You can’t do that

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Do you know why bees can fly so well?

They don’t know they can’t.

Physics mean nothing

to a bee in flight.

They dance.

They fly.

 

Do you know why bees can fly so well?

They don’t know they shouldn’t.

Aerodynamics mean zip

to a buzzing lil bee.

All they know

is to fly.

 

Do you know why bees can fly so well?

They don’t care about fat and fuzzy.

Body shape means nothing

when you can fly like that.

Bees are always in shape.

Round is a shape.

They are in.

 

Do you know why bees can fly so well?

They are not thinking about or you.

Opinions matter not one bit.

Bees care about the hive.

The family, their

queen mother.

Family.

 

Do you know why bees can fly so well?

I think I do. And now I really want

to be more like a fuzzy round

fat little strong amazing

bee who flies, dances

and always gets

home. Yes.

You?

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Choices

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I think we have our wires crossed, she said.

He tightened up around the post in silence.

I think we have to loosen up and try again.

He pounded the staples deeper into the post.

 

I think we need to have some time, she said.

He leaned on the post, looking away to the fields.

I think we have to check the whole fence, together.

He braced the post, tugged the wire, walked away.

 

I think we can do this, together, she said.

He thought about choices, unable to choose.

I think if you choose it will work out fine.

He couldn’t choose, instead chose to blame her.

 

I think that we are like this corner post, she said.

He stared down the straight fence line, nodded.

I think without a strong anchor the fence falls.

He reached out and held tight to her, his anchor.

 

I think I talk to much, she said, and tried to go.

He moved to hold her, and whispered stay.

I think you’d be better off free, without me.

He held on to her like she was his last breath.

 

I think we can make it. I believe in you, she said.

He shook his head, her faith too big and not enough.

I think I don’t know what to think anymore.

He felt her tears, bitter and hot, soak his shirt.

 

I think I could be a quitter, if I tried, she said.

He laughed, her the patron saint of lost causes.

I think I could walk away, really but no not me.

He touched her face and finally found the words.

 

 

Numb3rs

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Tip them up, don’t let the luck run out.

Nail them over the door. In and out.

Except what luck is a rusty shoe?

Unlucky for the horse to wear!

 

Double the luck, put up two. Just in case.

Touch them with your finger tips. In and out.

Except why double up on chance?

Unlucky except for  in the averages!

 

Me and thee, we together have made three.

Adding to the family some of me, some of you.

A little family of three. He, me and thee.

We are a wee little bit of heaven here!

 

Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Pray. Submit.

Adding souls to heaven, no we don’t boast.

Keeping them together, and yet they are

keeping themselves apart. Confusing no?

 

Dancing together, me and thee. Maybe.

Music of laughter, giggles and farts.

Farts! I said farts. Big boy and small.

Surely you know about the musical fruit?

 

Visiting graves today with one young

and one very much older. Much the same.

Fixing tipped flowers, setting out new ones.

Reading names and dates. So many gone.

 

Miles driven. Stories told. Tired eyes blink.

Lines on the road, beyond counting now.

She doesn’t know she tells them over and over.

The stories are here and now for her.

 

Names carved on stones, ties to the past.

Giving hope to a new future seeded deep.

Mama how many great greats was Annie?

Does Baba know I miss her? I do he asserts.

 

Standing by stones, holding one so warm.

Seeing her lean on her cane, living memories.

She came from the grave, thought Effie was home.

Knocking on the door of an abandoned house.

 

Grandma she’s gone. She doesn’t remember. And

then she does. Fingers brush against memories.

Let’s go see something else. She gets in the truck.

Driving slow, talking about people she used to know.

 

He doesn’t understand why her memories are

out of time, lost to their own flow. He listens.

She tells the same stories again and again.

We listen to her voice, not the words, again.

 

Alzheimers and dementia steal their minds. They can rob us of conversation. They can force someone to live in a past with the present floating by. But it cannot steal their voices. Repeat those stories Grandma, tell me again. I know I’ll miss your voice when you are gone. Stories can change with the telling, it is the story teller that is cherished by young and old.  Missing my own Grandparents, and cherishing time with my husband’s Grandma today.  And sharing for the numbers prompt at dVerse!

The Lucky Ones

 

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You are like the song. The Lucky One.

Except yours is always the next field.

The next tractor, the next season.

