Best Homestead Poems
Orphaned footsteps round the old place.
Pitch black soil, packed deep with bartered
coin and Indian heads – wood and otherwise,
coat her worn leather shoes, Hutterite chic.
The long land screams within its own silence.
Prairie sage burns somewhere, a ghostly smudge
for the undulating grass and, those it serves.
Its alive scent makes the dead turn towards
its head - and the barely living turn to listen.
The impossibly endless horizon holds its bright
blue at bay, begging acknowledgement for
its self-professed being and looming enormity.
She looks at the broken window glass and
through the tattered, delicate gray lace. “Those
were hers.” She whispers to the one who listens.
This great-great-granddaughter sees the curtains
as they once were – wistful in the hot Manitoba
wind; fresh and lowing with the honest elemental
scent of aspens, hope and bare-knuckle wash boards;
always fresh; shifting in the cry for solace in summer
shadows – never as still as this moments endlessness.
Blowing through the deep brown of splintered pine
front doors; cracking the announcement of cast iron,
rot and burnt wood comes the simple statement of –
I lived. This mother of five young does not cry,
just yearns to walk in the old ones footsteps;
to know them loved; hear the birdsong through
unbroken bedroom windows for a 5am waking;
feel the resistance of dough on fingers that beg
to be broken, and kiss the twisting undead, living.
The burning of the noonday sun taps her whole,
marking; branding her pale Swedish skin its own.
The red sting of burnt breaks her inward silence,
welcoming her familiar face home.
© Kristin Reynolds 3 29 2009
*Reposted for John's Summer Celebration Contest. This is a personal celebration;
celebrating and honoring my great grandparents who settled in Manitoba after leaving
Sweden and Denmark. This celebrates the summer of family, at least for me. We went there
every summer until it was gone...
I gave you shelter from the storm,
when it was cold I kept you warm,
from blazing sun I gave you shade,
stopped the wind from blowing you away.
I gave you comfort in the night,
watched over you while you lay sleeping,
through my windows shone the moonlight;
became the mulga perfumes keeping.
Now I'm not wanted any more
dust builds up around my door
there are no footsteps on my floor
I'm not wanted anymore
I'm not wanted any more
no one can hear me crying
no one comes here anymore
I'm not wanted anymore
Pots and pans hung from my wall,
I loved your paintings in my hall,
departed souls I helped you mourn,
I watched your babies being born,
now there's no children running 'round,
I miss the smell of quandong jam,
please come back I am your home,
it hurts so much to be alone.
Departed souls I helped you mourn,
I watched your babies being born,
please come back I am your home,
it hurts so much to be alone.
seen from the highway traversing
backroads in central south dakota
the framework of an old homestead
a carapace more than a structure
in the distance gnarled limbs held
rusted barbed wire in place as fence
scant distance from the homestead's
weathered shell still standing proud
a decades old Aermotor windmill.
it filled a galvanized tank guarding
life giving water for far grazing cattle
golden crisp prairie grasses spread
far as an eye could survey
weathered bond of the homestead's
walls stood--relics of another age
hardened and annealed from
daily immersion in plains weather
noble despite capitulating to time.
in the minds eye he sees the windmill
at Little Reata from the movie "Giant"
as light faded welcoming the dusk he could see
the youthful Jett Rink climbing its ladder
rising to gain the platform-then squatting
to survey his empty land
the silhouette of Jett's sharp-cut features
visualized more than open grassland
Jett envisioned an empire. the visitor kept
mementos of a unique bygone era.
old homestead
9-29-16
Misshapen limbs of the Palo Verde trees add an artistic touch to the landscape. While
Honeysuckle twine about the old rail fence and the spiny Ocotillo flash scarlet plumes.
Mesquite trees, older than the homestead, reach out and cast much appreciated shade.
Saguaro's flank the hard packed drive. Desert poppies lead the way to the home.
Built of stone. Hand laid by calloused hands. Topped with thick rough hewned timbers
and clay tiles. The home welcomes all.
Windows sparkle in the late afternoon sun. Reflecting brilliance that hurts the eye.
Once inside, a coolness calms and refreshes. The native stone keeping the desert heat
at bay.
Beams hewn from the Mesquite adorn the ceiling. Stucco interior walls add a softness
and Spanish flavor.
Arched doorways lead to halls and bedrooms. Each with it's own distinctive fashion.
Soft beds with hand woven blankets. Each depicting a different Indian Spirit. Deep set
windows to let in the cool breeze of spring and fall. Thick draperies to block out the
summer heat and winter cold.
