Sunflower Poetry

Treat everyone as you wish to be treated.

Reading the news. Bad idea.

Listening to the gossip. Bad idea.

Seeing one photo after another.

Why are we forgetting the love?

What if I treated you the way you treat me.

As if you were dumb. Invisible. Worthless.

As if you had no spirit. No soul. No life.

As if you were created for me. To use.

What if I treated you the way you treat me.

Unworthy of respect. Of love. Of care.

Unworthy of saving. Of valuing. Loving.

Unworthy of a single thought after you were done.

What if I treated you the way you treat me.

Sharing your shame, with glee.

Your bleeding pain celebrated.

Your wounds amusing in passing.

What if we choose differently?

Living life with the price paid.

Loving life with the joy restored.

Believing in life, death conquered.

What if we spoke in love, lived love?

Not like hippy dippy. But genuine.

I care. Do you . Prove it by caring.

What if we only shared in joy?

What if we put the horrors away?

We know it is there. Gasping. Grasping.

We can take away it’s power. We can.

Stop feeding hate. Stop feeding fear.

What if we really were the change?

Now. Today. Smile and show you care.

Say a prayer. Say ten. For someone else.

Be thankful. For everything. Even that.

What if we could, and we would?

What then? Would the world pause?

Take a breath. Reset. Recharge.

Not for you. For them. Yes them.

So tired, lately, of the hurt and hate. The culture of fear and hatred. Instead of ‘DO NOT RAPE’ we teach, “Don’t get raped, and don’t get taped”.  So tired of horrific photos begging to be shared with no action for change. No real desire of change because it is easier to reel from horror to horror instead of shouting STOP. STOP. ENOUGH. NO MORE. In my head this poem was more harsh, more hard hitting but I think we have had enough of that. We need some hope. Some love. Some ___________. Don’t you?

WANTED

Warm and softly scented of flowers.

Verdant, with a loamy richness.

Bright, with a voice like birdsong.

Laughing in storms and sunshine.

Dancing in the rain with me.

Filled with hope and love.

Temperamental and flighty.

Full of promises, color and light.

Wanted, after months of longing,

After months of monochrome.

Wanted, your touch, your song,

your smell, your temper and grace.

No calls please. No emails either.

Just come home Spring. Come home.

We miss you, Winter has overstayed

her snowfilled welcome here.

Send your birds, your leaves, your rain.

We’ll welcome each weedy bloom with joy.

Answer our personal ad soon.

We miss you. We love you.

It has been a long, snowy, blowy, cold winter. This is my personal ad for Spring. I hope she sees it and comes home soon. We sure do miss her.

Come visit. Friendly Manitoba.

Be sure you don’t mind the cold.

Or the bugs. Skeeters and flies.

Maybe just come in spring

(before the bugs come)

or in the fall after the bugs

(but before the snow and cold)

Wide open spaces, great lakes.

Some a gawdawfulkillya flat.

Sometimes it floods though.

Cowboys and Indians.

(I can say that, really I can)

Don’t miss a bannock burger.

or Indian tacos. YUMMMY!

Back roads meet small towns.

Some places don’t have roads

that work year ’round. Sorry.

Cities too. A few anyway.

Manitoba is a good place to visit.

Our snakes won’t kill ya.

Neither will our fish.

(watch River Monsters!)

Dances happen often.

(Socials for you locals)

The locals are colorful.

So are the fields.

(flax, canola and wheat)

Come visit. We’ll have fun.

(no Churchill is not a day trip!)

It isn’t all winter and bugs.

(I said NOT ALL!)

There are tornadoes and hail.

(never boring except on the flat)

It’s hard to explain,

if you’ve never been here.

Take my word, come visit.

(bring bug spray and parkas!)

Part II

Come visit. This is where we live.

Pull up a chair. Kick off your shoes.

Enjoy that prairie sky, so wide.

Stand in awe of the northern lights.

See an inland sea or a wide field.

Waves of water or wheat roll on

forever and ever. No end to see.

Come visit! We’ll play farmer games.

Pull up and breathe. Kick off your city.

Enjoy that sound of quiet, so calm.

Stand in awe of the birds in flight.

See the horses run or the calves play.

Waves of laughter and dogs barking

forever and ever. No end to see.

Come visit! We’ll walk in the quiet.

Pull up and park. Kick off the dust.

Enjoy that feel of space, so open.

Stand in awe of the wildness too.

See the coyote, fox, owl and hawk.

Wings soaring higher and higher

forever and ever.  Rising! Rising!

For dVerse, poetics on where we live. Won’t you join in the fun? Or just read some great poetry.

An open letter to those who eat.

Those who might cuss a farmer

with their mouth full of food.

Those who might buy into the

hype and the terror tactics.

