Long poem by
Amrapali Tendolkar | Details |
The Earth dry and bare; waiting eagerly for the drops of care;
Caught in the hot, steaming summer’s snare;
The flowers and creepers decorating window sills; all look desolate and ill;
As the nature withers away in the sun’s merciless glare.
The men and the wives; the kids and the wild;
All are enduring the summer’s waterless exile;
They are waiting for the rain; to relieve them of the heat pain;
And of that life which has become a sweaty turmoil.
The wind strong and gusty; makes the roads yellow and dusty;
And the air around becomes suffocating and musty;
The birds forget to sing; their lilting, musical thing;
Even as the tree leaves wristle and make noise so husky.
Then come the Monsoon showers; falling first on boughs and flowers;
Making the trees and plants glisten and glower;
So the monsoon comes in grace; driving away summer’s trace;
Lashing at window-panes with its all-reigning power.
As the monsoon drives away the summer heat; with its raining rhythm off-beat;
And the flower buds open up to return it’s greet;
And as the water seeps in soil; a refreshing fragrance arise;
While the rain continuous to cool down hot gardens and streets.
The Earth grows green; and water droplets gleam;
On the smooth, waxy surfaces of the leaves;
Everywhere the flowers grow; in pink, red, white or yellow;
While buds make their way blushingly between tendrils.
The wet and soft soil; now grows fertile;
And tender green plantlets push through the Earth in style;
Through soil the tiny saplings peep; as their sown seeds begin to reap;
And the plants and crops shake off the Earth’s temporary curse sterile.
As the raindrops go pitter-patter; water in puddles begins to gather;
And the little birds begin to chirp, twitter and chatter;
The insects begin to hum along; their irritating and happy song;
While due to rain and wind the roofs on houses begin to chatter.
As the showers for some moments cease; after giving Earth life’s new lease;
And the pitter-patter of rain is gently appeased;
The sun coyly shines; a cloud it half hides behind;
While the fluffy clouds move along with the cool breeze.
The fields now green and bright; are an artist’s sheer delight;
Pleasing to the senses of smell and sight;
The fresh air so sweet to breathe; that with pleasure the body writhes;
In the newly born rainy sunlight.
But this sunlight so quickly goes; as thunderstorms blow to and fro;
And Earth engulfs in darkness that now grows;
The wind rises and howls; with a voice that trembles all souls;
And day and night this gale roars.
The trees in fear tremble and shake; as leaves, twigs and branches break;
And the life of these trees is put up at stake;
Birds in nests cower with fright; and due to cold shiver with all their might;
And live in fearful anticipation of what else the storm may rake.
The monsoon now shows its ugly face; gone are its days of grace;
Rainy calamities take its place;
Cyclones and floods destruct worldwide; the raging sea throws up its tide;
“Nature reigns supreme”, we are forced to say.
Same is the life of man; may he do what he can;
But destiny will always play a hand;
What all will man control? So he should let destiny play its role;
And enjoy life and act as the situation will demand.
Somedays will shine the sun; those days life will be fun;
And work will be successful how much ever it’s done;
Somedays by the fun you will tire; and will long to get back into the attire;
Of normal life, however boring or glum.
Sometimes hope will come out; like a tiny plant sprouts;
And will remove from your mind every shade of doubt;
It will be a bright, hopeful ray; but for long it may not stay;
So we must make most of it when hope sprouts.
Just as the shower of joy; after summer comes out shy;
So shower of success will come when you have almost given up the try;
It will wash away your helpless sigh; and will give you a new will to try;
Which will help you succeed by-and-by.
Just as the sun goes behind the cloud; when thunder is heard aloud;
And darkness suddenly falls on Earth all around;
So also failure will touch you once; its upto you to prevent its repeated occurrence;
Or due to failure remain depression bound.
Sometimes through demotivation you will go; sometimes loads of success you'll know;
For we need all types of experience to make us grow;
Like some days it is wet; some days the sun for long doesn’t set;
But then it needs both the rain and the sun to make a RAINBOW…
Copyright © Amrapali Tendolkar | Year Posted 2012
Long poem by
William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |
This, the first day of summer, two thousand and two, finds me,
slipping back into what once was my desire, my need, my reality.
