Long Out of doors Poems
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The slowing whine as it came to rest
A spacecraft settled down
Like a mother bird into its nest
Glowing there green and round
Smoke spewed from open ports
The air smelled of gas
Little men came out of doors
And laid upon the grass
There soon formed a crowd from town
Peering at this awesome sight
The spacecraft there coming down
And glowing in the night
The mayor spoke and said he knows
What to feed these creatures green
They feed on French tomatoes
And drink the juice of beans
This is why they landed here
By this garden in the grass
But first to have a nice cold beer
From a large and frosty glass
Now arrived the TV news
Those men of truth renowned
And started doing interviews
To spread the word around
Camera trucks and many more
Big frames of antennae
Microphones by the score
And dishes ten feet high
Beaming waves of HD pics
Popping flashes all around
Sending data high speed flicks
Of the creatures on the ground
Throbbing cables glowing hot
Plugged in every place
Trying to get a camera shot
Of the first from outer space
To scoop this scene
Would guarantee
A place for them
In history
If one could see from outer space
The light from each ones screen
Glowing back in every face
As they peered at those men green
Then finally in a casual way
One begun to speak
In a manner rather cool to say
We come to here in peace
Our trip was going very well
Between some outer stars
When a passenger ask do you sell
Those peanuts grown on mars?
I am the steward here
I serve folks while we fly
Bean juice and good cold beer
And peanuts you can buy
Many times our flights are long
My supply of things run out
We know if things go wrong
The captain starts to shout
We had just crossed the great black sea
A dreadful place to span
This chap had then just beckoned me
For bean juice, another can!
I opened up the saucers store
To take his order back
And It was empty, was no more
The captain blew his stack
We were only half way there
How long here who knows
But the captain does not care
If we need French tomatoes
Our snifter found your plot
This garden full of greens
French tomatoes all you’ve got
And the juice squeezed from beans
Fear not earthling creatures
And even though we’re green
Maybe strange our features
But our nature is not mean
Steward sir, get the door
Our loading it is done
We now have filled our store
Goodbye ..to everyone!
Some modern folks, when they hear his name,
will roll their eyes and look ashamed,
thinking the cowboy is uncivilized,
with his hats, and guns, and round-up rides.
That somehow they are beyond the stuff,
to good for the wild, and the rough,
following some unwritten ‘elite’ law,
suppressing the urge to shout ‘yee-haw!’
But I think when it all is said and done,
cowboys are truly made of awesome…
Riding swift across the wide-open plains,
coat flapping behind like your horse’s mane,
maneuvering a large and panicked herd,
turning a stampede with iron nerves,
rough-hewn men cooking by the firelight,
coyote chorus yips through the night,
knowing that for all the wind and grit,
it sure beats sitting in an office.
A battered hat worth more than any pearl,
grabs the attention of the cowgirls,
boots that announce you in any room,
be you a mere hand, or fancy bride-groom.
Leather vests that dress up any shirt,
and somehow can even make fringe"work,
a bandana or a wild rag,
with a thousand uses, not a mere fad.
The tell-tale jangle comes from your spurs,
vast coat made out of buffalo fur.
Square-dance, line-dance, twirl a girl around,
to fiddle and steel guitar’s sound,
campfire songs to entertain the kids,
harmonicas to sing the blues with,
teaching the folks to throw a lasso,
then breaking out tricks with swirling rope.
Living life by a strong honor code,
one that good people would do well to know.
Wyatt Earp and his famous revenge ride,
Masterson cut Dodge City down to size,
Doc Holliday gambling with a death wish,
Billy the Kid, criminal, yet tragic,
Wild Bill holding those aces & eights,
and old Kit Carson, out blazing the way,
Buffalo Bill brought the people a dream,
and who can forget, the legend Bass Reeves?
A six-gun at ready, holster right side,
the lines of a Winchester, ever sublime.
Ranches that sprawl on mountain and prairie,
riding the trails where man can breath free,
rampaging rodeo, those guns are fun,
and damn can those barrel-racers run!
