Long Blackberries Poems
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Snakes And Mr. Baines
By Curtis Johnson
The phrase, “A snake in the grass”, has often been expressed toward certain individuals. Such a powerful and direct metaphor of treachery, is it not?
Among the first stories ever heard by me involved a snake that was up to no good.
Perhaps from that point, my opinion of snakes was sealed, and I have avoided them if I could. Growing up in the country, I saw them occasionally, but was not unduly afraid of them. Because of heavy chemical use on the farm, being bitten by snakes was probably slime.
I had lots of friends, lots of freedom, and a good dog name Jack.
We hunted for blackberries along the banks of the railroad tracks. We roamed the country sides, and played fearlessly in the grassy weeds. We had things to do and places to go, and never any time to worry about snakes.
There’s a wild kingdom out there, and may all of God’s creatures survive and forever be. But the hissing, crawling, rattling, and the twirling are out of my comfort zone. Nevertheless, there’s a place for snakes, as long as that place is away from me.
I once saw a snake curled up in a bush. Nearly touching him, I was startled.
My boss and I were gardening. With little concern, he said to me, “He’s just a chicken snake”.
Whether chicken or king, rattles or moccasins;
Whether harmless or causing deadly pain, I prefer to keep my distance all the same
My father had a friend who lived just up the road from us in a big house.
He looked mean and sometimes acted the part, but I liked him and thought he was brave. He was one snake slinging man, and I was his biggest fan.
Back then, if my father’s friend Mr. Baines saw a snake, he’d grab it by the tail, sling it around, and pop its head off. But the world has changed; wild life is well protected, and many things have been banned. How sad, is it not, that there is not a ban on “snakes in the grass”? Perhaps the day will come when they can be caught and have, not their heads, but their poisonous venom popped out of them. Meanwhile, we best keep avoiding all snakes; and I do miss Mr. Baines.
Cj08052015
Have you ever met those kind of blokes who get upon your nerve,
when they quote continual references that most think should deserve
a threatening confrontation that if they make that quote again,
then the punishment that’s handed out will give them heaps of pain.
A gang of us were working down along the Main Drain stream,
clearing blackberries and willows on a governmental scheme,
and as usual on a Monday morn, weekend glitches are highlighted,
that are full of doom and gloom, and mostly are ‘beer blighted.’
For Clancy, Joe and me, we sort of blessed the doom and gloom,
as it transgressed into humour, and so there wasn’t any room,
for the likes of workmate Charlie who only saw a brighter side,
when there wasn’t any bright side; just a great gloomy divide.
Charlie is the eternal optimist with no matter what is said
in the ghastliest of circumstance even if someone was dead,
and Charlie only had one quote that we’re sure he did rehearse,
and so we heard it every time ‘It could have been much worse.’
So after work one evening in the pub we had some beers,
with ‘it could have been much worse,’ still ringing loudly in our ears,
and with Charlie being absent we devised a cunning plan,
to rid him of that bloody quote and then praying that we can.
We thought that as a perfect subject we would use our good mate Ted,
in a steamy sordid untrue yarn to get inside of Charlie’s head,
and have him shaking in his bootstraps, plus gulping in his throat,
to avoid us hearing one more time, his annoying bloody quote.
And so ‘it could have been much worse’ is about to get the chop,
as we cut and piled the prickly canes, of a large blackberry crop,
so when the time was ready, with Charlie well within ear shot,
Joe babbled out the sordid tale that was really ‘Tommyrot.’
“Did you hear about our old mate Ted, and what went on last night?
He caught his wife with Jimmy Hale, and there was a shocking fight;
he shot ‘em both and then himself!” But Charlie stayed quite calm but terse,
as he rolled a smoke and muttered out, “It could have been much worse.”
“Much worse!” We squawked as one... “How can it be worse than that?”
And the answer Charlie gave us… well it really knocked us flat,
after dragging on his cigarette, he sniffed and quietly said,
“If it had have been the night before, it’s me who would be dead.”
On a sunny day in late September
we were on our way to Runswick Bay,
on a walk that we gladly remember,
meeting people on the Cleveland Way.
Assorted folk with the same idea
taking in distant views over the sea,
a gentle breeze, the far horizon clear,
nearby hips and haws bright on bush and tree.
Whoever you meet, just what do you say?
Should it be ”Hi!” or rather “Hello!”?
Is it “Good morning” or maybe “Good day?”