This step back into, and into times passed, has allowed me to touch,
to feel, to re-experience – for a moment, to a degree – my all time,
favorite sport – sunbathing. A sport I once played in all my glory
– my birthday suit – with such joy and total freedom,
beneath blue skies, high above the mighty meandering Grand
or alongside it’s river banks, silent winds, a breeze, rustling the leaves
of many shading trees, of many a cornstalk, a million blades of grass
beneath the heavens, beneath my feet, beneath my naked body,
golden brown laying in the noiseless sound of Mother Nature,
all Her, creatures, large and small, invisible, one and all,
except to the mind’s eye and ear, as the pleasures of hypnotizing music,
the sweet taste of mother grass, the glowing nectar of sparkling grape
that could take one on a journey, away from or into, dependent upon
the destination, the ticket you purchased would carry you.
For me, the journeys were upon the black leather of my red motor cycle,
upon the black leather of my black Bird of Thunder, her wings spread,
her top down, that great, platinum, glowing orb, hanging on high,
above this little planet, wearing it’s great, bright blue shroud,
opened to expose the light shining down upon her nakedness,
showering down upon me, in mine, on our journeys through time,
through space, with his – Heloise’s – healing rays as I drive, as I ride
over, upon those black ribbons that wrap themselves around
Mother Earth and the back roads of southern Ontario, in the
Counties of Brant, of Wentworth, of Norfolk and others as well.
This is a sport I played – as I laid – from north to south,
from coast to coast, even, out into the ocean deep,
– on an island of coarse – on mountain tops, on sand dunes.
This sport I played, on the shores of all five Great Lakes,
on the beaches of Florida, of Mexico, of California,
of British Columbia, the last place, the last time I sported
my birthday suit in public before hanging it up
behind closed doors for more years than I care to remember.
Today, along with a few more that followed, during two weeks,
I took the opportunity, – covered of coarse, in my red and black loin cloth -
to lie beneath that burning orb in the deep blue sky and tried to recapture
the essence of those feelings, those desires of long ago and far away
- of what was and I still would like to be -, that will always remain
a part of my psyche, even though all the changes – no more noiseless sounds,
for they have been drowned out, polluted by screaming tires as they tear up
those black ribbons of death, as those combustion engines ( the driving force )
cry out in pain from friction as they pass by my horizontal frame looking for,
but hearing not, all that once was hearable, all that was beautiful in nature’s noise
– that have left me longing for that time, left me as empty as a dried up lake.
A lone bird cry’s out it’s muffled song, a note or two where once was a chorus,
a full-fledged opera now reduced to a mumbling, meaningless sound,
a sound drowned out by the sounds of traffic, traffic from our attempt
to escape our closed in, modern life style of constant motion.
Those sweet smells, clean and clear are lost by the cremation of decaying,
remains of once living organisms that inhabited this planet.
They are now – in death – permeating, with pollutants, the nostrils, the lungs,
the air Mother Earth and all upon her back, inhale.
The peace, once known, - in rivers flow, upon its banks, in Mother Natures flow,
on my motor cycle, in my black Bird – for this old man has almost evaporated.
The grass, the wine, the music, the camaraderie, the clean air, those silent sounds
have almost become extinct, fading into memories hoard, to be stored, forever more.
All that seems to be left - from the origins of these thoughts – is that silver orb,
still radiating down upon, but with more intensity and less glory and peace.
Only the music carries on as before, seems to remains the same,
at least to these ears, this heart, the old soul of this lone traveller.
Maybe the music has change ?, maybe for the better ?, maybe not ?
Could it be just perception ?, or has all lost its glory ?, its fire ?,
its passion ?, its glow ?, all I thought I did know in an earlier age.
Is it all in the mind of this old man ?, who still remembers that age,
the music, music still providing a refuge, companionship
and comfort during the hours, in the passing of time .
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
randall graves | Details |
Moments to Reflect
Seed of Birth
After a summer shower I watch the wonders unfold Gods truth is being shown. His love for all shall be known to all who have eyes that can see. The miracle of life that is a delight to behold can be seen in a drop of rain on the end of a leaf. Sparkling like a diamond in the light, more precious than gold, a secret is told. The water of life, without it we cannot go on the earth would be has dry has a bone. A desert: a waste land as hot as Hades and not fit to be called home. The water of life He is known.
The air so sweet and clean the breath of life He has been called. A blessing from the father it is a Gift given to us all. When the air can been seen it is unclean and in this state I call it satans breathe, oh so foul and within it only death can be found.
