A pair of tiny orphans
in haystacks their mother made,
near an orchard by a lake,
with pine tall as an arcade.
Sheltering them,I brought milk
to the lonely kits each day,
but they wouldn't show their faces
till I hovered far away.
In time they learned to like me,
and slowly joined running games;
one brown-furred, one white bundle
Sugar and Puff... their nicknames.
Hearing my voice from the door,
the kitties would run so quick
right up my tummy to the neck;
playing cuddle- and- frolic.
One day, Puff and Sugar left
not marking sign of contacts...
the fun of souls well relished,
how my heart misses loved cats.
Down in Hillbilly Hollow, under the silver moon,
Rustlin' leaves and hootin' owls, playin' a country tune.
Haystacks high, and the creek runs low,
Life rolls by, nice and slow.
Dirt road windin', bend to bend,
Kin and friends 'round every end.
Old guitars strummin', hear the sound,
Laughter echoes, love abounds.
Barefoot dances, by the old barn door,
Stories told, of legends yore.
In Hillbilly Hollow, hearts are full,
Under starlit nights, life's beautiful.
I paint in series; same motif – haystacks, trees, cathedrals, water lilies.
normandy inspired many pencil sketches of sailing ships.
aunt Marie-Jeanne encouraged me; she was a generous painter.
boudin encouraged me to paint in open air, which was unheard of.
I worked with Renoir for a few months; we had similar tastes and canvases.
called them bad sketches, the beginning of the Impressionist period.
neverland called to me where I painted canals, boats, tulips and windmills.
I practiced drawing and painting an identical motif over and over.
best decision I ever made was to buy the marshlands across the road.
diverted the stream, creating a gorgeous new water lily garden.
weeping willows, iris and bamboo shot up, entertaining my paint brush.
meditated and painted there until I died at the happy age of eighty-six.
WINTER IN AN IOWA CORNFIELD
Why start nattering about lucky tracks
Neath a tarnished night of a waning storm?
Haystacks in a disciplined platoon wait
With hooded coats, caves of hibernation,
Standing in formation with watchfulness.
Six columns and six rows of perfection
Thirty-six baled soldiers in transition
Marching forward in a biting snow storm,
Blindly floundering in a final surge.
A good resistance fighter is lonely.*
Haystacks in the Snow, Grant Wood (1941)
* Winter in Wartime, Jan Terlouw (1972)
The field stretched across the plains, A sea of yellow sunrays reigns. Sparkling on the crests it glows, Of little hills of haystacks rows.
Swirling and soaring across the fields, A sight that nature’s magic wields. On a throne of wheat and donning, A golden crown, it’s worth stunning.
To honor the rich soil, Of crimson and umber, it’s beauty royal.
The wind murmurs through the fields, A harmony of nature’s yields. The swaying of the wheat and hay, A tune that lifts us away.
The sun dips on the horizon, A masterpiece of colors that’s dazzling. The field transforms into a canvas of gold, A sight that never grows old.
The field stretched across the plains, A sea of yellow sunrays reigns. Sparkling on the crests it glows, Of little hills of haystacks rows.
The sky above is splashed with hues, Of orange, pink, and purple blues. The clouds are stained with shades of red, As the sun slides below the horizon bed.
The field is now a mosaic of colors, A sight that fills our souls with wonders. The beauty of nature is on full display, As we watch the colors melt away.
Buttemere to Ulla pike,
our walk more ramble than hike.
Up and down,rain or snow,
two teenage daughters in tow.
Haystacks,Loweswater overlooking the lake,
now locked in memory's keepsake.
Up Skiddaw and Wythrop beck,
much much longer than our usual trek.
Through the wood onto Dodds crag,
both the girls now starting to flag.
Down the slope to Underseer
stopping to buy a small souvenir.
Out on the fell with spongy moss,
Wainwright in hand as the paths criss-cross.
Along the beck in a tree lined walk,
watching the antics of a hovering hawk.
Deer grazing 'neath woodland trees,
Cartmel to Keswick,just the place to take one's ease
lunch-time picnics on grassy banks,
vacations now recalled with thanks.
