An eagle soaring through the clouds
What a lovely sight to see
He is the symbol of our land
A sign of liberty
His wings are strong and mighty
As he spread them open wide
To glide across the deep blue sky
So large he can not hide
The colors of old glory
The old red white and blue
A story told in history
A flag honest and true
Our country stands for freedom
We love this wonderful land
As our flag unfurls its colors
We will all take a stand
Our land is like these symbols
Standing brave and tall
Waiting to sour among the clouds
And answering freedoms call
I opened the closet and walked on in
my foot hit something that fallen from its bin.
An old pair of shoes - wrinkled and worn,
lay out on the floor reminding me of a long lost friend.
Quite a story old shoes can tell
where we've gone - a life that's been lived well.
Oh, I know that some folks
don't care about the past,
only the present - 'cause times are just too fast.
But old shoes go slow
with memories from so long ago
of times good and bad
smiles and tears
of things happy and sad.
Old shoes are like friends, they stay around
in good times and bad,
they are really quite sound.
At times we struggle in life to find
a place of happiness, peace and a companion to be kind.
Old shoes are with us every step of the way
through good times and bad
bright days and sad.
Old shoes are like good friends
you don't throw away
just tuck them back
and bring them out another day.
Stopped by my old home town
a while back,
when I spotted an old
friend of mine, just
a lonely weeping willow tree.
Remembering days as a young
child, when I would climb this
old tree and resting under it
during long hot summer days.
The house where we once lived,
was nowhere to be seen.
Only a large hole in the ground,
where it once stood.
Watching this tree from my bedroom
each night before falling into a deep sleep,
while taking in the cool summer air, was such
a thrill for me.
Got into my car and drove away,
feeling a little better, but yet so sad,
this old weeping willow tree brought back a lot of
good memories, as I drove out of town and back home,
where I belonged.
Written 5-12-11
PHOTOGRAPHS
Our old photographs –
Hundreds are sitting around
In dust-free drawers
Unlike poor Dorian Gray
The faces places don’t change
The photographers –
Wife and I are old and gray
Waiting for the day
When relatives take over
We reborn stir in our graves
Let’s hope there are smiles
When those envelopes open
Wrinkled faces gone
Memories of youthful days
Our ghostly presence new dawn
April sixteenth is known as “The Record Store Day”,
The old “seven inch” vinyl type of music way!
Drop by those old Record shops and take a quick look!
Memories of old stomping grounds of a cool nook,
Join the groovy “nostalgia seventies” sway!
Fragile antiques
Old doll houses
and old love letters from the spouses
16 year old yearbooks
with old fashioned looks
Old musty smells
and cracked Christmas bells
Worn teddy bears
on 3 legged chairs
Pink fluffy mess
an ugly vintage dress
Red rusty bike
whose brand is Tike
Chipped tea cups
in boxes from UPS
Dusty record player
a plastic dragon slayer
Faded white onesies
and pink-purple ponies
Beautiful dream catchers
The tape Body Snatchers
Old cooking books
and rusty fishing hooks
Brown roller skates
in bright yellow crates
Shiny awards
your husbands old swords
Halloween costumes
and old perfumes
A blue cassette tape
a carnival stuffed ape
Things we keep
Things we reminisce
Things we'll never ever miss
Things that once made us ecstatic
Our valuables up in the attic
One afternoon, with nothing much to do
I found myself in a dusty old shop
Looking at the past, looking for clues
When I saw it, there on the shelf top
A hat so lovely it made my heart stop
A piece of blue felt fashioned into a cap
With black feathers that cascaded down
Down along my cheek with a subtle wrap
And a tiny net wrapping my face around
I stared in the mirror not making a sound
Transformed from a plain country girl
Into a glamorous vamp from the city
Giving life an exciting downtown whirl
It was magical; I was more than pretty
I felt sexy, gorgeous and so very witty
The hat and I had many dreams together
It was the first of my vintage collection
That blue hat with the sweet black feather
With the past just one small connection
My old blue hat, a cause for reflection
For Carol's contest....
Classic rock bands and hilarious comedians all use to entertain me,
but now when they perform ancient relics are all I see.
If you're an old time singer or comic celebrity
here's some advice from yours truly.
Continue releasing your records but don't make appearances publicly
because you've all gotten old and if the truth be told it depresses the hell out of me.
It sure is a drag this thing we call mortality.
I stand like roses
Wilted in despair,
Lost in the station
Of life giving breath
As tragedy strikes
And strips my soul bare;
I walk as I talk
My life's living death.
Now God's will, be done,
I hope to endure,
By proffering poems
At all common marts
Or tout to the crowd
My latest sure cure
For illness acquired
From faded old tarts.
Yes I cast false pride
A way to survive,
A belly once starved
Shall sweat for a feast;
Though hard is my heart
Still beating to thrive
I walk with beauty
Not crawl with the beast.