Flower and trees, grass that is so green that there is not any artist in the world that could paint a more beautiful scene. Concrete streets and black top parking lots; progress is what it is called…maybe not. An eyesore, mans’ master piece his legacy, beauty it’s not.
Like a spring rain or after a summer shower; new life does salvation brings. Like the morning dew shining like tiny jewels, in the sunshine they do glow. Flowers blooming and life a renewing, with Jesus this is how salvation goes.
Rain can be seen as the world being baptized and cleansed, purifying it of mankind sins. This is a fresh beginning but it not at its end it only truth starts when you ask Jesus to come in.
After a gentle rain shower our God reminds humanity of His power and His promise: rainbow in the sky a wonderful, magical miracle, truly a delightful sight. His signature written in the sky, proof that He tells no lies; never again with water will He end the world that has bought to Him so much pain. His tears of sadness, never again will the world end with rain.
The evil one try his best with his temptation and his tests to cause us to die and never to rise; humanity he do hate want to take all with him into that fiery lake. These are the tools of his trade war and strife adding in a touch of worldly lust doing his best to kill our trust in the Lord who has given us so much. The spiritual war is what we are in do not fall for satan schemes. Heaven or hell which one will it be? Like the sun gives life to flower, the Son gives life to all who follows. He who is free is free in deed.
Christ the savior God did send, it shows us that satan cannot win. Like a summer day after a spring rain new life will begin. He will pardon us of all our sins but you must ask him to come in His forgiveness know no end. Open your heart and let Him in then and only then can you win. In Him salvation is guarantee and a new life can begin; so you must choose Heaven or hell where will you spend eternity in?
God our Father gave His Son to the world so that we would have a path to the truth a light to shine in the darkest of time. Allow His attributes to shine forth you do not would to lose your soul. Before time ever begin He love us, will you not trust in Him sight unseen, the One who gives all life meaning?
All it takes is faith to bypass that fiery lake, because tomorrow is not promise and another sunshine you may not see. Time is on no one side, so do not go chasing rainbows you cannot fly. Keep what real in your mind the reality is sin must die. God give His Son to pay a price that He did not owe, the cost was high, but gift that is given for those who believe; is to be by His side, salvation is free are you ready to receive?
Summer shower and gentle breeze,
Golden flower and dew drops of leaves.
Soft green grass beneath your feet.
The only thing sweeter is than life is living with Jesus for all eternity.
Copyright © randall graves | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Eve Roper | Details |
Sunny, hot, humid, summer morning,
Taking my first train ride, I’m so excited and it’s thrilling
Can’t wait to go north where it’s cool to stay with my grandpa and grandma
Ma and pa say I’m old enough to go by myself, I’m in awe
Dressed in my Sunday outfit, crinoline,
And my fine
Bonnet decorated with ribbon and blooms I watch with my pack
Passenger’s restlessly anxious waiting with me at the depot for the train to come up the track
Buck boards and horses with their riders running by
Dust clouds form, covering everything with dust, I sigh
Making us use our handkerchiefs as we cough, and pace
Beads of perspiration causing tiny streams down my brow and face
Leaving thin streaks in the brown dust
A great swell of the blackest
Charcoal smoke billowing smokestack, whistle blowing
Steel wheels against the rail cause a braking, screeching, vibrating sound
Locomotive coming up the rails into view, like a charging black rhino
A massive moving machine, a fantastic sight to take in
To carry me off to places I have never been
Conductor howlers, “All aboard! “As we stand at the depot
I hurry to sit in the hard wooden seat by the window
The conductor in a black uniform and hat, usher
And walks up the aisle of seats to check everyone’s ticket to see if it’s in order
We finally start with a jerking move, whistle blows,
Smokestacks start billowing with the circling gray, black smoke
Staring out the window for hours at the scenery of the outside world as it passes by
Prairies, telegraph poles look like pick fence, buffalos grazing on the way
Smoke starts coming in through the windows, settling all over, and pollute
Getting my Sunday dress black with soot
Conductor routinely came around checking for sparks
That flew in among the passenger and started small fires
It’s an uncomfortable experience
Every bone in my body aches from the hard wooden seats,
Every bump and sway of the train
Beds are a little more accommodating
Wooden shelves stack one atop of another
The swaying of the train lulls me to sleep
Dreaming of the things I will see and do
Cannot wait for this journey to come to an end
So I can get off this miserable, filthy, harsh riding, train
To a warm bath, and grandma’s cooking, with a comfortable chair, and feather bed
By: Eve Roper
Contest: Railway Journeys
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Terry Trainor | Details |
In a house high on a hill an old man grows weak, many years have gone, he lays in his old bed,
Back in the day, a dashing young officer with a brilliant red uniform he had many girlfriends,
Flowers scattered across the mead's and meadows the heaths and the glades and over wide glens,
Those days bright and hot, the occasional thunder announces itself in the seasons sultriness,
Today it is summer again trees rich with green leaves now darkened and oaks have little acorns.