Monet strayed from trees and haystacks on this canvas
kept his signature clouds and barely touching strokes
verdent grass is speckled a lot like Cezanne would do
the muted colors fairly yell Monet to the connoisseur
woman’s shadow is perfection, as is her green umbrella
lifting this admirer’s hazel eyes from top to bottom
was this lady an unrequited love or possibly his mother?
Monet was never one to tell, so no one knows
2-11-23 Writing Challenge- E Words Poetry Contest Sponsored by Constance La France
The worst are the clearest;
As clear as water itself.
Most replay in my mind,
And only some dull out.
Good is still clear,
But has been tainted by sorrow
Sadness of what I've become;
I no longer know.
The best are diamonds in the rough,
Needles in haystacks.
As rare as they are,
They cheer me up no matter what.
Memories never disappear:
Stored in the brain's library catalog.
Engraved into your brain,
Until you turn to dust.
pushed for photoshoot
farm bridesmaids on haystacks~
red face lost her top
10/11/2022
Red barn in the country
sunny parcel of farmland
ploughed field and heavy machinery at rest
Chickens free ranging
jersey cows grazing the pasture
and the dog runs as it pleases
Soaking in the sun
horses within white fences overseeing
soft hills with haystacks neatly bundled
Two rocking chairs on the veranda
swing hung under the porch
on cool nights smoke billows from house
Vestige of years gone by
the ranch outliving its use
a lifestyle foreign to cityfolk
Grandkids out exploring a field
and soon-to-be abandoned barn
in plain view: Sold over the For Sale sign
AP: 3rd place 2022, 3rd place 2022, Honorable Mention 2026, Front Page Pick 2022
The field stretched across the plains
like a sea of yellow sunrays
glistening off the peaks
of little hills of haystacks
dancing and floating across the fields
On a throne of wheat and wearing
a golden crown.
to honor the fertile ground
of reds and brown.
Did I tell you I went to the
Beach last week?
The wind picked up mightily as I
Stepped out onto the hotel verandah
And the tall royal palm trees lining the courtyard
Lifted and bent their majestic fronds
And they whipped and wept in the west wind
With a sound like a thousand haystacks being thrown
Into the air
And, yes, that same week,
Oh,
The very next day
The wind dropped to a soft breeze as I
Stepped out onto the Hotel Verhandah
The royal palms lining the courtyard
Graciously dipped and bowed
Their crowns of pointed fronds
With a sound like a thousand mothers shushing their
Crying babes
The sea sparkled dazzling pinpricks of light
Each and every sparkle sent
My heart and soul back to 2012
I gaze upon another sea, the vast Indian ocean
Rushing towards the tip of Africa,
Behind me up a steep, shaded street,
In the small, sweet nursed clinic
My mother lay still and breathed less and less every day
Until, with a sound like a thousand whispered goodbyes,
She died
Torn, tattered, tainted,
my Book of Shadows
Travels with me,
from cities to meadows
Drawings included;
demons and rainbows
Spells introduced,
between haystacks and cornrows
Too frequented to be dusty,
fingerprints galore
Weathered in delight,
my personal grimoire
Some may find it spooky,
but to me, I adore
Empty pages wait for me,
what do they have in store
coruscating cosmic colours
dazzling in the skyline~
prismatic geometric shapes
of village houses from afar
dwarfed by enormous haystacks
a fiery cone resting
illuminating in varied hues
reminds me of
a mystic mountain ~
against the luminous sky;
emanating silhouette
resembling your shadow
as you gently fade away
the day you said,”goodbye”.
4 April 2021
For All Yours (April 5) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
1st place
Notes:
Haystacks is the common English title for a series of impressionist paintings by Claude Monet. The principal subject of each painting in the series is stacks of harvested wheat (or possibly barley or oats: the original French title, Les Meules à Giverny, simply means The Stacks at Giverny). The title refers primarily to a twenty-five canvas series which Monet began near the end of the summer of 1890 and continued through the following spring, though Monet also produced five earlier paintings using this same stack subject.(Photos and info credits to Wikipedia.)
Splendiferous skies
Sunflower sunrise
haystacks of lilacs
pastel daisies play
with robins and jays
fragrant grass finds
bunny behinds
cotton lambs coo
earth's lush rebirth
a spring dream
until my
face hits a
clinging
bug filled
web
3/09/21
Poem of the Day
3/11/21
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