The kitchen, sparse and utilitarian. A soap stone sink, slate counters and open faced
cabinets. dried herbs, onions and peppers hang from hand forged hooks. As do the
pots and pans used to cook simple fare that fills the belly and warms the soul.
A blue speckled coffee pot with a chipped spout is always on the newfangled gas stove.
The old woodburner sit as before. Used in winter to warm the kitchen and bake the
daily bread.
A place of gathering, is the plank top table. With it's brightly colored cover and always
full cookie jar.
back in the main room is a beehive fireplace in the corner. It's bulbous form giving
character to the otherwise plain room. More exposed beams extol the strength and
longevity of the home. While wood and leather furniture offer comfort and rest.
Beautiful hand crafted wood cabinets and shelves hold antiques found on travels.
Shadow boxes hold arrowheads found on desert hikes. Pottery from the local tribes
finish out the decor.
Homes like this are becoming extinct. To find souls who appreciate it's honest design
and accept the happiness that simplicity can bring, is becoming rare. I am one of those
souls. My search is on going to find my place in The Valley Of The Sun.
“The Homestead”
In my dreams
I still see the house –
The old country place
Nestled among the Mesquite trees
That whispered a welcoming chant.
The grandmother stands bent over
A cabinet rolling out dough for oversized biscuits
While bacon sizzles on the stove in a cast iron skillet.
The grandfather reclines behind a newspaper
From his favorite chair,
As he studies the latest prices of cattle
While contemplating the cost of feed.
The great grandfather swings
From the front porch
Crooning a long forgotten tune,
As he balances a granddaughter on his knee.
The mother holds a babe in her arms
In the frayed rocking chair
While crooning an old tune
That has been passed down
From one generation to the next.
The sights, the scenes, the smells
Have never left me,
Not in so many, many years later.
I can still see the rock well
And recall peering down
Into its’ menacing darkness.
I can still smell the succulence
Of the old cellar
And see its’ plenteous walls
Lined with jars of jellies and jams,
And so many other bountiful delights.
In times of a need for comfort,
I go back.
Back to where I was once
An innocent, harbored child.
I walk the barren ground
Searching for some ancient existence
Of a time that once was.
And if I’m lucky I find some ancient relic,
A rusted tricycle wheel,
A broken Mason jar,
A splintered chicken coop.
And I am transported back,
Back again into that innocence,
Back into that blissful lifestyle
That I have secreted away
So deep inside my heart
For all these countless years.
And, as I turn to go,
I look back once again
And see a mirage of the old place -
So vivid, still standing,
And drink in once again the memory
Of the sights, the smells, the sounds of love
That I will carry in my heart
forever…
04/14/18
By J.B. Pearce
Visiting with memories
Childhood days, thoughts remembered,
Things of me that used to be.
House that's aged, weathered and grayed -
I feel its splintering pain;
Watching me as we all played.
Elements she held at bay;
Her walls hold cherished secrets;
Creaky floors gave me away.
Love has gone, home lost it's shine.
Here I sit, this last recall,
Earth to earth, dust to dust, pine.
Once I left she lost her spring.
Her heartbeat beat its last breath
No more a home but a thing.
Memories stand strong as she
Reigned her years; everyone's gone
Moving on as it should be.
Thanks to you my ode homestead,
I grew up secure and loved
And trips to the wood shed.
My heartfelt tears have a smile;
Emotions, both joy and sad;
New owners, life's worthwhile.
gingerbread lace on a gorgeous white porch
splashed of corals and oranges among the green trees
here is a home where love is generously lavished
I rush out of the car almost before it has stopped
Home at last, I smell vanilla and cinnamon and love.
At the Homestead today,no time to write verse,
Fran had once again got the cleaning curse,
Cleaned carpets and rugs,to eradicate bugs,
Found not a one as we went, through, sweeping,
Mopping,polishing too, everything gleaming,
Dusted and cleaned, bed linen changed,
Carpets outside to air, dogs better hide,
Or they would be bathed and groomed too.
Found time to nip out to Jumbo's in town,
For a pool for Midnight and one for our clowns.
A visit from friends, Phil and Marg caused us to stop,
They were a welcome sight, we were ready to drop.
I'm off to bed now with a hot chocolate drink,
Maybe a read of my kindle, too weary to think.
I said no poem from me but I'm glad to say,
I managed to write this at the end of the day.