I've carried my cross
Down dusty old roads
Crossed pastures of dung
With sharp bladed fence;
I've carried my share
Of heaviest loads
Guilelessly gifted
My own common sense.
Watched the grand falcons
In clear lofty air,
As silent they glide
Past steep mountain height;
Caught the golden tresses
Of God's braided hair;
Sanctified meadows
As eagles took flight.
Passionate vipers
Still feed me, indeed!
Yet, in my honor,
I've burst through the bars.
Tasted temptation
From sin's fertile seed;
And Loved with a love
That moved Sun and Stars
Cautiously my three walked to the porch.
Two doors to choose from, spiders all around.
Spooky and eerie lit by an old dungeon torch.
Skeletons were hanging, eyeballs looking down.
Huddled together, six eyes on old “Frank”
Frightened to death worse than walking a plank.
They bravely approached; Frankenstein encroached.
The oldest reached up to give the doorbell a ring.
In the next moment came the blood-curdling scream!
Frank on the bench moved his arm in the air.
The children weren’t sure that they wanted to be there.
Just as he did it, s-q-u-e-a-k opened the door.
The laughter inside still, in my heart does soar.
A fine man came out with his camera in hand.
Beside him his wife did assuringly stand.
Laughter broke out when my children saw whom
Had given them fright on that Halloween night.
My dear friends had planned it for families and friends.
Year’s worth of his photos to memories, he sends.
Boo!
© November 5, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
Halloween is coming soon
it's not that far away
But it's nothing like it used to be
way back in my day.
Part of the fun when I was young
was creating your own disguise
by using this and using that
you just had to improvise.
You might be a Clown or a Pirate
no telling what you might be
dress in your parents old clothes and with charcoal
you could draw a beard or a little goatee!
But today it's all store-bought outfits
imagination and creativity are out
original disguises no longer exist
which was what Halloween was all about!
I'm Old Fashioned and way out of touch, I know
and probably should get up to snuff
But I still think the old way was better by far
That's it, I've said enough!
It rests in peace on the old farmer’s land
A sizeable wood frame with a silo
The late farmer and his hard-working wife
Lay ‘neath tattered crosses near the barn door
Members of the Greatest Generation
Rarely visited by their grandchildren
But, oh, that barn held animals and hay
A buggy that was mounted to a horse
Taking their clan to the Lord’s house Sundays
Still sits within the red barn’s pine board walls
Reminders of a time not so long past
When the work ethic was exemplified
Viewers see it now, wonder who lived there
Farms with old red barns succumb to decay
*For Rick’s “Red Barn” Contest
The first time I painted the old red barn
I was twenty years old and the skies were blue.
There it sat in the middle of the hay field
Waiting to be immortalized on canvas.
The second time I painted the old red barn
I was thirty-nine and my life was in turbulence.
The fall thunderclouds predominated the picture.
The hayfield almost orange with the coming sunset.
The last time I took my easel to the field
The barn had faded to a dusty rose colour,
But the skies were blue and the clouds were fluffy.
The hay waved joyously in the breeze.
The barn and I had both aged and faded with time
But we were still blessed with the sun shining on the hay.
Patchwork quilt of a metal roof,
with a hip-shot lean to the left.
Boards, weathered, to a storm cloud grey,
with remnants of red in the cracks.
Generations, hub of the farm.
If only the old barn could talk.
From its birth, in a barn raising,
lumber from a family saw mill.
Mares with foals, town dances and plows.
Hay in the loft and moonshine.
Sign of the times, acres were sold,
but the old red barn is stubborn.
It may be swaybacked in its spine,
yet, its rugged beauty is ageless.
For the contest: That Old Red Barn
Host: Rick Parise
Placement: 10th
The house wasn't much to look at,
Although it was grand in its day.
But we never got tired of visiting,
Or seeing the family on Sunday.
The floors were old and creaky,
The walls were strong and tall.
The yard was ever the smallest,
Yet, we still found a way to play ball.
The clock in the kitchen kept pendulum time,
Its gentle gongs...as the hours were to go.
The louder sounds were of plinking from the front room,
As we banged the keys of the old piano.
The sweet aromas from the bakery next door,
Wafted over us, and the neighborhood in the air.
Always reminding one of that pleasant place,
Filled with caked and cookies and eclairs.
We didn't understand the words,
That our grandparents' were to say.
That "Polish" banter between them and our parents,
Have kept their secrets even today.
While our moms were helping Grandma in the kitchen,
Our dad were on the porch playing cards.
As for us...we ran our little games,
More and more noise from the yard.
Only memories now remain,
And sometimes after a day of aching hands and weary feet,
My mind turns to those more pleasant days,
As I remember the times, spent on Erie Street.
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