 

You are like the song, The Lucky One.

Except yours is always the witty word.

The quick come-back. The final say.

 

You are like the song, The Lucky One.

Except that you are blessed with

too many roads to choose from.

 

You are like the song, The Lucky One.

Except that you widow me spring and fall.

Fields need your tending hands.

 

You are like the song, The Lucky One.

The next best thing  to playing to win

is playing and losing. But not really.

 

You are like the song, The Lucky One.

Except we are your song. and our love

lasts more than a night, than a season.

 

You are like the song, but we are really

The Lucky Ones. We have you, in those

gaps of time between field and road.

 

You are like the song, The Lucky One.

We are really the lucky ones.

Except we don’t believe in luck.

 

Marry a farmer, even love one, and you know the widowhood of the fields, the seasons. You also know the refrains that draw them from field to field, crop to crop. season to season. And you know you are the lucky one to have a farmer is to love one who loves the land, loves the animals, and for me I have one who loves his Lord and serves Him.  For you, my beloved.

No Hands

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No blueprints. No diagrams. No plans.

No stop at the Rona or Home Depot.

Not even a local lumber yard.

 

Needles from blue spruce.

Hair from the tail of a horse.

Some strands from a cloth.

 

With no hands it is built.

With no plans it becomes.

With love it is a home.

 

Birds sing without sheet music.

Build houses with no hands.

Use our trash for their treasures.

 

Maybe we can learn from them.

How to make something

from the frayed and broken?

 

The Master taught them flight.

Building of nests and such.

Birds are counted by Him too.

 

No permits. No rules. No HOA.

No need for inspectors either.

Except maybe that blackbird!

 

For Open Link night at dVerse.  I had something comedic in mind, something sarcastic and in line with my frustration with courier companies today. But looking through my photos I found this one of a small bird’s nest. Made of spruce needles and horse hair and some thread. I realized there was more poetry in one small nest than in anything I could imagine. So my humble tribute to the unknown avian builder of this little masterpiece.  May you always have a song and strong wings!

Rope Burn

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Eyes squint tight against the sun.

Hat screwed on tight against the wind.

Focus on the target, weight on feet.

Grip with your legs. Lean forward.

Hold the reins loosely, start the loop.

Look at the nose, not the horns.

Throw the loop and draw the dally.

Tight! Tight! Tight. Don’t slip.

Don’t get caught against the horn.

Turn away. Let the horse do the work.

Rope burns hot under your gloves.

 

II

He drawled, his voice like molasses.

Slightly bitter and thickly sweet.

Holding up scarred hands with

fingers bent to the shape of rope

and rein. Legs bowed from saddle

hours, shaped by the horse and ride.

Drawing stories of the range work

with his words. Strange words to

city ears, music to ranch girls.

Open range and all the time

we need to tell the tale. No rush.

He rubs a scar, remembering a

rope burn so very well.

 

III

He goes through life sorting a to-do list.

Once it is done, it is gone. Move on.

She goes through life taking snapshots.

Each one worth the time to enjoy.

He hardly gets done the job before.

Gotta go. Move on. Nothing to see here.

She lingers, enjoying the moment, the color.

The flavors and sounds of memories stay.

He is constantly on the move. Go. Now.

Thinking. Pondering. Random. Gone.

She wants to enjoy, to hold the moment.

Each one a special singular moment of time.

He misses the moments, gets rope burn!

She holds on too tight, they go. Rope burn.

 

IV

Shadows dance along the sandy shore.

Moving their moments along stately.

Sandals left, their abandon revealing.

Their shadows growing long .

 

Laughter dances along the sandy shore.

Moving eyes to smile, moments glisten.

Sandals left, waiting on dryer ground.

Their shadows growing long.

 

Memories caught with a shutter’s click.

Moving one frame to the next, capturing.

Sandals caught, in a moment framed.

Their shadows stilled forever.

 

Holding tight to two days, she sifts sand.

Moving it through fingers, she smiles.

Sandals hot in the fading sun.

Their shadows a bruise, rope burn.

 

V

One word. A tone. A look.

The frozen heat rises up.

Her face feels red, shamed?

Her body tenses, flight?

Her mind snaps – fight!

Hold on. Hold on tight.

No wait, let go! Let go!

Emotions race hot

with acidic words

and burning tears.

A rope burn of emotion.