head
as if to dislodge the sound of the shot
that had filled my head and amplified.
The old horse let out a sharp cry and fell
with a hard thud, like a big bag of grain,
its knees buckling under its weight,
collapsing on itself, a pile of dead horse.
What hurt most that morning was
my grandfather’s casual treachery –
not so much as a pat on the old horse’s
shoulder, not a word of farewell, no outward
sense of loss or sadness, no tears. Only
a cold guiltless betrayal, as it seemed to me.
And the men who had gathered there
that morning, they had come to watch
the killing. Did the old horse not recognize
their faces? Did it not wonder why
they were there? Did it not see the rifle,
the small red box of bullets? Could it not
have surmised it was going to be shot,
and by the very hands it had trusted,
the very hands that had fed and cared for it,
that had spoken to it like a friend for so
many years; hands that had mended
its harnesses, led it to pasture for so
many springs and summers, had walked
behind it for spring plantings, guiding
the plough it pulled, breaking the dark
earth into furrows, while the old man
dropped pieces of cut potatoes in the furrows?
How could the old horse not have known?
And they roped the dead horse
to the tractor, the small hole in its
forehead still leaking blood like
a liquid red ribbon. They dragged
its body to a secluded corner of the field
grown thick with greening yarrow
and new shoots of goldenrods,
the men following behind, silent
and solemn, to where the earth
had already been gutted open, waiting
like a gaping mouth to swallow
the horse’s carcass: a large meal
that would take years for the soil
to digest, leaving only a small depression
and a stench of rotting flesh
escaping slowly through a growth
of prickly blackberry, purple vetch
and swarms of buzzing insects.
The men stood silent and watched
the dead horse dragged and fitted
into the open grave. And they stood
around the grave gazing at the dead horse,
noting how neatly its body fit there.
Then, to my surprise, my grandfather
removed his hat and stared pensively
at the nameless creature he had killed,
the horse he had known for most
of his old age, the horse that had
served him selflessly. And wiping his eyes
with the back of his hand, he walked away.
Certain men then took up shovels
and began to fill the hole; the others
following my grandfather to the house,
talking in whispers, as if they had
witnessed the burial of one of their own,
one they would never see again.
And for as many springs as they might
live, they would talk about the old man’s
horse, the horse without a name,
the harmless creature they had come
to watch die on a chilly April morning
when peach trees were in bloom.
Michael and Carolyn came home again
Their busy lives disrupted by death's end
Not knowing they'd encounter love unrestrained
By coming home for mom's funeral to attend
Life has some changes for which to contend
Michael and Carolyn were shocked to learn
Their mother wanted cremation as her end
No way was his mother going to be burned
That is not the way of the people here
The attorney handling her will added more
Your mother made her request crystal clear
Her ashes at Roseman's Bridge to be poured
Michael could not believe what his ears heard
Francesca Johnson wouldn't say those words
Francesca Johnson wouldn't say those words
Daddy had bought two cemetery plots
Mother to be buried facing eastwards
Richard planned ahead not instant on the spot
Michael so upset about how this was going
So attorney said let's open safe deposit box now
We'll discuss this when settled is the knowing
But a can of worms this box will open somehow
As the attorney opens the large box
Michael and Carolyn gather around
The lawyer pulls out a paper from tenderbox
He says bill of sales for equipment found
Carolyn picks up a manilla envelope
She looks at contents as through a microscope
She looks at contents as through a microscope
Pictures of her mother who somehow looks different
Then Michael's wife takes one to slowly scope
Sis calls Michael to come look at pictures that flaunt
Carolyn leaves the room after she pulls out more
She starts to read a paper with questioning eyes
A paper from the 1965 dated envelope tore
She comes back to the door calls Michael with quiet sighs
Michael comes back into the room followed
by sis, he announces that they will look over papers
and get in touch, what's in the papers now shadowed
The letter contained words nothing to do with farm acres
The sting of shock of the letter within the papers
Michael and sis will learn whole story later
Michael and sis will learn whole story later
As they read the letter written by Kincaid
How his love for their mother is greater
Than an ordinary love, a love that didn't fade