If they greet me first I go with the flow.
Whatever is said may offer a clue,
tell you something about the other,
whether there is further chat to pursue
or just some remarks about the weather.
Having arrived we sat by the beach
eating our sandwiches watched by some dogs
and seagulls, waiting to swoop or to reach
for tasty morsels, whatever drops.
After a paddle to refresh my feet,
there were four and a half miles to return
to Sandsend for our walk to complete.
First there were steps to climb by the burn,
passing more people too breathless to greet;
grateful to pause we let them pass by
with a nod or wave – but wished for a seat!
There at the top a gate was held wide
by a couple with smiles to wave us through.
We paused as I stretched my cramp to ease
also to remove a stone from my shoe;
then onward we trod refreshed by the breeze.
Off the cliff face using the updraught
fulmars glided scanning the sea below.
Retracing our steps, features we'd passed
informed us how far we still had to go.
High on his combine, late harvest to reap
the farmer raised his hand as we stopped,
paused to pick blackberries more sharp than sweet.
Speckled wood butterflies near to us dropped.
At last we came to more steps to descend,
holding the rail as these tested our knees.
Pausing again with views of Sandsend
and spray from breakers whipped up by the breeze.
Back at the car there was salt on the screen.
Time to examine my blistered feet
and to doze awhile, pondering the cuisine
of Whitby and just what we might eat:
Scampi and whitebait with too many chips,
cans of ginger beer to ease it all down,
observed by gulls we looked at the ships
that brought our supper to this port of renown.
* * *
We count our blessings that we were able
to escape to the coast for refreshment
before Covid restrictions on travel
could prevent a day of enjoyment.
On the south-western side of the old mission school,
near the corner of First Street, where blackberries grew
a field claimed by youngsters was crosshatched with tracks.
It was riddled by gophers and, nettled with fox-tails
and the children's bare feet had constructed thin trails,
cupping deep paths that were littered with smiles,
deep in the amber of tall weeds and dry grass.
It wasn't too far from the patched wire fence
that hemmed the backyard of my Grandmother's house.
Westerly whirlwinds would rattle the ragweed,
while seeds of the bull-thorns, that prickled our toes,
would spread with the tumbleweeds, now tossed into rows
like last winter's snowmen, worn to the bone
There were traces of honeysuckle mixed with wild rose
from Grandma's old arbor, that loomed in the distance
A rusty old weather vane like a merry-go round
would spin like a top that might never stop
The ivy was overgrown, and a sleepy old hound
would snooze by the clothesline, in shade he had found
But, deep in the field, was a land of our own
A place we called 'Neverland', a loft in this poem
In the yoke of one tree, with the help of our dad
was a fort built of scrap wood, from piles by the shed.
And by hook or by crook, I would take all commands
While my brother's brewed brainstorms, and his black plastic hook,
assigned him the Captain, while I was the crew
of a ramshackle galleon, brought to life from our books
While I dangled in air, from a tired old swing
"Tinker", my name...in this masculine game..
I would push off, while he pulled me, right up to the sky
and into the branches, with leaves in my eyes......
I would fly to the depth's of a steel gray-blue sky
I would grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........
for he was much older, much wiser than me
I would play like a tomboy,.....shove doll-drums away
Such sweet summer days,......while bright splintered rays
of hot summer sun, would spotlight our play.
We would stay until twilight, to watch the sun die
Defying all gravity.......I could see to eternity
Tootsie Pops clung to the tip of our tongues
while the sun of the twilight, dipped over the dunes
and the call of our mother, slipped over the moon
____________________________________________________________
childhood (puzzle poem)
Dancing to the Jackson 5 at three in the morning
Burning marshmallows on a campfire
Bananas and chocolate with mom
Sitting under the awning in the rain, listening to baseball
running from cicadas
The smell of cigarettes on dad’s jacket
kissing Billy in the dark
That time dad called the White House and got through
Picking blackberries with aunt barb
Sneaking into a movie theater with the girl next door
Eating alone at lunch, too shy to make friends
My brother falling in a hole in the road
Fishing for crawdads, then being too afraid to touch them
Scaring my sister with daddy long legs
Waking up in the hospital after a seizure
Getting a check that bounced for Christmas
The lake in Wisconsin so clear you could see the bottom
Trying to attract an older boy by pretending to be British
Going to the drive-in when dad left after a fight
Taking sleds to the meat market during the storm of '77
Jumping on the milk box
Another brother in braces with an icicle as tall as he was
pieces of my childhood
each of them a story
I cannot put them together for you
You just had to be there
Our cabin in North Carolina was built by Deborah’s mom and dad in 1983…
It rests on the side of a mountain…nestled in among the trees.