Laying in his bed the French doors wide open, summer greets him warmly for just one more time,
White haired and thin his skin yellow and his eyes sunk into wasted sockets his lips quiver,
He remembers the woods well, sitting by a sheltered warm bank, new greenery bursting through,
He tries hard to sit up and to see his long ago self in the beautiful green ripening gardens,
Sweet flowers know him well, respectfully they nod to an old friend who is going on a journey.
As a man who liked to be outdoors he walked and tended these landscapes even as a young blade,
He casts way back to his youthful days when he would walk in the sun a sweet girl at his side,
Running up a woodland bank, his hands on hips, he would wander miles enjoying wonderful views,
His heart raced with joy as the carpets of the forest grew around tall trees along the floor,
Now the songs of the birds grow faint the nightingale is hushed and the cuckoo bows his head.
A nurse tiptoes in she quietly shuts the doors, he whispers, she cannot hear him but she looks,
It is so faint she goes to his bed bends down to listen her ear to his lips they barely move,
He says don't shut the doors the beauty makes me feel safe my old friends are out there waiting,
She lifts him higher, puffs his pillows adds another blanket she smiles, 'you are a lovely man',
The blackbird and the thrush perch near the French doors and sing a musical goodbye very softly.
He can now see the Coltsfoot and cardamine in the fallows with green moss in the moist meadows,
And the star of Bethlehem gleaming from the copse the woods, a special beauty from shady places.
The celandine and kingcup glow in golden lustre he watches them his eyes rheumy and tears fall,
Daisies scattered across lawns like patterns in a carpet of lime green, smelling of spearmint,
The elder flower, corn poppy and the viper's bugloss with a rich azure smile from his garden.
He begins to smile shakily at the crocuses spreading a purple flood over the greenest meadows,
It's a sight you have to see, to take it in, color returns to his cheeks on his ashen old face,
Above all the favorites of the field is a violet, many times he picked one for his lady friends,
White, purple diffuse sweetness under hedges, a landscape painted in mind, those were good days,
Young girls would walk arm in arm across the glades to listen to his wondrous battle stories.
These pictures of beauty he has known since his early childhood days, his memory so very clear,
Whispering do you scent the hay, do you hear the scythes ringing, do you hear sweet laughter,
The joys of running across green fields like young breeze and smelling sweet newly cut grass,
Scented breezes fill his room, his eyes close, happy to return to his precious long gone days,
And with his last breath he walks arm in arm with a beautiful young girl in sweet old meadows.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Ed roberts | Details |
There is a poem I wrote several years ago that several people have written me saying how it helped them decide not to take their own life. Several people have asked me "How can you write a poem that can actually save the life of another?" My answer is simple, spend a day in bed with a loaded gun and then be willing to tell the entire world what it took to keep you from pulling the trigger. With me it came down to ---
5 Single Words
There was a man
Only 30 years of age
He found himself at the end of the road
He had lost his job
What there had been of it anyway
All because of a simple accident
Well, not so simple of an accident
For he was also facing the possibility
The possibility that he would never walk
He had fought
Tried to look at every possible angle
Until he came to but one conclusion
One that a person
That has never been in this situation
Could possibly ever understand
Waited there in bed
The bed that he was becoming way too accustomed to
Until his wife had left for work
Until the kids had been sent off to school
Waited there until he was finally
He had argued and fought
This was against all that he believed in
But there it was
Hidden in the words of an obscure insurance policy
He was worth more dead
Surely they would understand
He tried to explain it in a note
He knew that God might not be able to
But he pleaded for their forgiveness
And he was afraid that somehow
Somehow he might just become to them
This was just more than he could take
So he laid there in that bed
With a loaded pistol in his hand
Fighting a losing battle
With the simple reasoning and logic
That had driven him to this decision
In the very instant
The moment when it had finally come down
Down to raising the barrel to his head
He heard a whisper
But familiar somehow
That was it
That made him stop
Who will find your body
Would it be one of the kids
Possibly his father
That said that he might come over
Or would it be his wife
There were so many possibilities
So many different people
And that was when it hit him
Hit him how really blinded
He had let himself become
He put the gun away
And was very careful
Careful that no one else saw how often
For the next few days
That he cried
Some people would argue
That this was simply his conscious
That there really isn’t such a person
As God in heaven
I know one man that will argue this point
And do so with great reason
For in the darkest hour and moments
Of a 30-year-old man’s life
God himself came down from heaven
And spoke just 5 single words
And if you haven’t figured it out by now
I thank Him every single day of my life
That He was there
To give me the strength
And the courage
Ed Roberts 8/04/02
At the age of 30 I had 3 1/2 gallons of 350 degree grease spill down both of my legs from my knees down. Two different doctors told me I would probably never get out of a wheelchair. By the grace of God I have climbed three mountains since then.