Carolyn and Michael read Kincaid's letter
Learned how Kincaid was cremated and ashes spread
At Roseman Bride, Michael said this man influence her
He was leading our mom and confusing her head
Michael asked is there anything else in the envelope
Carolyn takes it and turns upside down
A key falls out, Carolyn lights up with hope
At what the key might fit smiles out of frown
The discovery of their mom's short affair
The letter revealed a touch of what the key declares
The letter revealed a touch of what the key declares
Carolyn takes the key to a chest in mom's room
Opens, finds mom's letter that tells of love that was theirs
Until death a love that remained in full bloom
Their mother in a letter tries to explain
She wants her children to understand her
And what happened years ago, her reasons to remain
She had written three journals about the affair and lover
One journal for each glorious love filled day
She starts by telling them when it happened
The year Carolyn showed her prize steer away
at the Illinois State Fair, 1965, way back then
From letters to journals the affair's revealed
A side of their mom that couldn't be real
A side of their mom that couldn't be real
Mom wrote, Robert Kincaid came down the lane Monday late
He asked for directions to Roseman's Bridge with appeal
With Italian accented English directions tried to dictate
Failing to convey the directions off hand
She said, "I can take you or tell you the way"
He said, "I don't want to take you from work's demands"
She said, " Let me get my shoes, he watched as she walked away"
As they drove away to find Roseman Bridge neither knew
An affair began that stayed with them their lifetime
There was chitchat on the way as appeal began to brew
Appeal that led to a lovestory sublime
Later they a meal shared as night fell
Each was drawn into the other's swell
Each was drawn into the other's swell
Now Michael and Carolyn are learning of their mother's love
A mother that they thought they knew well
Thinking that they and dad were mom's only doves
Now brought home to attend to mom's dying wish
And settle legal affairs of the estate
Not deal with an affair needing under rug to swish
Grown children whom mom wanted to illuminate
Maybe Michael and Carolyn would understand
Her desire to be cremated and ashes strown
at Roseman Bridge to mingle with Robert's ashes their holy land
For in those four days their love was crowned
To a sad, so shocking, learning occasion then
Michael and Carolyn came home again
Finis' April 10, 2014
Sponsor: Cyndi MacMillian
Contest:Mov(i)e Me With A Contemporary Crown Sonnet
First try at this form>>>
We have been observing the expanse of the parched land for many years, a land that stood the test of time and captivated by myriad dreams unfolding through the footsteps of the ages thus penetrating our lives. We gazed at the vast mountains and high lands with its luscious vegetation stretching thousands of miles from across them, Autumn on one side, Summer on the other, and Spring reluctantly emerging from a gruesome Winter that paralyzed the inhabitance of nature, stripping it from its wholesome prominence while it convalesce from the battered and bruised earth.
We languished at the sudden disappearance of the water valley and the vast landscape around it. As far as our mind could reach, and as far as our feet could travel we trod upon the visible land within our reach. Land that has never been inhabited stared at us; land that has never been farmed is waiting to be ploughed. I could hear my great, great, grandfather and my grandfather before him shouting at the boys to get out of bed, harnessed the horses and start plowing the land again.
We reminisce over acres of lands that our ancestors have fought for, land that spilled blood and claim the lives of innocent souls and fearless warriors, land that expands from ten generation, stood before us bare and empty, weeping for the souls who have fought furiously to preserve them.
This land that has fed us for more than a hundred years lay waste before our naked eyes, the land that God gave us to feed the next generation has been sold out to strangers. The land is infested with dilapidated old building and at the whistle of the wind they are destined to collapse. They spread out all around the city and is inhabited by ruthless strangers and priced high despite their aging structure.
We lament the days spent on this land but foresee hope for the future. We searched for the farms, but they have disappeared, we look for the streams but they have dried up. Our bodies are polluted with toxic substance from contaminated food washing up on our shores from the other side of the globe, food unfit for human consumption have replaced the natural food on our grandfather's farm.
