Long Barn Poems
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three vignettes in chain rhyme
alternate title: What Love Has Won
I
By accident
with no ulterior motive...
On the trip west,
her husband succumbed to the grave;
love took her in.
Sans sacrament
death's plea had rendered a votive
her care addressed.
Vowing aid, John became her slave
love took her in.
II
Two lively boys
and she obviously pregnant
John left the train.
Finding a suitable homestead,
love took them on.
Shared peace and joys,
In time, he lost any remnant
of his own gain
only for the oath aforesaid,
Love took them on.
III
His home, the barn,
he tamed the boys' energy well.
She cooked their meals,
and soon her expectation brought
another son.
I spin this yarn
knowing you'll complete what I tell
as your heart feels,
as your mind gives birth to the thought
what has love won?
written: April 11, 2018
sort of kind of um have to say no my husband said.
I gave him a look that said "to me you are dead."
Putting my foot down, he said, my foot down.
the donkey heard him and gave him a kick and a frown.
he flew threw the air and landed outside in the muck.
you should not have done that I told my donkey Chuck.
Chuck threw back his head and gave me a loud loving bray.
I am in the house now, he told me, and I plan to stay.
This is when I realized I might have made a little mistake.
When I told the donkey he could leave the garden and gate.
I brought him inside, and he is now slumbering in our warm bed.
husband might have been right, we are now sleeping in the barn instead.
A “mention” in the Master’s ante-room.
Another February had arrived,
with dirty snow and heavy, slate-grey skies.
(One couldn’t help observing, on the sly,
the Master’s knees were blanket-draped
beneath his desk.) No wigs or gowns on show.
A minor hearing in a puny case.
They call it “inter partes” when both sides
turn up. Some point-at-issue had loomed large,
and we were here to tussle over it.
This room, so Ruskinesque, with frescoes
high on every wall, so hard to heat,
was one great chilly barn. The speaker’s breath
plumed out before him. “And my learned friend … “
Our leader’s voice, so sensible in its drone,
so sweetly reasonable, continued on,
so redolent of wintry afternoons,
like hissing logs a-burning in the grate.
Those practised highs and lows, mellifluous,
his easy-listening tone, so bland, so blithe,
relying on the case of this-or-that,
distinguishing the precedent of such,
“I think it was Lord Blinkwell who opined …”
Two hundred years ago – a little less –
the young Charles Dickens wasted days in here
(the chances are, here in this very room,
observing dreary sleet run down the windows),
mired in this solemn nonsense. Might it be,
he swore an oath – if ever he escaped,
he’d never take life seriously again?
If so, this ponderous symphony in grey,
as glum as Shostokovich etched in stone,
has cranked out clowns. There may be more to come.
Sine Wave replicated the Hand whistle, a drum and
bass and tremble guitar fused with a funky mix of
in opposition tothe fella's camped further in the distance.
There a banjo and fiddle were played while a crooner
serenaded the dust clouds kicked up the drunken
cowpokes.
While the Elders sleep or were to drunk to refuse them
wise mid twentyish people grabbed instruments and
went into the barn and began to
fuse there style
with sounds that were never heard before. A member
of the orchestra used his influence to
convince these busy hard working people
to make time to get together
and create music. The way music needs to be appreciated.
Night hides the meanest of day
but moring tell the true story
if she'll go
or if she'll stay
Regional flavors
Capsicum Annuun
Hot Peppers and Milk
Pizzicato wash your hands
begore you pull
them strang's
Headdresses and Cowboy hats
Hazing a Tenderfoot
There are pieces of a quilt, that I still call my home
They are kept alive in memory, and are there to keep me warm
When the chill of frigid winter, or the still of an afternoon
It wraps me up in comfort's arms with love that fills the gloom
I close my eyes, and can see it there, and I am home again
The house, each room, my family, the place it all began
There are grassy acres, with long white fences and a house with no pretentions
Standing in the morning sun, a pinto horse is watching me and clamoring for attention
A small corral… my Dad in Levi's…and a pitchfork heaped with hay
A barn, some stalls, a chicken house, a clothes line, filled with white sheets, waving
Sweet fragrant fields, alfalfa rows, five peach trees in pink bloom
Across the road a melon field, intertwining through the loom
Inside the house, some bacon fries, we hear morning radio drama
Clattering of dishes, and the chattering soap-stars, and at the sink, would be my Mama
The kitchen decked in a sunshine yellow, as warm as melted butter
A breakfast nook, the table set, and a pile of school day clutter
A living room, a window wide, where a mountain towers over
That was way back when, where I began.....and now it's something other....
A wedding ring, and years went by, the home had changed, and so did I...
A different place, with acres too, and long white fences, and a house with no pretentions
Standing in the morning sun, are oak groves, fruit trees, clamoring for attention
There are gardens woven with flowers, and some growing things to eat
Clattering of dishes, and a CD playing,...Sweet!...
In the living room, from the window wide, many mountains live here too...
