Long Homesteads Poems
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The chirr of parched insect wings –
bible dust preaching
from long abandoned boots.
Baked into the sky,
homesteads linger on the burnt stumps
of exhausted summers.
Dander creaks on dry porches.
Fallow rooms open wardrobes
in a denim haze.
Homesteaders planted a light here,
then at days end,
dug it up
in earthen mouthfuls.
Aprons were filled,
table-tops charged.
Out of the back of a model T
a dapper man sells brushes,
he speaks of things unfarmed,
the Brylcream shine of city sights
until she is swept away.
Such moments go unrecorded
unless by chance you find
a strand of long hair
whipping astray
on a skewed field gate.
Written By: D. Collins 6/30/25
I'll be in a place of pleasure where wind soothes my bald head.
Far from the concrete jungles and snow-shoveling homesteads.
I'll be in the ocean with waves crashing all up against me.
Tasting salt water with nothing but sand under my feet.
A quiet place of pleasure sipping umbrella drinks.
Leaving bitter cold for those who love their minks.
I will lay in the sun and turn a dark, bronze red.
Do power walks on the beach versus working instead.
Learn to build sandcastles to amaze everyone's eyes.
Breathe that sigh of relief I've waited for all my life.
I can smell it, taste it, and gather it into my reach.
The next time you'll see me it will be at the beach.
Tunnels through ancient
Overbearing oaks,
Lined by the still standing
Stone fences built
With sweat and tears
By long ago settlers
Who dragged rocks and
Stones and boulders from
The hardscrabble ice age soil
To create their farms.
Once Indian trails and
Rutted cart tracks,
Replaced now by the narrow
Winding roads of Chilmark
Curling through the hills,
Up a rise and down,
Around the sudden bend,
A startled deer takes flight.
Thickets of wild blueberries,
And tangled grape vines,
Give way to pastures
Filled with sheep and
Tiny distant views of blue
Atlantic Ocean.
Then back to woods again,
Dotted here and there
With homesteads hidden
Up long dirt lanes,
Only lighted windows
Giving away their presence.
They are along the edge of the woods,
in the meadow along the mighty river,
in a little crack in the drive way,
in orderly spaces in well groomed gardens.
They are in old, forgotten cemetaries,
in hedgerows along schools and shopping centers,
in ballfields, along ponds and ditches,
they popp up on cliffs, on top of windy hills,
in an old and abandoned flowerbox,
or almost empty clay pots.
They grace parking lots, the side of the highway,
they wind up mighty trees, fences and gates,
they thrive between the corn, wheat and barley,
they climb old barns, forgotten homesteads,
they spread out when left unattended,
to mark the spot a family once,
so many years ago, took pride in owning.
They are a prophet of seasons to come,
they are a splash of cheer and color,
they are visited by bees, bugs and butterflies,
they soothe us with their eternal scents,
and they always bring a smile to my face.
I love when the first blooms of spring begin, crocus in the garden, peaking from the snow; may flowers and troutlily soon begin to show
The millions of trilliums gloriously painting the undergrowth of our woodlands in spring; fading to pink before our eyes as summer comes in rolling
The poppys peaking through the tall grass in the warm morning air; their nodding orange heads smiling, seemingly aware
The glistening of wild asparagus cloaked in morning dew; lit by dawn's waking eye noted by few but loved by you and I
Sweet peas cling to any hillside or natural trellis they can find; bringing bursts of pink, purple and white joy to behold in one's eye and mind
The brightest blue wild chicory and stands of Queen Anne's lace; swaths of daisies and brown eyes susans decorate the road to nearly any place
The swamp has loads of bright eyed marsh marigolds and irises of blue; fading into lakesides with tiger lilies and cardinal flowers of the brightest red hue
Meadows dotted with daisies, thistles and creamy buttercup; brilliant red, yellow and orange indian paintbrush flowers lift their faces up
Even the old fashioned orange daylilies, sunshine yarrow, and fragrant purple phlox; to mark long forgotten homesteads once settled by pioneers that came ok n flocks.
Great are his exploits
honour and rank
he's celebrated
he's immortalized
He's fondly recalled
Back to memory
The great legends of Old..
Great Chief Waiyaki wa Hinga..
Aged nine he killed a lion
with his bare hands...
When the imperialist came.. Waiyaki..
Raised a huge Army armed with bows and arrows
Testing the might of the staff which spat fire
Fore told by the great seer Mugo Wa Kibiru..
..see people dressed like butterflies
they come from the sea of the hawk
and move on an iron caterpillar to the
lake of the eagle.. they carry a walking staff
which spits fire killing instantly... your weapons
will be useless when faced with this magical staff..
The great seer advised the people to learn
The pale skinned colonizers magic..
At right time armed with the right knowledge
The land of the slopes of Kerenyaga..
Will be liberated by its sons
The mountain of splendor and mysteries
Where people since ages ago have offered prayers
To the Supreme Deity Ngai Murungu..
