Henry the Hereford rests in the shade
Local farmers plan their herd’s “seasonal activities” well. In the pastures around us now we’re seeing the offspring from last summer’s mating season. Though around here the cattle are almost all Black Angus.
Also noticed on a recent walk:
punch holes in our driveway
a hostile takeover
Writing its memoir?
flick of my finger
sends the spider flying
scribbling its last line
None knows the day that friends must part.
None knows how near is sorrow.
If there be laughter in your heart,
don’t hold it for tomorrow.
Smile all the smiles you can today;
grief waits for all along with way.
Today is ours for joy and mirth;
we may be sad tomorrow;
then let us sing for all we’re worth,
nor give a thought to sorrow.
None knows what lies along the way;
let’s smile what smiles we can today.
From his book A Heap O’ Livin’
published 1916 by the Reilly & Britton Co
Reblogged from my former poetry blog, Swallow in the Wind — Sept 2013
Our new internet server is in place, but I’ve decided to go with my gmail address for awhile and see how that works. A slightly different e-mail address may show up in my replies to WordPress bloggers, but folks can contact me at christinevanceg @ gmail.com.
Hope you’re smiling, singing a song, and having a good day in spite of the woes common to us mortals.
In the past few days I’ve been doing more study on how to write haiku, so my mind was in poetic form yesterday on our trip to the city. Here’s another “just for fun” verse, reflecting our want of a good rain:
streaks in the west
someone’s getting rain
no socialist cloud banks
Farming practices have changed so much over the years that you seldom see dust blowing off bare fields, but I did see one small bare patch of ground yesterday where the ground was being swept away in the strong wind. In the mall parking lot bits of dirt whipped in my face when I walked west.
The crops and gardens are all greening up here. We’re glad for the light showers we’ve had so far this week, but would gladly take another few inches. The sloughs around us are pretty much dried up already.
ducks search for water
to wet their toes
a dry spring
I’ve been enjoying the outdoors and have a number of planters scattered around the front of our trailer now, filled and flowering. This morning I felt to sit at my computer and spill out my latest vein of thought.
Recently I submitted some haiku to an on-line journal and the editor suggested I should get a better handle on juxtaposition. I’m sure this is quite true.
Juxtapose: put two things side by side. I’ll call it the art of implying a comparison. Whether I’ll succeed in this or not is another matter, but my mind started turning the matter over, working on a haiku.
There are a number of almost-dead trees in the narrow strip of woods beside us. Planted a hundred years ago when folks first settled here, these (mostly poplar) trees once encircled the farm yard to the immediate east of us. Sad to say, they’ve reached the end of their life span and now there isn’t much left to them but a bleak gray trunk. In the ten years we’ve lived here strong winds have brought a number down and we wonder, during storms, if another will fall. Envisioning these old trees standing against the storm, my mind made a leap to “union blue and rebel gray.”
stark gray tree
facing death from the boiling blue
Good juxtaposition or no?
Stretched it out into a mini-poem:
Stark old tree
stripped of many branches
faces death in the boiling blue
storm sweeping over its head
Then I decided this post was long enough, so will continue in Part B: Rebel Gray and Union Blue. T’will be easier for you to Like and Comment on each.
It used to be fun in the good old days
to rise at the dawn of day
and dig for worms for a fishing trip.
It used to be fun, I say,
for I swear that a robin who hovered near
knew just what we were about,
since he flew to the ground when the earth was turned
and begged us to toss one out.
Yes, it used to be fun to go fishing then,
but Time has rewritten my terms
of what pleasure is — and I never get up
to dig for a can of worms.
We’d sit on the dock and we’d swing our legs
all day in the blazing sun,
and a few small fish on a piece of string
was our ultimate dream of fun.
Then digging for worms was an easy task,
but I tried it a year ago
and the earth seemed hard as a city street
where the streams of traffic flow.
And I’d lost the knack of clutching a thing
that wriggles and twists and squirms,
so I said to myself: “You will never again
go digging at dawn for worms.”
I stuck to the task ‘til my hands grew sore,
I labored and toiled and wrought,
but the worms were scarce and no robins came,
and it wasn’t the fun I thought.
But a small boy said as we walked away:
“I’m wondering, Uncle Ed,
when there’s so much pleasure in getting up,
how can old folks stay in bed?”
I could only answer him this: “My lad,
all experience confirms
the dreadful fact that there comes a time
when it’s labor to dig for worms.”
I’m happy to say that my visit to the Cancer Clinic yesterday was really encouraging. My white count is about the same as it was back in November, no sign of the leukemia becoming active.
I’m going to take a break from the internet for awhile to catch up with other projects. I’ll schedule some poems to fill in the gap. I trust you’ll find them as inspiring as I do.
by Edgar Guest
You do not need a score of men to laugh and sing with you; you can be rich in comradeship with just a friend or two. You do not need a monarch’s smile to light your way along; through weal or woe a friend or two will fill your days with song.
So let the many go their way and let the throng pass by; the crowd is but a fickle thing which hears not when you sigh. The multitudes are quick to run in search of favorites new, and all that man can hold for grief is just a friend or two.
When winds of failure start to blow, you’ll find the throng has gone — the splendor of a brighter flame will always lure them on; but with the ashes of your dreams and all you hoped to do you’ll find that all you really need is just a friend or two.
You cannot know the multitude, however hard you try: it cannot sit about your hearth; it cannot hear you sigh; it cannot read the heart of you, or know the hurts you bear; its cheers are all for happy men and not for those in care.
So let the throng go on its way and let the crowd depart; but one or two will keep the faith when you are sick at heart; and rich you’ll be, and comforted, when gray skies hide the blue, if you can turn and share your grief with just a friend or two.