Copyright © Ed roberts | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
randall graves | Details |
Moments to Reflect
Are you ready?
Jesus is on his way and it will not be long until He arrives and I want my soul by His side because His love will set me free. He is all in this world that I need, He is the air that I breathe and He lives within me He give to me a gift of life for all eternity. Jesus is the air that I breathe he is in every breath that I take. He my life and the world to me so I praise Him daily upon my knees, He is life for all who want to live for all eternity.
So fresh and clean, like clear blue sky and a gentle summer breezes, He is what will always sustain me in my time of need. He caresses me like a summer shower, oh what an honor. Like the air that I breathe, I have faith in Him sight unseen. In Him I place my faith unseen knowing that He is living deep within me.
He is every flower and every tree His present is everywhere, all around me. This I can see and I know He care for me. He gave His life so that I might be free of sin, loving Him bring true life for me and for all to see my faith is strong and I show it and in this I cannot go wrong living my life, His words as my guide.. He bared the weight of this world big or small and sin was what it was called and He paid a debt that He did not owe for all humanity to find their way back home and to have life more abundantly within His kingdom that is more precious gold with bless yet to be told.
He the One who can set you free, He all that you need, He is the air and the flowers and the trees, He the air that I breathe for He fulfilled my every need and that is why I worship Him wholeheartedly upon my knees. He my Savior the One that I want to please serving Him faithfully in all that I do giving thanks down on knees because I know that He love me.
In His glory I will live my life, and in Him will find a peace of mind, and be with Him when I die living forever a new life in paradise by His side.
No matter where I go He like the air that I breathe so fresh and clean. He always with me , living inside of me, oh how sweet the security living life full and sin free , because when He set you free you are free in deed.
Like a gentle summer breeze Jesus love caresses me and it for all if you ask Him to come inside of you. It is for all that can read His word is written please want you read. Come have faith in Jesus and to can have life and have it more abundantly, walk hand in hand with Jesus in paradise for all eternity. So do not be left behind with the time comes.
Keep this in mind and close to your heart; Jesus love is sweeter than a spring rain and more loving that a summer breeze, can’t you see within the
Lord our savior there is everlasting life for all who truly believe. Faith and belief in Jesus is life guaranteed what more do anyone really need?
Copyright © randall graves | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
cherl dunn | Details |
At the end of summer as the days light grows shorter,
I’ll pack up the last pains of trouble, and live every tranquil
Moment of splendors warmth that I can!
In the burnet rays of sunshine, I’ll walk serenities beach soaking
Up the sunsets, and drinking them within deeply, the color palate
Array as it splashing against the distant horizon!
Listen dearest friend can you hear the waves lapping, playfully
Snapping at the boulders of the lake, as the rippling white tides,
Seamlessly rush against the sandy shores!
In the city parks the grills sizzle with the smells of masque,
As children’s laughter fills the echoing woods with the sounds
Of childhood frolic, and the smoke of gray deliciousness calls
To their inner scenes of hunger!
Sometimes I’ll go and just watch them, and remember those simpler
Days when I was young myself, what a time of true wonderment that
Was so many years ago, I can almost hear my mother’s voice calling me,
Saying it’s time for dinner, back then in those far faded shadows not
So long ago, but it is the end of summer now!
The Canadian geese are flying south for the winter,
Stopping by for a refuel not far from the many ponds, and lakes
Nearby, how I wish I could join in those led lines so close to heaven,
To behold the magic they’ve seen on their many adventures of flight!
