Who are the countrified?
The too-soon petrified
Who wooden gods deified,
With them identified;
Their ways not modified…
I see The Countrified
In “Norms can’t be defied!”
Who had gin edified,
With kernels satisfied…
Their cherished game slapstick,
After meals fingers lick:
Those who meet the sodden,
When much damp the wooden;
Dew-soaked their monthly shoes,
For which the police ask ‘‘Whose?”
On “Who are countrified”
Please, in me you confide…
Categories:
countrified, africa, god, people, places,
Form: Rhyme
I fancy myself a gypsy soul because I love
To wear flowing tops, bell-bottom pants, and
Necklaces. I used to wear bracelets, but had to
Take them off to type comfortably.
Do I travel though? No. No gypsy caravan for
Me. I do not want to leave my house. I am safe here
In the country, there is no where I would rather be.
People invite me places, but I do not go. I am safe
Here with my man, and my animals.
A gypsy soul? Not really. More like a hippie soul.
Except I am a carnivore, who likes her chicken and
Her beef. I am a countrified woman who is at
Peace here, in my tree-sheltered world, a
Sanctuary with orbs I can photograph in my gardens
On a regular basis. A magical world, and I am the queen
Among lilacs, roses, buttercups, snapdragons, and
Azaleas all planted by me.
Categories:
countrified, garden, how i feel,
Form: Free verse
The man, the woman, the ship, and the sea.
Don’t you wish we were having camoille tea?
The bachelor, the maid, the valentines day girl,
Don’t you wish we could swish in countrified swirl?
The paint, the brush, the palette and the knife,
Don’t you wish that you were colorful like fife?
The Forests, mountains,oceans, meadows,and prairies,
Don’t you wish we had some milk in our dairies?
The toddler, the three, the five and or six,
Don’ t you wish that we could shuffle board mix?
The Bear, the Belly, and the BumbleBee.
Don’t you wish, you were commando, like me?
The paper, the pencil, the syllables, and such.
Don’t you wish you always had the magic touch?
When acting angry, behavior challenged, enraged, threatening, buly-fied, and mad.
Don’t you wish our parents and teachers would just realize we’re acting out our sad?
Categories:
countrified, 2nd grade, 3rd grade,
Form: Rhyme
She's just a plain
good old country girl
never complains a lot
doesn't ask you to buy her the world
riches silver or gold
just wants to be loved
a gift that cannot be sold
such a sweet and loving heart..
Smooth talking southern drawl
words spoken peaches sweet
down home girl sexy swing and all
countrified and country fed...
When I first met her
my soul took shape some song
her energy playing master violin
a tune so pure and so strong..
My lady wears perfume from her bower
so lovely inside and beautiful within
country girl the dreamier flower
my soul in rapture above all earthly sin..
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Categories:
countrified, beautiful, girl, love,
Form: Free verse
Poetry is a simple ride
through back road rural country side.
Alive with gardens sprouting corn,
white puffs of cotton being born
fodder bales lazing countrified.
Each turn a treasure to the eye,
white egrets stalking incubi.
The rolling breast of every hill,
reveals a pleasured puerile;
majestic hawks soar in the sky.
Every mile of black twisting tar,
is filled with country insular.
Greening orchards and baked orange clay,
clear blue skies enhance the array,
in panoramic ocular.
On the horizon clouds cluster,
summoned to a graying muster,
raging into darkened night
frightened white egrets take to flight
lifting into this blackened sight.
Muffled thunder bellows aloud,
awakening a sleeping cloud,
as lightening scratches through the sky,
ruffling feathers as they fly
white egrets in a pitch black shroud.
Rain blurs colors in distant trees
while puffs of dust attend the breeze.
Torrential rain, that once was held,
within the grasp of this great meld
descends in fits on congeries.
Categories:
countrified, nature
Form: Verse
I walked for a while on the other side of the road
The whiteness of the late morning clouds
The moving rounded shapes of familiarity
Walking in the same uphill direction
With eyes in the sky
I do not remember the gutter on that side of the road
The pavement was narrower
Allowing front gardens for two storied duplexes
It was somehow more rustic and countrified
Looking over the hedged in tram tracks
The storefronts separated by flat doors were smaller
Blended together as one building
Which they actually were
I had not noticed this
Though I'd spent most of my life in it
Crossing the street had not been easy
Getting back would be
For soon I'd be where I'd always crossed
To walk down Thomas Lane to school
I stood in front of the blacksmith's
Smelling the burnt hoof horse sweat
Realizing the comfort of familiarity
The clouds sailed by as unconcerned as ever
Categories:
countrified, childhood
Form: Narrative