Traffic buzzing, racing and jamming brakes
People bustling on sidewalks and streets
Noise with everything, rushing, except for lines waiting
Voices, horns, a blur of activity all around
Then, there is the ride to return home
Empty road, widespread fields, open land
Mountain views with rivers and bright flowers
Peace settles in as my mind clears and heart slows
- It feels like heaven all around -
Heidi Sands
9/2/26
(C)opyright
Wooden signs, pickup trucks,
Bob wire fence, cattle herds,
Rows of corn, cotton fields,
Shelly beans, kinder words.
No town lights, no loud cars,
See the sky, see the stars.
Swimmin’ holes, catfish bite,
No work stress, live on less.
Peace of mind, country side,
Sunday church, decent folk,
Pretty girls, handsome boys
Fulfilled life, boundless joys.
Perched on top the telephone
pole, a cavity carved out there,
a family of Woodpeckers lives
on Prosperity Lane, a lightly
traveled country road. Here
one is blessed to see
black and white patterns
against a blue sky as these
birds fly between poles and
tree limbs in the delight of
an April breeze.
Their call is something akin to
a chuckle, a childish delight,
for surely they own this lovely
green land, lawn stretching
far out, dotted with dandelions
and blackberry vines.
On any given day one who walks
this county lane can hear the
drumming of these clever birds,
living alongside the Mountain
Bluebird, Quail and Wild Turkey.
They drum to annonce their
territorial claim.
As in Gold Rush days these birds
have their golden reward of
acorns which they bury in pantries
of trees, poles and fallen logs.
Once again, the drilling is heard
as we walk through these Northern
California woods. Look closely
at the Ponderosa Pine. You will
find it studded with acorns. The
Acorn Woodpecker, ever industrious,
is satisfied that his is the best
of all worlds.
An angel in heaven she'll be
Seeing her best friend Kenny
Another legend in the sky
Spreading wings so she can fly
She gave us songs of truth she told
That were about her life and bold
Along with cute and happy ones
That were catchy and so fun
She was an angel down here first
Her heart brought happiness to earth
She helped those who were in need
She was never rude or mean
She grew up poor but she was humble
Never a complaint or grumble
Just a country girl that stayed
To her unselfish caring ways
In heavens choir she is singing
An angel voice that is bringing
Joy and happiness above
With her gentle and pure love
In the arms of a lover's dream
The sensual grace, up close to your smoothe face
Maybe to never to know the truth to my obsession
A home-boy,who loved his mother
Like a scene from some love story
I melt,I wonder, it gives me all the peace I need
I am in love, but it's like dry wrought in the brain
I am not making out in the back seat
Why does that feeling have to sing in my face
All the king's men and his women
Couldn't drag me away from
I live for that feeling
You give me
Please let me repay
You see them rise while still in the suburbs,
the rings of hills, the wilderness buffer;
smaller, more round than what waits further on,
some sport cabins atop with views quite long.
Down on the road some houses still pop up
for folks who hate the concrete, noise, and trucks,
and at crossroads, small stores with country themes,
selling jerky, t-shirts with wild scenes.
Then small motels folks claim on the weekend,
cars with kayaks, across the ponds to wend.
Just down from that, a smallish petting zoo,
with local critters strutting in plain view,
the kind you wish you could see in the woods,
but they all hide, and that’s for their own good.
Then a small lake, stubbed with second homes,
the kind that you hope someday you might own,
weathered docks and fishing boats on the lake,
could the trout here be big enough to take?
But now the peaks are stretching for the clouds,
buildings thin out, the road the forest crowds,
the foothills gone, these mountains your escape,
a wild land, the kind owned by the state.
Country mouse’s unrestrained giggles drew the attention
of city mouse, too sophisticated to mention
that his cousin’s hee-hawing had city mouse
whipsawing between guffawing and prissy pretension
outside of town
trees and greenery surround
peaceful quiet street
A forest leaf, sways far from any man,
amid soft rustling, pleasant to the ear,
like footfalls as the woodland creatures ran,
and birdsong for a passing greenwood deer.
Indeed, the leaf life on a country tree,
with clean, clear waters and unsullied air,
and green and blue as far as he can see,
surpasses Cuz who spies me in my chair.