Oh great God that watches from every corner of the earth, extend your mercies and cause the land to flourish once more. You have given us land so that we can eat; you have given us land so that we can have enough in time of drought. You hold the universe securely in the palm of your hand and expand it so that it can reach everyone. The land is precious in your hand, no one can bargain for it and no price can be paid for it.
When everything is stripped away, and the money diminishes, when our strength fails the land is here to stay. This is the land that will feed the younger generation; this is the land that will produce our crops. Powerful God, proliferate the land once again, mend the broken edges, and rescue your children who have been doped with hatred, intoxicated with bitterness and sedated with evil desires. Empower them and eradicate the poisonous substance from their perishing souls.
We gazed at the vastness penetrating the earth, and see land waiting to be occupied exposed to brutality, exasperate with atrocities and evil works. Great big God, save your children from the open gutters and trenches that awaits them, save the mothers, their suckling and toddlers who have been ravished from their homes and recruited into ruthless activities to torment and demoralize innocent people’s minds. Save them from the snares that await them, the tribulations surrounding their homes and the pestilence that seeks after their souls.
We traveled the entire land, and hear you calling out the young men to till the ground. We can hear you beckoning the young men to throw down their weapons, clean up the garbage and farm on their grandfather’s land. They can hear you but they are too fragile to comply; they have weakened themselves with substances that make them vulnerable and unreliable. Emerge you powerless youth, transpire from your defenseless state, purge your body with clean drinking water and start cultivating the land again.
What else do we have but the land that you have given us? No one can take it away from us because it belongs to you. Strengthen the young men to till the land again and plant on fruitful ground. Bless the earth, and endorse it with your favor, thank you for this journey you are a mighty savior.
©2014 Christine Phillips
Out on earth
A child is born to live on earth. A man struggles to survive in the world.
Why would you want to survive in the world when you may live on earth?
What is it that you want from living?
Do you want to be praised? Or do you want to praise?
If you want to be praised, then who should praise you?
And if you want to praise, who do you want to praise?
Who can be so innovative so as to come up with a concept called life?
Only you will answer to the questions of your life?
If earth has enough space to occupy all living beings, then how come you still find homeless beings?
Being nature is the entitlement of space on earth and being rich is the entitlement of space in the world. The richer and more pompous you are in the world, the more space you are entitled to.
Were we created to pay our way to survival with money? Maybe I don’t understand the meaning of creation and maybe I’m fooled to think that we have been created. But I do believe in what I believe in because that is where I draw my faith from.
Call me naïve for believing that the Creator, of the heavens and the earth and all that we know and don’t know, is in existence but I can’t help it but stand in awesome wonder of the amazing grace I see all around earth.
Can you even fathom how the earth rotates around the Sun without us, beings on earth, knowing that we are rotating and moving around the Sun? We form an assembly with the Sun that gives life.
Can you even fathom how the gravitational space we are in, does not fall into the non-gravitational space that is outside the atmosphere of earth without any visible, solid layer that confirms the separation? As complicated as the process might be, it is what happens every single tick of a clock. I believe in what the Creator is doing because we have proof of what has been created. It is a bond we have with the Creator that we see in the bond between gravitational atmosphere on earth and space outside of earth.
The world might start a war and then blame the Creator for not protecting what happens to have been created. The opportunity of will best serves what has been created. Stop shooting and you will see that people will stop dying from gun shots. Start planting food and you will see malnutrition subsided. Start building houses and you will see more people with homes. Use the land to produce what procreates life rather producing what brings envy and pride out of inequality. How much would we benefit/suffer from shutting down inapt production of expensive cars, for example, and opened production of more homes and farms? For whom do we want to win the battle for and who do we choose to fight the battle against?
Do we work so hard today only to have pride in ourselves tomorrow or do we serve today only to be content tomorrow? Is what you are striving for, what you need to stay alive or is it what you need to be seen and be praised? Do you work so hard only to be on top of everyone or do you serve to achieve equality among every human being. Do you serve for liberation only to have freedom or do you work so hard for power only to control. Given a chance of liberation to be free and a chance of power to be in control, which one would you choose? Do you want to see yourself as the almighty or do you want to see the almighty?