When Deborah’s dad was alive he had a garden terraced off at the bottom of the yard.
He built a pathway to this garden…to make the walk down there…not quite as hard.
This was no easy task…you have to understand…
as he molded each square out of cement…and placed them in the ground by hand.
When our family would visit in the summer time…
our children would run up and down his steps with smiles and wide eyes..
to pick vegetables and blackberries from his garden…play in the woods
or in the evening to chase fireflies….
Our grandchildren used his steps to take them to a fort we made when they were small
Our dog Whitman used his steps chasing countless tennis balls.
When Grandpa was alive he kept his steps in perfect condition…
clean with no weeds around them,…
because he knew when we would visit…our children would be running up and down them.
But Grandpa is no longer with us and our children and grandchildren have grown…
which means Grandpa’s path…once used to play on and explore…
those 41 steps that led to countless adventures…aren’t used as often anymore.
As children grow their interests change and their desires to play in the yard wane…
now on Grandpa’s path…up and down those steps…only memories remain…
But that doesn’t stop me every summer…once we arrive…
from taking a hoe a sickle and a little brush too..
and cleaning off each step on the path…just like Grandpa used to do.
It is a labor of love…making sure Grandpa’s path is as perfect as it used to be…
because on the one hand I know somewhere…Grandpa’s smiling down on me…
But I also have an ulterior motive…each year I’m on my own crusade
to make that path exactly the way it was when our children’s memories were made.
So if you happen to visit us in the summer at the cabin…
and you see an old main in the yard with a hoe, a sickle and a little brush too
Don’t be alarmed…he’s just getting an old path ready for summer…
just like Grandpa use to do.
Breathe words.
They are the essence of life. Communication is universal and language is key.
Every word is powerful, and any utterance, no matter how small, has the power to wound, empower, enlighten, convict, condemn, control, sway, break someone’s heart, sign someone’s fate, push someone away, draw someone close, or open up a mind to a long forgotten truth that is now taking light.
We don’t appreciate them because they can’t be taken away. We take them for granted because they have always been there, even before we were old enough to use them, but in reality, where would we be with out them? We breath them out as they pass through our lips about a billion times a day. Whether it is face to face or on the phone. We write them down as they flow from our pens, keyboards, blackberries or typewriters, each piece of paper or wire locking in a series of electronic sequencing that will transmit our words on to someone else.
It sounds complicated but it’s really not. Words are powerful, but like any toll that is in the wrong hands, they have the power to harm or be used in a dishonest fashion. Words can be personalized and usually are, even though each one is used millions of times a day, in thousands of ways and for hundreds of purposes.
That is why I
BREATH
WORDS
Like they were lava in my veins, never taking a single one for granted and looking for the beauty each time I hear one for the first time. Dwelling on each and every sentence like when I was a child and would repeat everything anyone said to me, underneath my breathe just to savor the way that the words spilled from my tongue.
So now I give any and every word it’s due as if I despair of never hearing anyone say it again. Or what if I too, should forget of it’s existence and it’’s sweet venerable sound should never grace my lips again? I can think of no greater dishonor to the art of language as this. That is why language is my oxygen, and I
Breath
Words.
One of the joys of summer are lightning bugs.Do you remember, as a child, chasing them on a balmy evening? They are so elusive. When you see one in front of you and go to catch it, it would be gone; only to blink just a foot or so away from you. Carefully we would put some in a jar with holes poked into the lid for air. Then we would watch them light up. Never leave them in the jar very long, or they will die.
Nature’s bounty is showing in the colorful blooming meadows.Grasses and wild flowers are a riot of color; there are Daisies, Yarrow, blue Chicory and black eyed Susans displaying their charms.It seems impossible to remember that the mere beginnings of all this abundance was only a few months ago.
July days are full and long. The water in the creek flows lazily, just like the cottony clouds that glide across the blue sky. Milkweeds, Honeysuckle and Hay scent the air. Hay has such an incomparable scent.It brings back visions of climbing up into the hayloft as a child. Playing in the hay, tunneling through it, finding “Daddy Long legs’” and the kittens that the barn cat hid there.