Living out of doors, by both skill and luck,
be it on a horse or a pick-up truck,
It’s clear that when all is said and done,
that cowboys are truly made of awesome.
"Another 150 Illinoisans have lost their lives in the last 24 hours
May each of their memories be for a blessing
2,240 residents have tested positive for the virus
Another 365 new hospitalizations were recorded
730 people are on ventilators...
"These are real people, who have and had real lives
So, the virus is out there. It is among us
Stay inside your homes. Please!
Only go out for essential trips...
"Make sure to wash your hands thoroughly
for at least 30 seconds, with soap
whenever you touch exposed skin or a foreign object
Multiple hand-washing is the message here...
"And wearing a mask at all times out-of-doors
is key in mitigating the virus
I just can't stress that enough
Don't forget social distancing either
Stay at least six feet away from the person
with whom you are interacting...
"I'm the last person in the world who wants these restrictions
I'd like to open up the state as much as you would
Yet the the statistics don't lie. And though
we're flattening the curve
the virus is still out there
It is among us..."
I could give the daily speech by heart myself
Thank you, Governor Pritzker, for spooking me
and so many other law-abiding Illinoisans who have
been foolish enough to buy into your extended lockdown
For which you had no legal authority, whatsoever --
Bully!
And which, by the way, didn't apply to your family
Your wife and kids hopped on a plane and flew to Florida
to your tawny vacation home ---
Stay at home, my foot! ---
Hypocrite!
I hate going outside with my mask and gloves
I hate going shopping or to the pharmacy
I hate going for a walk in the park
It's all on you, Mr. Pritzker
May you reap
What you've sown...
And after the next election
May your memory be for a blessing
I wrote this as a letter of encouragement to my nephew who loves to paint
but doubts his ability. He is quite good for such a young age.
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The young artist was painting down by the lake for hours.
and was very pleased with this work in water colors his favorite medium.
Just as he was adding the finishing brush strokes there was a sudden downpour
and he was unable to get himself or his work to shelter fast enough.
The canvas got wet now all he had to show for his time and effort was
a pretty colored blur on canvas that looked nothing like he intended at all.
Feeling a bit sad he let it dry but rather than paint over it he chose to
keep and display it prominently in his studio as a reminder for himself alone.
Now that painting which he had finally titled “Blurred Vision”
sat on the side table right next to the studio door.
A reminder that he could have gotten angry and let himself
feel that he had wasted all that time he had put into his art that day.
Or brood over the paint he may have felt he had wasted as well as
the framed canvas. You invest more than time in your art.
visitors to his studio would notice the painting as they turned to leave and
some would ask “what am I supposed to see here?”
“what ever you like, it’s art.” was his usual reply.
When asked “what is this?” He replied “That was my best art lesson.”
A good many years have passed since that wet day and every time he goes out of doors
to paint, perhaps by the lake as is his custom he is happy that he chose to keep that
little reminder sitting there on the side table by the studio door because it makes him
smile to remember a beautiful day along time ago of time well spent doing what he loves
to do and not to forget the umbrella
--Before meeting with her father & sisters, Cordelia is dealt a card depicting Woodwose by
Mor-Ríoghain, in the guise of a gypsy hag.
i.
As my sister's once-beautiful gray cat looks at me
She wasted now by a thyroid condition
I wonder what she sees in me today.
I think it would be nice to have a cat
Too bad I'm so allergic
Worse case of it we ever seen
They said at Walter Reed
And they'd given me just half a dose
On the arm during the allergy test
As I had warned '˜em.
I wouldn't want a house cat
A cat should be out-of-doors
In a barn killing mice and vermin
Stalking song-birds and eliminating
The timid humor of the chipmunk
A tiny lion.
Predator.
The sweetest thing I ever saw
Was a particoloured tabby
Crouched on a lawn
A tiny lion for sure
A beautiful hunting stalking machine.
She had a bell around her neck
And it was funny
This middle class hausfrau attempt
To deprive Tabby not of her powers
But of her reward.