Is it the world you are working for? Or, is it the earth you are working for? Which of the two does your soul belong to? Who benefits more from your life? Who is happy that you pray and who is repulsed that you pray? Where would you rather go to in the times of after death? Who do you believe has the paradise of love, peace and kindness?
Do you think you are smarter than the force that brought you to life? Do you think you are smarter than a tree for being human? Do you think the smartest living being can come up with a feeling similar to that we know as love? Do you think the smartest living being can make a light as bright as the Sun like the Creator has done? Whose opinion will you trust? Who do you think cares that you wake up from your sleep? Who only cares about your wallet? And, who do you think cares about your life?
If anything, how much do you think a home costs in heaven? And what do you need to do to afford a home in heaven? It is in our will to serve who we worship and it is in our will of today that builds us a home in heaven. Only you will have to answer for the life you have chosen to live! Let it be so!
A little girl lost her home this year, for her, Christmas wouldn't be there.
Her family was angry from all the troubles, they simply couldn't repair.
Don’t bother us about presents her parents said, they were depressed by their fate.
With bitterness they said, you’d be lucky to have dinner tonight, or even a plate.
Life was harsh, nowhere to go, anger and fear had put their souls, in a terrible place.
The little girl had found no hope or joy, lurking near their old car, of late.
The car was their home, gas money was scarce, and with few places they could park.
Yes, their troubles had slowly extinguished, that precious hopeful spark.
Without that spark, they’d never find their way, from this terrible place of cold and dark.
And life’s darkness grew deeper nightly, as hope vanished under a reality so stark.
Even the very fiber of her family, seemed to be shattering slowly, slowly, apart.
The child felt alone here in this dark car, as sadness tried to engulf her little girls heart.
The future seemed filled with hopelessness, as shame and dread, were leaving their mark.
Embarrassment to be seen and turned away, made it hard for them to reach out, to restart.
But life goes on, and we can’t fear to rebuild, or the future will be hard to impart.
The girl suddenly declared there’s more to life, and she wouldn't let it conquer her heart.
She decided triumphs will come, and all will get better, if she held to that hopeful spark.
Seeing the desolation and anger here, she couldn't stay around, she had to get away…
So she climbed out of the car, and she walked into town, not so very far to stray.
She went and looked at the store windows, where Christmas was being displayed.
The music and people filled her heart, lifting her spirits, deep inside, that day.
She noticed a store, way down at the end of the row, on the next block, where it lay.
No one was there, it seemed lonely, and the darkness was again, spreading it’s decay.
She ran there in time to see an old man closing up, with sadness on his face betrayed.
What use were his goods, if no one would shop, or come down along his way?
The super store down the block, was daily making him lose more and more in the fray.
He could no longer afford to hire people, and the season had very little time, to stay.
As they talked the girl saw that she couldn't let the darkness take another, so she prayed.
Then she told the old man, if he’d open the shop, she’d bring customers down his way.
She added, she’d find reasonable workers, if her family could live upstairs, she portrayed.
First bring the customers, he said, and the rest will be yours little friend, he conveyed.
She had him put his best toys, as a contest prize, and to add lots of lights on the display.
He set a contest, “Winners-the best collectors for families in need” on Christmas Eve.
He put out a bright contest sign, but still nobody came to his end of the block, to survey.
So she had him call the Salvation Army, for a kettle, Bell ringer, and Carolers, who came
Lickety split, their way.
Then she had him call a dear old friend, and farmer, to bring a tractor full of bails of hay.
Another volunteered his horse and sleigh, both, to see the city lights thru New Years Day.
This was a great idea, since the older drivers, could use the help, for their bills to pay.
The girl ran all over spreading the excitement, and to come see the prizes, his way.
The families suddenly started heading toward his door, and to those wondrous rides.
At that moment her parents came, and she explained what her hope, had improvised.
Her father talked a contractor into building a disabled family a home, to help advertise.
He could get a tax break; come to this store for supplies, and hire unemployed workers, he devised, so wise.