Many leaves begin the slow change of colors, soon autumn will be
Darning a new gown of splendors magnificence, my camera lens
Will shutter and click, to capture the wondrous changes
That Mother Nature exposes to the eyes of humanity!
In my photo album of seasons, I’ll look backwards and
Remember these special times of natural glory,
The quiet walks of solitude through the wilderness,
Those moments of special tranquility in the stilled hush
Just before sunrise!
Listening carefully, I can almost hear the songs of the morning
Sparrows awakening the birth of a new days dawning,
As it rustles in the forest pines, at the end of summer,
These are the vivid visions I will maintain always!
The chill in the winds tells me it will soon be here,
And the wintery white powder hangs heavy within
The autumn air!
Oh why does summer have to end so quickly?
My heart wishes it would last forever and a day,
But at least I have my pictures of beauty to remind me,
Of those light hearted days gone by, until the next
Year’s warmth caress my face once more.
I’ll sit here in my easy chair of remembrances, turning my
Pages of freeze frames photographs, and tenderly
Drift backwards into thoughts of warmth and laughter,
Enjoying these memories of the end of summer’s reflections!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
WRITTEN FOR MY DEAR FRIEND: Kathy Ling
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Peter Dome | Details |
It was a warm summers day and I was walking down the lane
I'm sure I saw a pixie
waving to me from a train
And later I saw him again
A Pixie waving to me from a train.
Well! I was so surprised I scratched my head
and had to pinch myself
just in case I was dreaming in my bed.
So I carried on with my walk
down the lane
I heard someone laughing at me
''he he he''
I turned around to see a cheeky laughing Elf
sitting in a tree.
I tickled his Belly
and he chuckled with glee
''eee eee e''.
He was hungry
so we built a campfire
and toasted muffins for our tea.
The Elf was so thankful
he gave me three wishes
I gave them away
to the Pixie on the train I saw waving to me
from the train earlier that day.
You see sometimes
it gives you more pleasure to give than
to those who need it
more than we.
So the next time
you see a train go by
you just might see
A Pixie on a
wave at you
like he did to me.
Peter Dome.copyright.2013. July.
Copyright © Peter Dome | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
deb radke | Details |
These are her stories of why; the sad excuses of mother's life;
Her oft-honed chip, accented with her mother's old mink stole,
Tears most lovely in her eyes as she spoke of the beautiful farm;
Telling of the hundreds of acres owned by her mother’s father;
Land-granted, debt-free paradise; all they needed pay were quarterly taxes.
She told of the day the winds began to blow, that hot summer day;
Blowing away the moisture-filled clouds, drying the ground into cracked layers.
She told of bitter cold winter days, snow blown back into the clouds by the wind;
Pastures dry-freezing, blasted by cold winds from the west;
Kitchen gardens covered with old sheets in a futile effort to protect them.
She told of spring days with no rain, summer days with no rain;
Hot winds surging into bare, bleached pastures; cattle choking on thistles;
Government purchases of the remaining cow-shaped, walking skeletons;
Beloved horses loaded into rail cars bound for St. Paul stock yards,
Purchased by the army for $3 a head -- 75 cents per glue-filled hoof.
She told of morning rituals of scraping dirt from red, itching eyes;
Scraping grit from the butter dish; scraping melted mud from the ice box;
Lifting dusty scum from the milk bottles; rinsing dusty scum from mouth rags.
She told of the day the sky turned black, burying the farm in Colorado topsoil
And shovels were needed to dig open the doors of the barn and house.
She told of two years with no crops, two years of blowing dirt;
Two years with no rain, no snow, diffused sunlight, beautiful sunsets;
So much electricity in the air, in the ground, running from roof to wire,
Men would wrap their hands in pieces of cloth before they touched
The handles of their cars, lest they be thrown to the ground from the static.
She told of the day the wind finally began to falter, coming now in fits and starts;
And her grandfather stood on his once-proud porch, looking upon his lands,
Finally seeing through clean, clear air the farm he would soon no longer own.
Taxes unpaid, liens placed on farms, on equipment, on promises;
She told of how unable to pay the tax, he was forced to let it go.
She told of her birth in a migrant camp in Washington state; the one room shack.
Born with the eyes of desperation looking on; born into grief and sorrow.
Her legacy set before her as she drew her first breath; born into failure and futility.
She told us these stories, eyes shining with tears, pride in her fated failure.
She told us these stories with her head held high. These suffering stories of why.
Copyright © deb radke | Year Posted 2011