© Dave Timperley 05 August 2016
It’s the place where I belonged
In my room listening to my songs
The tree outside my window bent and swayed
Where I felt I could have stayed
My bike always rested against the wall
Ready and waiting at my recall
And playing cricket in the backyard
Was a cool evening summer’s greeting card
Oh, to return to those days again
Where there were no worries and ready friends
As my days blend and pass by
My mind is in the old homestead and a clear blue sky.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Three kids to a bed, two beds to a room, three
rooms crowded with flannel long johns and wool
socks. If I was lucky enough maybe they had only
been worn by two or three brothers before me.
No holes was never a guarantee.
Mama had us tucked in tight under hand stitched
quilts made from squares of worn-out clothes that
was deemed no good for anything else. So heavy
that it was impossible to sleep on my back.
Or it would make my toes hurt all night.
Morning would come whenever nature demanded. As
soon as it was light enough to see the bowl of ice
capped water, I could splash a few drops on my face.
On some of those more courageous mornings,
a few of the more important parts.
The sides of the pot-bellied stove could turn as
red as the devil’s hood if the stoker was too generous
with the logs, or go out altogether if it was neglected
for too long. Deep scratches gouged into the floor from
constantly shifting chairs.
A good autumn from the garden, creek banks, and the
woods beyond provided enough to ease the
grumbling of winter stomachs. The occupants of
the chicken coop did their job diligently. As did
the former occupants of the pig pen and the pasture.
By January deep paths cut through waist high snow
to the outhouse, smokehouse, chicken coop
and wood pile. Only three more months until the
grass can be seen again.
Slime is a subtle stage for blame I can’t stay stuck to your ways/
I’m a little vague so your game I’ll ante up to plague/
While a tirade goes for their bane they played and waged/
I’ll abrogate woes to lurk away more straight/
Compile and appropriate foe’s to contain your plate/
The trial of a pirate goes on to con tame and irrigate/
Denial of a tyrant that strove along to drain and irritate/
Then dial a vibrant cat to move strong and plain annihilate/
A senile re-brand that drove a pronged strain to acclimate/
The tribal withstand fought a shove from one that longed again to act just or right/
Sir it’s vital to know the zone read was a wrought lot and would attract a prejudice overnight/
Survival of a homestead sought above tact and when injustice is worth a fight/
Sure is final now just like a home’s bed brought to a spot held at last a permanent site/
In the garden, mud squished beneath my feet.
I dreamt of oceans vast and concrete,
Where rainbows danced upon the waves,
And washed stone glistened in the sun's raves.
But beyond the sea, darkness loomed.
And creatures of the deep entombed,
A world of mystery and fear
Where danger lurked and death was near.
Yet still, I yearned to explore.
To sail the seas and seek out more,
To brave the storms and face my fate,
And discover what lies beyond the gate.
For in my heart, a fire burned,
A passion that could not be turned
To grasp the world and all its wonder,
And now bygone be held asunder.
So I set sail and left the shore,
To seek the treasures that lie in store,
To chart fresh lands and conquer fears,
And live a life without any tears.
And though the journey was cruel and long,
And intermittently I felt weak and wrong.
I never gave up on my throng.
Written: June 05, 2023
A
WW Homestead
Autumn
By Tom Wright
10-10-2019
Leaves falling,
Winter stalling,
Firewood hauling,
Geese calling,
Couch sprawling,
Footballing.
I crave healthy food.
I don't want any food that's touched plastic.
I want food straight from the earth and of the earth.
I want it all.
I want to wear a closet of linen and wool, softened by the years.
I want to be an artist and builder and poet and I want time to heal.
I want to have sheep and a llama and work their wool.
I want to have hens and maybe two ducks and want to tend an herb garden and make preserves in the fall.
I want to prune trees and create moss sculptures and grow mushrooms and sit in a hammock in summer evenings.
I want to wear a worn bandana over my frizzy gray curls, dirt on the knees of my overalls and caked under my nails.
I want to have cats and access to a gigantic library, smelling of dry papyrus and leather... with cozy chairs in sunny window boxes, the room dotted in rainbows from the crystals in the window.
I want to read for hours in the sunshine.
I want to walk between rhodedendron trees in May and through a rose garden every day in June and ride rollercoasters at the fair in the heat of late summer. I want my face painted and hennaed hands. I want a new tattoo done for me by a talented ***** person who ends up becoming my lover...
and I want to learn how to fall asleep again.
I want it all.
I crave.