In the end, each night grew brighter, because of a girls hope, and heart-warming delight.
And the old man began smiling for the first time, in a long, long, time, starting that night.
All was saved, a home was found, and another built, as a sad little girl taught grownups to smile along the way…
You might say, A Spark of Hope lit a candle, then a raging fire, which was burning bright by Christmas day.
The moral to my story is:
Never give up on Hope; it’s your best friend, as life brings its troubles your way…
Know that with time, a good heart, good will, and friendly ways…
You can find God’s gifts again, if you don’t let the dark take you away…
Time for a road trip, my dad, mom and us three kids all packed into our old station wagon. I guess it wasn't so old but it sure seemed that way at the time. We had 458 miles to drive on our trip from Virginiatown Ontario to Kitchener Ontario. For those of you who are not familiar that is a province in Canada. We were off to visit my grandpa and grandma on my mothers side. This is the first trip that I can remember. Excitement coursed through my little body.
It's strange the things that stand out in my memory from 46 years ago. My mom and dad were much slimmer back then. Mom had wavey black shoulder length hair and wore those cat eye glasses from the fifties. I always thought she was so pretty in a plain and simple way. Dad wore dark jeans rolled up at the bottom and had a matching jean jacket. He always had a certain swag and wore his belt buckle to the right side of his waist. He saw himself as an innovator. I also remember the cap that he liked to wear, to me it looked like a captains cap with the nautical symbol on the front and gold rope just above the black visor.
The trip felt like it took forever, we did our best to amuse ourselves in the back seat. We played licence plate bingo and sang songs until the sound of our voices was too much for dad to take and he told us to be quiet. The radio rarely played more than static and Dad turned it off until we came to the next town. I pressed my face up against the window and let it be cooled by the glass. I was prone to motion sickness and this made the trip feel excruciatingly long. We would stop occasionaly at a roadside park to use the rest facilities and have a snack. I was relieved to have these short breaks and quickly began to feel normal again.
As it became darker my parents layed out blankets and pillows in the back of the station wagon. The three of us kids were tucked in and we continued driving through the night. I fell asleep with the sound of the tires turning on the asphalt. We arrived in Kitchener in the early morning. Kitchener was quite a bit different than Virginiatown, our small town of 300 people. As my eyes adjusted to the brightness of the morning I was struck by how cool everything looked. I had been familiar to the rugged terrain of the north, mining towns with simple main streets and a restaurant, barbershop and perhaps a theatre. In Kitchener everything looked so big, department stores, more than one theatre, numerous restaurants and several banks lined the main Street. The buildings also looked so much higher. The downtown seemed to stretch on forever. We drove to Victoria park and had a picnic breakfast. On the way to the park we passed stately homes on tree lined streets. There were beautiful leafy poplar and oak trees spreading their branches over the road. They provided an interesting contrast to the pine trees that dominated the northern landscape. Victoria park had beautiful expanses of grass and more leafy old trees with exquisite bark. I watched as squirrels played running back and forth between the trees. The squirrels easily ran up the tree trunks into the branches; it was like a manic game of tag. I was also enthralled with the huge wooden gazebo, it was very ornate. The floor was raised and made out of wide planks, it had a white painted railing and was covered with a brown shake roof. I imagined what it would be like to make this magical place my home.
Once our parents freshened up it was time to go to our Grandparents farm. I quickly forgot about my magical home as we piled in the car. Their home was located just outside Kitchener near a small town called Roseville. After about 20 minutes we were driving in the country, expanses of open land filled with corn and wheat.there were very few trees except a few out in the fields. As we drove down the country road dust flew up behind the car obscuring the path from which we came. Finally the car slowed and we pulled up to a long rectangular gate. My mom got out of the car and opened it, my dad drove down a dip and through the gate, granddpa and grandma must have heard the engine and they came out to greet us. Grandpa had a sparkle in his eye and I knew this was going to be special place.
