Determined to build a country house, we sought land
When we pulled up to this farm gate it was a mess
Brambles and weeds probably hid black snakes
Cobwebs showed us no one had walked this land for decades
We went over the fence, immediately getting scratched up
Brambles and prickly bushes were leaving us bloodied
We kept going, unsure why, but this land was affordable.
Suddenly, I understood why we had been sent here.
The brambles opened up to a meadow with wild flowers
Queens Anne lace, super tall daisies, purple iris
Swallowtail butterflies greeted us along with monarchs
This verdant meadow was untouched, virginal
I had such a sense of peace in this lovely oasis
A meditative place, where you could hear your soul
My husband said “I think we will have to buy this.”
I readily concurred, and we did.
My son was raised a city boy
But starting at age five,
We also had a country house;
In both, he seemed to thrive.
Yet he grew up and made his home
In neither one; instead,
A suburb of New York is where
His family goes to bed.
So it’s a thrill to spend some time
With grandkids in each place
Their father spent his childhood,
Hoping that they will embrace
A little bit of what, perhaps,
Helped shape what made their dad.
I’m glad this opportunity
Is one that I have had.
According to my phone, it feels
Like it’s one hundred four.
The heat attacks the minute
That you walk outside the door.
In places where they’ve never
Had to use a/c at all,
There simply aren’t units left
To heed each desperate call.
I have a little country house
Where fans once did the trick,
But in this heat we packed and left,
Back to the city, quick.
So now in my apartment
I am stuck, but I’m no fool –
I’ve traded in the great outdoors
For someplace nice and cool.
I used to mark the days by what
I’d scheduled to do,
Like Fridays with the grandkids
For our weekly rendezvous.
On Thursdays there was quilting
And on Wednesdays, never fear,
I’d be at the museum where
I am a volunteer.
On Tuesdays I’d play mah jongg
Once a month, or else I’d go
With my husband to a movie
Or museum for a show.
On Mondays, with some friends, I’d meet
To walk and have a meal
In places in the city that
We’d heard had some appeal.
The weekends often took me
With my daughter and my spouse
Out to rural Pennsylvania
Where we own a country house.
Yet now the days meld into one –
No differentiation –
With all of my activities
On permanent vacation.
It’s meaningless to call each day,
Like Sunday, by its name
At least to me, for in my life,
They’re sadly, all the same.
Years ago, when my kids were small,
We danced at night and had a ball
When we were in our country house,
A custom we should all espouse.
Years later, here we are once more,
With grandkids on the dancing floor,
Both moving to the radio,
Their dad just going with the flow.
Of course, their nana joins the fun,
Her smile the wattage of the sun,
For words cannot describe the joy
Of dance, the grandkids and her boy.
My grandkids paid a visit
To our country house last week
And filled the house with joy
Which emanated from each shriek.
I dragged out all the books and games
From when their dad was young
And played the old cassette tapes
With the songs that Raffi'd sung.
The pillows from the couch made roads;
The dominoes made towers.
The dollhouse rooms were rearranged;
The playing lasted hours.
I'm back this weekend; they are not.
I miss their laughs and smiles
And all they left behind outside
Are stones in little piles.
Summer 1932,
On a small country house in England
On a morning stroll through unharvest golden field
to explore, I can't help, but think that they're
dreams now, missing friends and friendship it yields.
It's up and down memorable times we shared.
A dream it sure is!
Here or there, I should find a space
to plant my cane,
its brunch time for tea and crumpets
when I really have a way to go.
A monument of sorts to what I have here.
All I can think now is the blazing sun over me.
It's the best place in the world
on a small patch of clearing I sit
and eat crumpets with a cup of tea
amongst the standing field of caramel wheat.
9/22/2017
this noisy head i live in
it just never quiets down
theres some motherf#@ker screaming at two am
about some unpaid bills or parking tickets
and some other idiot going on and on about some girl that left
somebody is allways throwing trash out in the common area
little bits of some ancient relationship
small parts of some old mystery
just want to tell em all ''will you all please shut up"
stop that godawful freakin racket
some fool on the roof shouting poetry just when your drifting off to sleep
another idiot in the basement throwing monkey wrenches in the works
always somebody causing some kind of ruckus
just want to scream
"can we PLEASE get some peace and quiet for five minuets"
this crazy head i live in
i want to move
to some nice quiet country house
where you never hear a sound
peaceful with birds chirping
where i can get some rest
not this confounded noisy head i live in
not this apartment building of lunatics i call a mind
CEZANNE STUDY – The House of the Hanged Man
Late Autumn
Buried in a hill,
Steep as descent from humanity,
A country house stands.
It’s late autumn,
Deep, sick autumn –
Deep as the plunging cellar door,
And fronting, its branches stripped, begging skyward,
This raped tree
Which no longer hides the window –
The window, like a large, trumpeting mouth.
*No E flat clarinet here,
*No Eulenspiegel, opaque humor.
No – The whole, a ground interment,
Is color of rotting flesh,
This God-awful house!
*Til Eulenspiegel was a German buffoon who delighted in playing
nasty tricks on the nobility. He was hanged.
*The E flat clarinet is high pitched, capable of sounding the pitiful
cries of Til as he mounts the scaffold
I hope you sing
I hope you dance
To country, house
or maybe trance.
I hope you laugh
I hope you love
I hope you have
Faith from above.
The more enjoyed
the more devine
Sit back relax
Drink some wine.
Search your heart
Scan your soul
Listen to where
your life should go.
Dont think to heavy
Your guts knows best
If your in a dilemma
give it a rest.
Be true to yourself
look in a mirror
What you see
is always a winner.
Gypsy people
live by their terms
They roam the land
may not return.
Birthdays are a time to celebrate
The life God gave you
Be brave, be great.
Any dramas in your world
Should be laid at rest.
Take this day made for you
Do what you thinks best.
On a country house walk
Nature grandeur and 'old' money talk
...I pretend this is mine !
A day spent in an art gallery
The artist's mindset I see
......I pretend that it is mine !
When I watch the sporting elite
As talent and determination meet
.....I pretend this is mine !
Listening to a Mozart phrase
Understanding genius' ways
....I pretend that they are mine !
When I read wise words
Created to be said and heard
...I pretend that they are mine !
Old country house rich colored rugs hot wind
Gallopping hair whipped wildly at his cheeks
Solid double doors top of stairway top coat
Mantlepiece photographs in ornate frames
Small white dog head between its paws
China tea perfect lawn afternoon ceremony
Bowler hat spirited distinguished manner
Smile of welcome, something in his eyes
She trusted his good manners + hospitality
Embraced the shadowy play of candlelight
Scent of peppermint musk vanilla surprise!
To my Moonbeam leaping stag,
box of miscellaneous keys two
little shelves your favorite chicken
salad with pot of Lady Grey tea.
Royal jelly honey-based receipe
all natural retorative toiletries.
Splendid Summer afternoon
strolling and chatting in the deep
wicker chair at the old country house.