Blackberries are ripening in the berry patch For a time we did a lot of picking. We enjoyed many delicacies that we could prepare with them. Pies, cobblers, and cakes as well a s jams, juices and wine. Going to the berry patch was a welcome, relaxing activity after work. Most of the time it would be very hot there. Occasionally a snake would be sleeping on a branch nearby, causing me to move on slowly. I would stomp my feet, hoping they would move out of my way. Bugs and mosquitoes would buzz all around us.
Summertime is full of joy.The sounds of crickets and cicadas are the music of summer. There are baby animals., tottering around, growing up, discovering. Flowers gladden our hearts with their beauty. We swim in pools, ponds and creeks to cool off and refresh us. We can pick homegrown fruits and vegetables for our table.
And there is the toddler following a butterfly, calling: “Wait for me butterfly, come back here! You are going too fast!”
I lived in a rural area until I was twenty years old. My home was adjacent to a farm where corn was grown and locally sold. Maples and pine trees clustered across from the uneven country road. I can still remember fragrance of flowers and pine that smelled so softy pretty. This pastoral scene was not far from the city. Only a few houses were near. Occasionally was spotted a rabbit or deer. A small number of cars passed. In the evening, their lights, amidst pitch darkness were cast. Unforgettable was the sight of fire flies blinking with their evening light.
A stream ran along a group of trees; a place forbidden, but as you know, that is exactly where children go. It was a few yards from the only childhood home I’ve known. My brother placed a board across the stream below. I was coaxed to go; moving cautiously slow. I trusted him; that is why, I still try. Not too far away was a little general store. The size did not matter, for there were candies and goodies galore. My sister and I engaged in all sorts of talk, as we took this freeing countryside walk. The threesome could sometimes be found playfully leaped around, and picked blackberries when seasonally found.
The house was quite small in size, and of three bedrooms comprised; my parents’, the one shared by my sister and me, and the other, for my brother. The dwelling still lives in my unconscious mind; I’m still there in dreams, where reality is blind. Arguments blemished the space, with memories stuck fast in place. There are also glimpses strong, where laughter belonged. That was the place where a dog named, Brownie, was born and lived thirteen years. My sister, older brother and I, with the saddest of tears, placed his large white tin bowl over his memory site. His name on the bottom; I was assigned to write. About two decades ago, the house was taken down without glory; part of my bitter- sweet childhood story. A spiritless group of professional offices now stand, on grounds, that once was my family's home and land.
09-04-15
I have many fond memories growin' up on the farm as a boy.
Such simple pleasures in times more sublime brought me great joy!
I knowed it was summer when in June Dad bought me a straw hat,
And in the pasture we'd form a diamond to swing ball and bat!
I knowed it was summer when I could go barefoot sheddin' my shoes,
And wade in the 'crick' and let the warm mud through my toes ooze!
I knowed it was summer 'cause I had to attend Vacation Bible School,
When I'd rather be feeshin' than learnin' to live by the Golden Rule!
My dog Spooks trailed me as I ambled to my favorite feeshin' hole,
With a can of worms, safety pin fer a hook and willow branch fer a pole!
I knowed it was summer when upon a lofty oak limb I'd stretch,
Gazin' at driftin' clouds and, Oh!, the many boyhood dreams I'd sketch!
I knowed it was summer when I saw the steam tractor comin' down the road,
With the threshin' machine in tow to reap the grains that my Father sowed!
I knowed it was summer when I picked wild blackberries as big as yer thumb,
And ate so much homemade ice cream until my poor brain was froze numb!
I knowed it was summer when in the gloamin' I'd catch fireflies in a jar,
And listen fer the hauntin' wail of freight trains travelin' from afar!
I knowed it was summer when relaxin' on the front porch at end of day,
Fightin' mus-skeeters, sippin' iced tea and savorin' scented new-mown hay!
I knowed it was summer when hoein' taters 'neath the hot Hoosier sun,
And pitchin' hay and swattin' sweatbees, neither of which was fun!
I knowed it was summer when lightnin' lit the sky like the Fourth of July,
Followed by rollin' thunder and rain as 'neath covers in terror I'd lie!
I knowed it was summer when Mom made preserves, jams and jellies,
That along with her homemade breads and biscuits would sate our bellies!
I have many fond memories growin' up on the farm as a boy!
Such simple pleasures in times more sublime brought me great joy!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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