The old wooden fence,
standing crooked on arthritic knees,
aged and aching,
built by a grandfather,
almost a hundred years ago,
sheltering cattle from the Nebraska snow,
year after year,
the wood,
a faded gray,
 |
| Farmer |
hard as stone,
standing even after the farmstead abandoned,
outlasting the grandfather,
and his dreams,
his children and grand children all moved away,
city dwellers,
dependent on others for food,
and finance,
as if his dreams in vain.
~ Douglas Polk
The Grindstone - by Farmer
the grindstone sat by the farmstead shed,
turned by pedals pressed up and down,
an amazing machine to a boy of five,
sickles and knives sharpened,
to use around the farm,
if Grandpa in a good mood and time plentiful,
I would be allowed to press the pedals up and down,
while he sharpened or polished his tools,
when left alone to play,
the place to be,
on the grindstone's seat,
pedaling only to watch the enormous wheel turn round,
empowered by the technology,
and my little legs,
feeling ten feet tall,
Grandpa's stroke a defining event,
when the homestead abandoned,
my Grandparents moved to town,
the land rented to strangers,
the house and shed standing idle,
as the years went by,
the grindstone still,
the magic dormant,
heartbroken as a teenager when the old farmstead revisited,
before the sale,
the grindstone on the ground,
broken and abused by vandals,
who must not have known,
the grindstone a gift,
from the Gods' of ingenuity,
magical,
giving super powers to a boy of five,
able to sharpen sickles and knives,
along with many other things.
~ Mr. Douglas
Indian Summer
Indian Summer,
a term,
no longer politically correct,
warms the mind,
with memories of a forgotten past,
fields of grain,
ready for harvest stretching to the horizon,
the afternoon sun,
mellow,
the sun's rays slanting across the gravel country roads,
a time of the year,
virginity begged to be lost,
and alcohol consumed,
before the long dark winter commenced,
a 63' Chevy,
nicknamed "Fred",
smelling of sex,
and beer,
racing the wind,
along gravel roads,
to the end of the Indian Summer.
~ Mr. Polk
Autumnʼs Harvest
Autumnʼs getting so big.
Each day, I watch her grow more.
What started as a budding seed
now nearly as tall as I.
Iʼve seen dogs bite at her knees.
Iʼve seen her shiver in the cold cold night
shaking so intensely she loses part of herself
when she desperately wants to hold on.
While everything around her turned to frost.
Iʼm always cleaning up after Autumn.
Why did she plant your roots so deep
and leave me this crinkled foliage?
I shove pieces of her into garbage sacks.
I saved one piece in a book.
Flattened it and left it to dry.
Like a perfect little fossil.
A piece of her to always remember.
I love Autumn
for the gifts she brings.
A beautiful apple,
Picked not a moment too soon.
My wooden dagger
pierces the apples flesh
So succulent, so sweet.
Autumn has once again
shed her skin
And left it to the trees
to rake up.
~ Brenna Doherty
No comments:
Post a Comment