Living on the northern tip,....my California view
Some things have changed, some things have not
I've been quite lucky.....for what I've got
This home I knew, the quilt I’ve sewn, it keeps me warm, where I call home...
“The Queen-Sized Bed”.
A queen-size bed was coming slowly,
down the rough dirt track.
As it drew closer,
The wheels clumsily mounted on the base of each leg,
rattled like a hospital gurney on the stones.
The bed was being pushed slowly,
ever so, carefully.
By a weary old man in tattered clothes and worn-out shoes.
as he drew closer, and closer,
I saw that he was pushing his dying wife who was,
lying in a dressing gown under the covers,
in the Queen-Sized Bed.
He pushed carefully trying not to shake the bed,
excessively.
His wife's head was supported by four pillows,
she had wispy strings of silver white hair.
She was dying.
Several I.V. Bottles dangled off a hook,
And dripped painkillers into her arm.
She was awake but barely conscious,
I wondered where they were going,
but in my heart, I knew...
privacy for an hour,
I came back as the sun was setting.
I found them together sitting on the bed,
Looking over the ocean.
The old man was holding his dying wife,
in his arms… stroking her silver hair under the sparkling,
southern cross.
They were sharing her last sunset as,
the dying embers of a fiery sun faded into the ocean.
Night fell and I walked home alone,
I had witnessed love real love,
something I had never experienced,
something I had never known.
If you’re near Cowell and you look hard enough,
You may just find the queen-size bed,
with a tattered mattress and exposed springs,
quietly rusting away outside a decrepit ruin of a barn.
Take a closer look at the legs and you will find four rusting,
gurney wheels.
and if you approach quietly on a moonlit night,
you will hear soft sobbing in the whistling wind,
as it dreams of that dying sunset,
under the southern cross...
and the milky way lights up the sky,
soaring into the heavens
as the angels sing.
I wrote this non fiction poem
For Debra Jean..
(C)London F. BuSS. 2022
The paintings where discovered in an old barn
The crime of the century
All six paintings masterpieces
All the locals where questioned at length and width
No one had but a single clue
Except for the local art dealer
He whispered to the inspector
I saw a very colorful van
Drive off in the night
It was not someone from around here inspector
The inspector asked Theo, did you hear anything?
The art dealer replied I am hard of hearing you see
Upon which he proffered a flask from his breast pocket
I think Vincent lives near there, off you go and ask him
When the inspector sought out this new witness
He was no where to be found
They suspected it was his van
In conclusion
Vincent Van Gogh
And was never found
Notes: In America we pronounce his name Van Go, not Van Goff
Sawing logs, one after another
Into two feet lengths
Just for the specific purpose
Of standing them up on the ground
Awaiting the iron axe
That will create a comforting
Roaring fire in the hearth
Come this winter’s cold
Canning fruits and vegetables
To store on the shelves
Awaiting the moment in time
When they’ll be lifted out
And opened slowly, carefully
With appreciation for the color
The scent and deliciousness
Of a homegrown and canned food
Cutting down hay in the field
Tractor moving slowly, assuredly
Taking the blade to the grass
Green and pungent scented
Covering the field with what will
Be racked up into piles for
Baling and creating a treasure
For the barn to store for cattle
The New Year
It is a new year...
It is a new day.
It is the first day...
of many more.
The problem,
and the answer...
It came and went.
Much like all the rest,
that would follow
but more importantly,
than those remaining,
it set the mood.
It was quiet here, in the country.
The rooster gave it a go,
all night long at the moon...
just to say goodbye,
and then again when the sun
came up... to say hello.
What a surprise to all?
The wolf joined in,
at the beginning and never stopped,
until the end.
The ducks laughed.
They laughed until the dawn...
Then they were quiet again.
The cow woke up just in time,
to see the first rays...
and was glad...
the old year was gone.
The chickens slept thru it all.
They laid eggs the next morning
just as they always did.
They were all perfect, as expected.
The Lord's bounty clearly visible,
in the barn,
in the yard,
on the farm.
There is a hard frost on the ground now.
It is colder than it has ever been,
but there is no snow.
The grass crackles
when you walk across its surface
and has long since turned brown.
The crystals,
water formed miracles...
make everything shine,
like the world is truly new.
Yet the sun continues,
ever melting the world,
back into place,
not in fantasy land,
or outer space,
but here.
Real, to feel.
Scents of sea, historical townships and seafood
Thrilled like vacations not just a dinner destination.
Each trip to Chesapeake Bay staid that fine mood.
As we rode, my family's blend got on its finest silly
Making jokes, singing, bro and I loved Dad’s riddles.
Eyes all turned somber passing the barn site where
Destiny once heard JW Booth say, ‘useless, useless ...’
Crackers, hammers, picks, butter sat on brown paper with
Randomly scattered crabs piled high excited my family.
Although not novices, Dad would inspect our dissects,
Brag to Moma about how strong his shellfish genes
Swam, huh?