Who is all loving and of good virtual
The supreme deity's Prophet Mugo wa Kibiru...
Is office of the chief seer..
Water Tabernacle the resting place of - Managi
The greatest Holy relic and the Box that is the relic
I recap they say Great Chief Waiyaki
Was betrayed by the pale colored..
foe he had called blood brother..
Angry Waiyaki took out his favorite club..
Mathiokore.. it was nicknamed..
Within minutes brains of the Great captain
were scattered on our rich soils
The invaders captured Waiyaki..
Our great Chief and opened his skull
Waiyaki died not.. they buried him alive
Head facing downwards.. Great Chief..
You should have heeded the Great seers
prophecy..
...don't allow the butterflies to enter your homesteads...
Buried alive..
Immortal Warrior king fate
The annual pilgrimage around
Kereenyaga - the abode of Ngai
Goes on each year.. pilgrims
Make seven stops as they
Circumbulate the Holy Mountain..
Of stories and more stories from the land
Where gods.. immortals.. and mortals
Rub shoulders looking each other..
Eye to eye... tales of KENYA
code 254
LEWIS NYAGA
Fred Seegmiller
1871 - 1907
You never met a man who loved my town.
As I much as I did.
Coming here in ’90 by the train.
It nearly killed me, but I stayed on my knees.
I prayed and prayed I would not go mad.
For 15 years I played the organ.
In the magnificent church on Bailey Street.
I played the passions of Bach and the soothings of Handal.
And I served refreshments in the churchyard.
One night in Mid March
After services had concluded,
Rebecca walked into my life.
She coyly received my flirtatious wink
And a family of five was the magical result.
For twelve years I moved lumber by horse and reigns,
And drove the wagonload to the flowering homesteads.
I worked hard, prayed to God
And never forgot to kiss my wife goodbye.
I lived on the end of Olive Street.
Hidden by tall Elms,
Inside my house with the white shutters,
I brought two of my brood into this world
And I watched one leave it in the winter of ’99.
It was in that same room,
The one in the back by the myrtle tree,
That I too tasted death.
I had the cancer
And it was eating me like a cannibal unconverted.
And now I am dead and buried in Clark Cemetery.
And my living soul longs to spend just one more minute.
Just one more minute
As a dying man.
My soul is not dead.
My soul is not sad.
Let me sleep now.
A faraway place
I lived in the interior of the Algarve for many years
in a converted stable made into a cottage that
was smelling of mules when it rained.
After the heat of summers, winters were, if not
Welcome, but accepted as good for the land
Rain and damp, how great to have a wood burner
and a gas stove for cooking when electricity
broke down as it often did.
International problems of the time had a feel
of distance, nothing to with us away from the
braying crowd and the insanity of pop- culture
Walking in the woods reclaimed by nature
once small homesteads were here, people lived
in need, till they gave up this unequal struggle
and left to find their luck in the USA or Canada
Domestic trees grew wild was oddly shaped
cottages reduced to heaps of stones under
which rabbits had found homes; and to not forget
the boar is not hunted, getting bothersome.
When my dog crossed the railway line and not
looking, I sank into gloom, the romance had gone
I had not succeeded in my endeavour, time
to leave; eventually, everything comes to an
end, only time remains and is silent.
The eagle is perched at a firing sight!
And pebbles salute
Converged in a cannon of salutation
Swift & smooth & sharp!
Bowing near her golden wings
All the pebbles greet
Adoring the blackness of her beauty
Luring her in vain
Into a home-dance at the village square!
The eagle is perched at a firing sight!
And winds of terror blow
Blowing everywhere
Among forest paths & homesteads
Unbeaten by protest-clouds
Here in the sky –
The hunter’s sling aims in vain
Her feathered bosom
Drawing away the eaglets.
The eagle is perched at a firing sight!
And stones in a hurry fly
Over fawning protective leaves & branches
More stones parachuted by hopes
Of spoils & clannish fame!
O eagle seated on the hunters’ disunity!
Rejoicing in the eternal silences
Enthroned in a nest of beauty
Carved like a marbled soul of immortality.
The eagle is perched at a firing sight!
And pebbles salute
Veering in a common confusion –
Should she fly safely away
Then hunters & their folks
Could sigh for another decade
Of her willful dictatorship –
And more stones could greet
Swift & smooth & sharp!
Lilacs
Fragrant lilac plumes,
Like clusters of butterflies,
Usher in the month of May
With haunting melodies
Whispering from Pan’s flute
To dance her May ballet
While delicate lavender hued perfume
Remembers mountain homesteads
Where lilacs reminisce about pioneer days
As old homes crumble
Slender regal queen of the garden
Arrayed in the Celtic legends of magic
Announces summer
As she swings and sways
In rhyme and rhythm of the wind
Spreading her gift of delicate scent
Spreading graceful tranquility.
6-9-22
Contest: Purple flowers
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron Flores
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