Morning light drifts soft and meek
through cottonwoods that lean and speak,
their shadows brushing childhood’s cheek
down by old Duck Creek.
Barefoot summers, warm and slow,
grass stains where our young dreams would grow,
the world felt small enough to know
down by old Duck Creek.
Cicadas hummed their dusty tune,
a cloudless Texas sky in June,
and time moved gentle as the moon
down by old Duck Creek.
Now memory walks where I once ran,
a grown heart holding what it can,
still hearing God in wind and sand
down by old Duck Creek.
A bright breeze rustled the cottonwoods
Whilst passerines sang and flew
Beneath the woolly like clouds.
What was love? A hush of dawn?
A breath between raindrops?
The soft rumble of a waterfall?
No, no, it was something much more.
It was a song vibrating amongst the pines
It was an echo I cannot forget in this life.
Betty, Betty, a thunderous steady call.
My dear, my sweetheart, an affable echo,
That I heard all around the thick forest.
She walked in thick boots through the snow.
Carrying snowdrops, those I love so much
Do you really love me so? Always a tease.
We hugged and kissed and danced
Upon the cold chilly snow of yesterday.
And as sunset approached, we retired
To our cottage and partook a hearty meal.
I have pretty trees and ugly trees
The cottonwoods don’t make me sneeze
All the rest are horrible for me
Stirring up my leafy allergy
Out where the cottonwoods lean on the breeze,
and rivers carve songs through the sage,
a lone rider hums to the hush of the trees,
an echo of some other age.
His boots wear the dust of a thousand trails,
his hat wears the weight of the sun,
but his heart still believes in wide-open tales,
and dreams in the key of a gun.
The campfires remember the names that he spoke,
the horses still answer his sigh,
and somewhere beyond where the prairie smoke broke,
the past rides eternal and high.
Caren sat inside her treehouse
Sequestered sixteen feet in the air
Camouflaged by two sparkly leaved cottonwoods
The Della Bettas were arguing loudly
In Italian
They live up the block on the corner
In a green house
There was no denying their tones
She reached into her book pile
Librarians limited her to seven books a day
What to read first? They were all hand-picked this morning
She chooses seven every morning in the summer
She looked up from her pirate adventure
Hearing two happy women
Meeting at the clothesline, pinning up laundry
Her mother and a neighbor, their happiest time of the day
between cow or goat
I would choose goat
loving my horns
using them to toss away my enemies
between tree or rock
I would have a problem
I love them both
especially cottonwoods and mica
between life and death
I would choose life
because I believe death is really more life
just a better one
between kitchen and bathroom
I would choose kitchen
cinnamon rolls, mashed potatoes,
chili, meat loaf and pancakes
between man or woman
I would have another problem
I like bits of both of them
feel we have been both in different lifetimes
shimmery shining
opulence in nature
a cottonwoods leaves
I paced placidly along picturesque pathways,
Around the vast verdant valley that led nowhere.
Oh Debbie, my Debbie, disappeared in thin air!
I'll search and I'll search and mutter a prayer,
I texted her and called her, but alas all seemed in vain.
Ah Debbie, my Debbie, I shouted her name.
All echoed back at me. still, I yearn for her love.
I imagined her hot lips, lingering on mine,
Yet she escaped me and flew like a rock dove,
But why, oh why? We fitted like a glove.
The blissful breeze blew through the cottonwoods,
"I'm here! I'm here!" Her voice echoed impulsively,
Elated I searched among the trees near a river.
I saw her there, beneath the willow, seductively.
I ran and hugged her tight, with all our fecundity.
Sit and watch the sunrise
on a morning oh, so clear;
Listen to the whispers
riding on those breezes near.
Look for the sailing ships
cruising high upon the sea,
Then silently give thanks
that you are still walking free.
Gaze upon the mountain
that is standing out afar;
Wonder if people there
would even know who you are.
Watch the eagle soaring
on the thermals up above,
Looking for his dinner
while you are looking for love.
Cross the wide prairie green
on a summers afternoon;
Cottonwoods are in sight
so you know you'll be there soon.
There's a little cabin
standing in a clearing bright
And you hope that you'll sleep
ever peacefully tonight.
Yesterday's far behind
while tomorrows never come,
And for all your travels
seems your journey's not yet done.
In-between weariness
and footprints lost in the sand;
You might wake one morning,
when at last you'll understand.