Those who would, perhaps,

think that broad brushes

paint the best strokes

for changing the world.

To those who who eat

not what they grow

but what others toil

to bring to the table.

To those who make

the old ways the ‘new’

new in the face of

science gone mad

with too much change

and not enough choice.

To those who would

decide that ‘someone’ should

‘do something’ and then

sit back and wait. Wait.

Forgetting that there is

‘no one’ for ‘someone’ who

isn’t willing to speak. To say.

To try. Be someone.

To those who would call

me the fringe, the crazy,

the hippie chick farmer.

I may be. Maybe you

can learn what I know.

If you care for the animals

and the land then

more than food will

come. It is life you grow.

Buzz words are tossed around

loose as pin-less grenades.

Ban this! Stop that!

GMO, sustainable, organic,

no need to be all crazy

chemicals are not

all bad. Are they? Or no?

I will defend your right

to believe what you need.

I will defend your right

to speak what you need.

I only ask that you

respect that I know

what I know. That you

leave the broad brush

strokes to house painting.

An open letter to

those who eat.

You can make

choices. You

can make change.

The old saying

goes: If you eat

you are involved.

Sadly most farmers who are doing a good job of farming spend their time farming – not telling the world they are doing a good job. Or how they do a good job. Or how many generations their family has been doing that job. The culture of agriculture gets lost in the noise from all sides.  If it wasn’t for farming, the prairies would be empty. A vast plain crossed only to reach one coast or another.  We can do better, and many do more than their share. Sadly, the ones who do our culture ill, from within or without, are seen more often in the news.  Farmers are outstanding people, but many are too busy out standing in their fields to tell you about it.  Farmers around the world have made a choice for a way of life that is often more filled with challenges than with rewards and yet we still do it.  Family farms, generation after generation, need to be recognized in a sea of urban sprawl and a fog of media and misinformation about corporations, government and industry.  No one does anything perfectly, but some respect is due to those who keep trying, and in that trying, respect is due to those who keep trying to do better. To be better. To keep us in  food locally and globally. Those who keep the farmers across the globe informed and equipped. Those who quietly share their bounty from field and garden. Those who encourage you to eat well, to know where your food comes from and who raises, grows and processes it.  Knowledge is power, and there is nothing more powerful than food. Food for the body, food for the mind and food for the soul. No one can live on one alone.  Forgive the rant, if you have gotten this far.  I appreciate you coming by.

Sharing with the wonderful folks at With Real Toads, on the Wednesday challenge to write an open letter.

She stood, eyes closed, in the morning sun.

He watched her, the small secret smile.

Winter’s grip loosening under the rays.

Her face softened, the lines less hard.

He watched her, the love of his life.

Winter’s hard pack melting fast now.

She stretched, leaning against him.

He smelled the sunshine in her hair.

Winter’s darkness shattering again.

She kissed his grain dust covered cheek.

He pulled wheat chaff from her hair.

Winter’s sleep awakens. Spring!

She accepts the promise from the sun.

He holds the seeds of another year.

Winter’s back turns. Retreat!

Loading a truck of wheat this morning, and after the auger quieted and the truck left the yard I was able to stand quietly and bask in the spring (early spring, mind you) sunshine. This poem was born in that moment. Enjoy, and God bless farmers!

Graffiti Creator

#tag this

#tag that

before the # tag

a tag your sign

on the wall.

Here, in paint.

before the paint

was locked up

under key

and the words

on the walls

were urban

poetry.

Overpasses

crossing road

and rail line

echo sentiments

specific

andvague.

Train car

sroll on by,

I squint

to read their

message

in paint

and think

of the

tagger

and where

their empty

paint

cans

fell.

With dVerse poets tonight…won’t you join us?

From where he plays she is the black dog.

Friend, protector, random barker, tail wagging Lego smasher.

From where she sits he is her job.

To protect, cuddle, lick, lean on and stare at with love.

From their perspective the world is very simple.

Eat, play, love, sleep start all over again tomorrow.

Sometimes they get busted for one thing or another.

It is a part of life. Both boy and dog. They move on.

When they play, they play hard.

When they sleep, they sleep hard.

The bigger the laugh the harder the tail wags.

The more the tail wags the more he laughs.

Her joy feeds upon his, his upon hers.

Around and around. Until they sleep.

Crashing in a sunbeam on a sunny winter day.

Nothing quite seems the same once you’ve seen life

from their angle on the floor.

Getting down with them to see, to play, to laugh

lightens the load of any heavy day.

God knows this. He gave us both to remind us

that joy should be sought after.

He gave us both to remind us of

perspective.  His, ours, theirs.

Who is being blessed?

Who is doing the blessing?

Does it matter when boy and dog

have rescued one another

and have nothing but

an easy comfortable

love?