They belled you, my tiny lion
So they could claim your rewards.
But you are courageous, nimble,
And you fear no pain.
With your jackrabbit hind legs
And your fierce forepaws
You manipulated the
Constraining leather collar,
Yanked and pulled and pushed
Yourself away from the executioner's yoke;
Impossible but that's your genius
To do what can't be done.
And when it was over
Claws cracked
Your neck scratched and bleeding
Drying blood stiffening the matted fur
Your coat no longer lustrous due to the
Enormity of your labour
You lay in the grass on your side
One eye glancing a peal-less heaven at an oblique angle
Over the tops of trees dancing together in a flying grove
Their purpose forgotten by the once-born.
They thought they could defeat you
And you vowed after surviving your small Shoah
'Never again.'
He's just an ol' cowboy
With a heart big as the whole out of doors.
But time has exchanged
His home on the range,
For a garden and five acres to mow.
He still rides the range,
Each day at three,
With John Wayne, Gabby or Tex,
When he closes his eyes he's there by their side,
Somewhere out in the west.
He's there in spring
At the rendezvous site,
When the mountain men all converge,
He'll share their whiskey, adventures and lies,
Till they give into that wandering urge.
He spent one winter
In the mountains way high,
His cabin the size of a den.
He was cozy and warm, tucked safe from the storm,
Until a commercial cut in.
He was there when Jessie, Frank and the gang,
Hit the bank in a small Kansas town,
He ran for the sheriff
Drew his six guns and waited,
Expecting to mow them all down.
On trails he did ride
With Goodnight and Chisum,
His job, To bring in the strays.
Like a coyote he'd croon by the light of the moon
To the cattle at the end of the day.
He froze in Alaska as he panned for gold,
Burned brown as the prairies he trod,
Fell along side Jim Bowie
At the Old Alamo,
And is buried deep 'neath the Lone Star sod.
He tried to avoid the Indian wars,
But rode with Reno
At the Little Big Horn,
The chaos he saw made his skin crawl
And wasn't ashamed as he knelt there and bawled.
His days they were great,
And granted still are,
For he met a new friend today.
He walked by a bookstore, saw Louie Lamour
Now new adventures are coming his way.
He sits in his chair with a confident air
And turns on his TV at three.
He rides with his friends
Till the commercial cuts in
Then he takes out Ol' Louie and reads.
Cile Beer
written l990
Form:
To paint as well as a photograph is incomprehensible.
This is true for people who cannot complete such a task.
For those who do,
it is a talent beyond treasure.
A photographic memory is enviable.
Even to perceive reality in its purest form is talent,
something more than practical.
Looking at a painting of a woman, she is beautiful.
Beautiful in paint, beautiful in reality, there is desire for dreamers.
To dream reality, to have pure beauty at reason’s command
is a practice and an obsession.
Lighted from upper left, this woman stands with back toward light,
head turned in semi profile,
her right hand held out, and left fingers resting below her shoulder.
She wears a white silken toga with a gold clasp
resting on her right shoulder.
Her dark red hair is pulled back into a tail
held with a black bow, it hangs to her mid back.
Her skin could be described as pale, but holds a healthy glow,
a perceptible color of an awareness of out of doors, but not extensive,
not enough to show a desire for attention.
She looks directly at the painter with her right eye,
the other, shadowed behind an exquisite nose with a shallow curve.
Her lips are neither thin nor broad.
They are two inviting cushions owned by her assertive expression.
She is aware of artistry and sex.
She knows the difference.
The rouge of her cheek is perfect.
It is guessed whether she or another has artistically placed such color.
Draping of material, her toga and a covering,
hanging from her right elbow and around her waist,
is depicted in curved and gradual shadow.
Her finger nails are short and leave a viewer to imagine her touch
with skin so skillfully painted at her finger tips.
In the house it is dry and warm, but in the fields snowflakes fall and form.
The winter air, wet and cold, on cotton stalks they find a hold.
They play together, white on black, clinging in a pile on an old cotton sack.
