Dream Caught Her

 

Dreams dreams catching my on their barbed promises.

Eviscerated on my own dreams and their sharp edges.

Mind opened through my dreams, awoken to fog.

Dreamcatcher catches bad dreams, then why am I here?

Caught in the middle, tangled up, wondering how and why.

Dreams catching me, leaving me open and bare.

Naked from the inside out, nothing to hide, to the bone.

Waking dreams, sleeping dreams, wished shadows of dreams.

Dancing through the dreams, caught in the catcher.

Hung and left there to die. Left there to dream an escape.

 

For the Sunday mini-challenge on With Real Toads.

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Burlap Memories

Standing in a burger shop line, bags of peanuts.

Burlap bags. Coarse. Greasy. Rough to touch.

I let my fingers drift across their surface.

Memories flood me, stagger me there.

Old men drowning kittens in sacks.

Angry at their fight to live. My anger at them.

Decorative pieces, crafted and abandoned.

Unloved by all except the artist, discouraged.

Potatoes, grain, coffee encased in their fibres.

Memories come through touch, smell, sight.

I shudder, and my husband puts his arm around me.

He thinks I’m cold, and I let him.

Too hard to explain how much I hate

that burlap sack of innocent nuts.

I rub my fingers on my jeans,

waiting for the greasy fries to

wash away the burlap scent again.

 

For With Real Toads, ‘A Word with Laurie’. Surprised myself with where this went but when poetry comes, you take it as it arrives.  You don’t close the door on your muse or she may sulk away.

Morning People

I think I’ve discovered a universal truth.

Morning people are team players.

They awake, ready to tackle the day.

Cheerful faces and loud noises.

They say, “Good morning God!”

 

We, the night owls, are more solitary.

Moving quietly we enjoy the darkness.

We let them sleep, slumber in their beds.

Silent smiles and low volume, key tapping.

We say, “Good God! Morning?” and He smiles.

 

I live with two morning people, one who wakes singing almost every single day.  I am out numbered and outgunned by their team spirited early morning energy.  I am, however, a dedicated night owl and will quietly move through the night as often as I can when I don’t have to surrender to the morning insanity! 🙂 

 

Out standing in their field, the old joke goes.

Farmers are their own breed to be sure.

Growing boys, and girls, strong and true.

Raising food, caring for the land – in their blood.

 

Outstanding in their fields, doing what they love.

Farmers are true to one thing, and one thing only.

Growing it better, one eye to the sky and one to ground.

Raising hopes, raising dreamers – in their hearts.

 

Out standing in their fields, eyes to those they love.

Farm wives washed in blood, sweat and tears.

Growing it at home, in the field and in their souls.

Raising it generation after generation – in their DNA.

 

Outstanding and insane, outstanding and obscure.

Farmers are a special breed, and so it should be.

Growing it started in God’s own first garden after all!

Raising hands deep in soil, blooded on the land. Forever.

 

Six generations on this Canadian soil, with the seventh standing in the field with his Daddy.  More generations past across the seas.  It is in our blood, our DNA says “Farmer! Rancher!” and of that we are proud.  Looking at this harvest picture I think that maybe that is the way it is meant to be…for our family anyway.  Every generation needs at least one, and this is ours.