T'were the night after Christmas, 'n' the house wuz all dark
Not much money for 'lectric in the ol' trailer park
Ma waitin' tables at the club on the base
Just me and my sisters alone in the place
A big ol' blue norther, t'were a hard winter storm
We's all snuggled up close, jist tryin' ta stay warm
The trailer's as cold as a well digger's ass
Cause they come out that mornin' and turnt off the gas
I shore kinda hated to git out of that bed
But ol' Mother Nature made me git up, instead
I'd gotta go out if I wanted a leak
'Cause the toilet had bin all plugged up fer a week
Outside it 'peered warmer, which wuz a suprise
As I peed on the tree, sumpin lit up the skies
Them lights shined down on the yard, and I froze
Shore prayed it warn't one of them weird UFO's
As I stood thar turnin' round and around
There wuz white stuff fallin' and coatin' the ground
I grabbed a big buncha it up in my mitts
I thunk it wuz snow, but turnt out it were grits
I heered a big motor runnin' up overhead
And down come a monster truck painted all red
It bounced on the front 'n' bounced on the back
Then the driver clumb down 'n' grabbed a tow sack
He wuz white-haired 'n' husky, with red overalls
With ZZ Top whiskers 'n' blood-shot eyeballs
A red John Deere work cap wuz perched on his nut
And a WalMart white T-shirt half-covered his gut
He look like he just come off'n the farm
'Cept fer them tattoos of elves on his arm
As I stood around there jist like a complete dick
He sez, “Boy ain't you gonna say crap to St. Nick?”
“Yes siree Bob”, sez I, “I got sumpin to say.
I'd shore like ta know where you wuz yesterday.
The toilet's stopped up and we's all out of heat.
Ain't got no money and they's nuthin' to eat.”
“I wuz fixin' ta make it on time”, he then said.
He look kinda sheepish, and hung down his head.
“But I stopped at a bar when I finished my rounds.
And run inna St. Paddy at the Hare 'n' the Hounds."
"Ya know that he's the very best pal of St. Nick.
But there's none who can put 'em away like that Mick.
And the next thing ya know, we's over at Chances
Where that Tooth Fairy is doin' ten-dollar lap dances.”
“The Tooth Fairy a stripper? That done give me the chills!”
“Yessir”, sez he, “Where ya think she gits all them bills?”
“Jist a minute”, I goes. “Where's the reindeer and sleigh?”
He turnt even redder, and then looked away.
“Well, we had a poker game goin', I thunk I would win.
I wuz holdin' four aces and bet everthang in.”
There was a palpable silence, a terrible hush.
“Then that damn Easter Bunny laid down a straight flush.”
“Well, I cut cards with a redneck and won me that truck
But as for the reindeer, they wuz squat outta luck
They throwed a big barbeque, and cooked 'em up slow
But I must say them reindeer's good eatin', ya know?”
No Dasher, no Dancer, no Prancer and Vixen!
No Comet, no Cupid, no Donner and Blitzen!
For hung on that red-painted monster truck's nose
Wuz eight pairs of antlers, lined up in two rows.
“Anyway, I brung vittles for you and the girls.”
And out of the sack pulled six freshly skint squirrels.
“I jist bagged 'em thar in yer neighbor's back yard
Fry 'em up well, boy, with plenty of lard.”
I goes, “Them squirrels is rilly fine eatin' fer shore,
But ta git past tomorrow, we's gonna need more.”
Sez he,“Well, I's a bit short on cash fer today.”
And he give me six lottery numbers to play.
Then up drives my ma with bad blood in her eye
Draws out her six-shooter, jist primed to let fly.
Then lowers her arm down and commences to bawl
Sez, “I love you, you bastard, you tol' me you'd call!”
He sez, “Boy, looks like it's not healthy to linger
Sticks out his mitt 'n' commands “Just pull on my finger.
The truck is fer you, son. I bid ya goodnight.”
And on a column of wind, he plumb riz out of sight.
I feels fevered and flushed as I stands there in awe
And I reckons this redneck St. Nick wuz my paw.
A voice far-off hollers, “Merry Christmas, now, y'all!
Then adds, “Don't fret none baby, jist wait fer my call!”
December 19, 2013