House Wrens in the Cottonwoods trill
Sonorous requiems ringing out as poetry
In sullen streams of languid silence-
A eulogy of bereft love
Wistful woeful clouds scuddle
Across the somnolent heavens
As the fading of your footsteps once more
Have found their rhythm in my memory
Your eyes, your face, your arms
Lie surrendered in my enchantment
Haunted by this ritual of melancholy
This final ‘Good-Bye’, this 'Last Dance'
You walked away long ago
To not remember that love never leaves
Those who know its eternal clock
Those who kept the flower and watered it
May 12, 2023
Anatomy of Melancholy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
I always wanted to be a real cowboy.
A Buck-a-rue with scars on my cheeks and worn boots,
I wanted my spurs to jingle and my saddle to creak and
deep lines and sun burned skin decorating my face,
an ugly galoot and dressing in a suit, Pert-near a disgrace.
I wanted to eat out on the range under the Cottonwoods and smell of woodsmoke and sweat,
clean my plate with the rub of an elbow before putting it in my pack
and throwing what’s left of my coffee on the campfire before
Ole Paint and I trailed back.
I wanted to pitch my bedroll under the moon, gaze
at the stars that cover the sky at night,
go to sleep with the wind rustling cottonwood leaves,
the mournful sound of the cattle lowing
and the gentle words of the night hawk’s song
putting the herd at ease.
I wanted to be a real cowboy, not just to play the part,
a real cowboy living a dream and riding my Quarter Horse.
But could I stand up to the lonely times when nature
turned its back on me and the wind was no longer a breeze
but a cold howling wind, a biting wind and I didn’t have my wife’s arms
to comfort me.
Son, each day I will ride
Through waving cottonwoods
Near the broad river bend
Where the wild blue flax grows.
It is a special place
That your grandfather knew
Where he pledged all his love
To your grandmother, Sue.
Flax and cornflower blaze
Beneath the tree-trimmed sky.
They were there for me too
And your mom I love true.
Son, you are young to go
Where the wild blue flax grows,
But if, and when, you do
Your single days are through.
Some things may lead you there.
Be not surprised, beware!
Be careful of picnics
Horse rides or other tricks.
Ask your girl to a dance;
Maybe a picture show,
Anywhere that she wants,
But where wild blue flax grows.
Brandon is a curious child
His mother observed him and smiled
with pride and doting affection
as he gazed at his reflection.
From the first moment he would wake
he'd ask, "Can we go to the lake?"
She couldn't bear to tell him, "No,"
so to the shore, off they would go.
Croaking frogs made Brandon giggle
and swimming tadpoles that wiggle.
Beneath cottonwoods on the banks
She prayed to God, giving Him thanks.
They shared laughter and fish stories
He picked for her, morning glories
and when his eyes began to close,
She held her son in sweet repose.
Precious memories of these days
would shine brightly as a fire's blaze
Her heart would e'er fondly recall
These enchanted moments of Fall.
October 4, 2021
rhyme me rhyme me Contest
Picture #3 checked with RZ
Sponsored by Eve Roper
A horse and mule move through the heat and sun
Along the dry desert sands below the deep blue sky
Waiting and watching nearby on some cacti trees
Sit red-tailed hawks smaller birds and a elf owl
And close by in the heat wait mule deer and bighorn sheep
Willows and cottonwoods begin to appear in the sandy nurseries
For here in the desert — horses and mules enter to dig wells
Dug by earth’s special creatures down to 6 feet deep
Groundwater for wildlife the bounty of nature’s engineers
Ancient times taught the horses, the mules to create the wells
Nature's gift, dear God mankind, we need to allow these creatures to be free
As described in a paper published April 29 in the journal Science, the animals use their hooves to dig more than six feet deep to reach groundwater for themselves, in turn creating oases that serve as a boon to wildlife
Marigolds with your ruffled edges and your prissy girly ways,
You uplift me on my most almost horrific downward days.
Lilacs fragrances wafting about in every one of my Mays,
You make me proud with your natural floral turn of phrase.
My most exotic friend, the mighty magical solid red oak.
Her shiny pointed leaves almost always telling me a good joke.
The best one of all is how she grew from an acorn, one that broke.
When her tiny tree stem began to grow in a mushroom’s cloak.
Knock out roses, scarlet cone flowers, hollyhocks and violets too.
Adding rainbow colors to the lawn, the pond, and the sky that’s blue.
Weeping willows, cottonwoods, elms, and hickories long overdue,
My green thumb is excited I had so much to do with planting you.
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