No Clowns Allowed



I don’t like clowns.

Don’t care for them.

Pass on by grease paint.

Pass on by fuzzy wigged one.


Don’t like clowns.

Not even a little bit.

Pass on IT clown and Gacey.

Pass on Shriner and mime.


Don’t like clowns.

Not funny nor cute.

Pass on by baggy pants.

Pass on by big bad shoes.


Don’t like clowns.

Creepy false faces.

Hidden behind drawn tears.

Hidden behind painted smiles.


Don’t like clowns.

Dislike almost every kind.

Two exceptions are allowed.

All others git yerselves gone.


I love two clowns.

Only two, rare and true.

Rodeo clowns of daring do.

My sweet son, having fun.


I really and truly do not like clowns. This amuses my husband to no end, especially when coupled with my distaste for closet doors and the possibility of clowns lurking within said closet behind said hated doors.  I admire and respect aboriginal sacred clowns, court jesters, rodeo clowns and adore it when my son dressed up as one a while back.  All others need not apply. You who are clowns, it isn’t anything personal, I just don’t like false faces and trickery and that sort of clowning around.  Blame bad guys and horror writers and a nasty trickster when I was young for my dislike of your kind.  Playing at With Real Toads today.

Personal Ad



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!

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.

Open Letter to those who eat

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.