Yet, Cuz is smiling from his vantage point,
through the window as I write this odd stuff,
(no one would ever me, "Leaf Pro", anoint)
as he awaits my girlfriend, in the buff.
The woods have reigned through countless ages past,
but catch mankind today, for it won't last.
Cuba, my country, my love.
Morning arrives carrying the scent of salt, strong coffee, and wet fishing nets spread across the sand. An old boat waits for the tide the way a man waits for one more chance.
The palm trees do not speak.
They do not need to.
The light says enough.
I have seen harbors in many places, but none has ever held the sun the way this island does. None has made failure into a form of dignity, nor hope into the work of every single day.
Cuba, my country, my love.
If I must ever leave, may the wind remember my name only long enough to carry me home again in thought.
For there are lands one visits, and there are lands that never leave the heart.
The sea will go on breathing.
The fish will go on fleeing. Men will continue casting their lines.
And as long as the horizon exists, this love will exist also—steady as the dawn, as deep as the water.
Cuba, my country, my love.
El mar no hace promesas.
Entra y sale. Las olas conocen los nombres de los hombres que vivieron de ellas y murieron sin quejarse.
Cuba, mi país, mi amor.
La mañana llega con olor a sal, a café fuerte, a redes mojadas sobre la arena. Un viejo bote espera la marea como un hombre espera otra oportunidad.
Las palmas no hablan.
No lo necesitan.
La luz dice lo suficiente.
He visto puertos en muchos lugares, pero ninguno guardó el sol como lo guarda esta isla. Ninguno hizo del fracaso una forma de dignidad, ni de la esperanza una tarea de todos los días.
Cuba, mi país, mi amor.
Si alguna vez debo marcharme, que el viento recuerde mi nombre solo lo suficiente para traerme de vuelta en el pensamiento. Porque hay tierras que se visitan y hay tierras que nunca abandonan el corazón.
El mar seguirá respirando.
Los peces seguirán huyendo. Los hombres seguirán lanzando sus líneas.
Y mientras exista el horizonte, existirá este amor, tan sobrio como el amanecer, tan profundo como el agua.
Cuba, mi país, mi amor.
Figure of Eight got me thinking
It's infinity on its side!
Eight days a week, I rode till dawn.
Slipping behind eight ball's shadow.
On Cloud Eight, with just one to come.
While strumming eight-note blues on drums;
I figured eight had found me out~
Swirling around its loopty-loops.
This country is in peril and
A recession is coming
I was driving a station wagon, Dad on my right
Mom, young kids, and dog in back seat
Construction ahead, a warning light
In my mind I keep the scene on repeat
I saw the truck in my rearview mirror
It was going fast, I was going slow
I couldn't accelerate as it got nearer
It climbed on our wagon, in Idaho.
It forced the rear of the car into asphalt
The rear doors sealed, but the dog did a vault
Mom lifted the kids over, seared her skin
Moved sideways and a flame shot up where she'd been.
We all made it out, and Mormons took us in
Kids made Mormon friends, and we regrouped
Took an airplane the rest of the way to the coast
Not a story of which I can boast.
Dad's summer teaching had to cover the cost
But we won something, not just lost
We found strength and friendship where we didn't expect
From people whose kindness I'll never forget.
Now every flashing warning light
Takes me back to that July.
A rearview mirror, one long breath,
The line between life and death.
Besides the Mormons, I also thank fate
Death has to come, but death had to wait.
A child…in a foreign land.
Where we come from—it's all just sand.
Deserted the desert...
but still feeling tethered
to the place that feels
forever home.
Yet—that place
we can no longer roam.
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Left the home land with legislative laws.
As they contained loads of legality flaws.
The colour of my skin cutting at me like a saw.
No jobs, no work, it was my last straw.
Left the land I knew to go and find more.
Knowing that the Foreign Land would have something better in store.
When I moved—I thought my troubles would be soothed.
But found other trouble,
my persistent presence made the locals grumble.
Looked at as an immigrant,
but every day—
a defendant.
"They are stealing our jobs!"you say.
"They are stealing our wives!"you convey.
You never stopped to think—
That just maybe...
we're trying our best?
Yet...
we will always
be seen as less?
At home,
we've got families to feed,
we've got people who are in need.
But what you fail to understand—
We can't help them...
unless we are in the Foreign Land.
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