All up and down the wet gravel road, rocks start to hide under the white snowy load.
We sit together around the warm wood heat, sitting our chairs with straddling feet.
Grandmother wrapped in an old bedspread, holds a little baby, sleepy but fed.
Over in the corner where the big box stood, we stack up kindling and a cord of wood.
Around the radio we sit together and listen to the opera, news and weather.
The light of day turns to night, the moon shines down on fields of white.
I walk the path where feet had trudged with a dim flashlight, muck and mud,
takes me down to the out- house shack, do my business and hurry back.
We sit by the heater where the fire-light trace, the flickering light on Grandpa's face.
So, I make my nest in the warm feathered bed with cover pulled up over my little toe head,
saying my prayer before I sleep, asking the “Good Lord,” for my soul to keep.
We wake in the morning to a snow covered day, “Keep the doors closed,” I heard them say.
We go to town in a ragged pick-up truck, slide down the road in the snow and muck.
Down at the store we warm our backs, gather around the heater both white and blacks
Buy a grape soda with a five- cent piece, load up flour and a can of grease.
As night comes around, we do our choirs bring in wood from out of doors,
Sitting together around the heater to warm our feet, listen to the radio before we sleep.
Memories of Bach
At 17, I performed a solo ballet to Bach
Below a sparkling sky,
On a park’s open green grass.
The choreography flowed.
I was well-rehearsed.
The opportunity, special, before
Some of our gathered city’s spectators.
This genius: Bach.
This glorious cantata:
“Jesu,]oy of Man’s Desiring.”
And, I, the young ballerina,
Wrapped very Grecian-like in an ivory, silk tunic,
Stepping out to
Meet the first notes,
Humbly opening my arms
— first right, then left —
To invite the music to my dance.
But, barely a quarter-minute into the piece,
I was overwhelmed —
As my first dance ever
Out-of-doors —
The sky was my ceiling
And it was too high,
Making my reaching upward breathless.
There were no stage wings
To mark the arrowing points of my arabesques.
My memory lost all upcoming moves
To the sparse clouds
in their swirling crossing of the sky.
I let Bach choreograph my choice
Of upcoming motions as I
Let myself become his music
On to the end.
About a decade later,
On a cloudless, August day,
(the hottest day that year).
I asked for Bach
To sound, again.
Dear Bach’s
“Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring,” rose
Meeting our ears so magnificently
From the organ, as
I stepped into the church,
Wearing yards of wrapped white silk.
I stepped gently down the aisle
Toward my waiting groom.
My own joy carried me
Into the cantata
In celebration of
Our wedding day and
Of our decades of love
Together, on that day
Just beginning.
————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger 10/21 poem
Thanks be to God
Floating fluttering fleurs
are jewels in fuchsia and magenta
transmuting into taffy hue
with the kiss of dappled sunlight
like her cheeks that blush in pink
with his wondering wink.
The willows are stalactites
seducing newly bloomed nympheas
slumbering in Egyptian blue water
like her shaggy windswept hair
teasing her beloved's face
beneath the dancing moonlight.
Oh, Monet,
your 'en plein air' emphyrean elegance
awakens my sacrosanct senses
as I envisage a Filbert brush
glazing each pearly petal
highlighting sun's luster
on emerald to lime leaves,
on cyan to admiral water,
reflecting cerulean sky
in consummate chiaroscuro.
7 April 2022
A Briand Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
8th place
Notes:
In 1893, Monet, a passionate horticulturist, purchased land with a pond near his property in Giverny, intending to build something "for the pleasure of the eye and also for motifs to paint." The Water Lilies is a 1919 painting by impressionist Claude Monet, one of his Water Lilies series. The painting, the left hand panel of a large pair, depicts a scene in Monet's French pond showing light reflecting off the water with water lilies on the surface.
(www.metmuseum.org)
*plein-air painting, in its strictest sense, the practice of painting landscape pictures out-of-doors; more loosely, the achievement of an intense impression of the open air (French: plein air) in a landscape painting(www.britannica.com).