Rain during harvest



Thousands of acres to go.

Wheat. Barley. Oats. Flax. Canola.

I understand this life so.

We dance the dance of farming.


Thousands of grains they sow.

Forage, grains, oilseeds and more.

Sweat, tears, diesel fumes all go

into making this life you enjoy.


Thousands of wives work and know.

Driven by those they love.

This life they bleed for, making it grow.

Each one wishing for rain days.


Dark eyes crinkled in dust know.

He sees my lust driving me to bake

wishing he could see me naked so

I dance with the clouds for rain.


We can’t admit it, you know.

Farming comes first, so pray for clear

skies and good nights, help them go.

And quietly we wish for rain.


Not so much rain, not stop just slow.

Give away my widow’s weeds for a day.

Let me love him, smelling of fields. Oh!

I’m a ready field, awaiting my harvest.


You learn to love it, watching them go.

Knowing each round brings him closer.

And further away, in dust dreams stow.

Yearning for an early night, rain too.


Rub the shoulders, learn the lingo.

Understand moisture and yields by field

Whispering, pulling him in, low.

Dear, I love you, let the harvest go.


Arms twined, one leg over just so.

Listening to rain, and the snores beside.

It’s not a bad thing, so you know

loving while it rains during harvest.


The ache returns and he has to go.

Fields are calling, wicked mistresses.

Combines and tractors! I know!

He is always ready for sunny days.


I love him. I love him so.

I can’t help but hate the long days.

I want him. I want him so.

I can’t help but wish for rain during harvest.


Trying something new for Victoria as she hosts at the dVerse Pub – and it’s true too. I love my farming husband, and our life. Bu sometimes I miss him so during the busy seasons – seeding and harvest.  I wish for some rain days, so we can linger together.  I think we call can relate, no?

Doors to fall



Abandoned. Overlooking the river’s bend.

Doors open.  A promised memory lingers.

A line of dreams enter into a rusty rest.

Each one full of dreams, hopes and heart.

Dancing across the meadows, echoes.

Laughter and tears. Dust and dreams.


Doors open. Left there to rust. Engine dead.

Dreams of theirs fade like paint, rusting away.

You have to wonder about their flight.

North to hope, away from the dust bowl.

A generation moving away from desolation.

Driving the dream to fields northern.

Past the rivers Saskatchewan and White Fox.

Farmer’s cars edge the fields, memories live.


In the dustbowl years many people fled southern Saskatchewan looking for land that was alive and farmable.  They ended up north of the Saskatchewan River and along the White Fox. Further north than they ever dreamed and yet they found land that did grow crops, and communities sprung up to grow families.  Their dreams drew them north, another wave of pioneers driving wagons of steel powered by gas drinking horses.  You can see their remains, the farms, and you can see their fields still growing abundant crops.  My small tribute to them for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. Come over won’t you?

Peace begins



Peace begins with a smile – Mother Teresa


Peace begins with a small thing.

Something so tiny we don’t even see.

Begins like flight, with a wing.

Taking us from this place we are to then.


Peace rings with a small sound.

That only the heart and soul can hear.

Sings building up, around. Around.

Like blood pumping through bodies.


Peace dances barefooted then.

On broken streets and meadows.

In war torn town and wild glen.

Like laughter across the mourning.


Peace holds us so close, lightly.

Urging us to act in love, now. Here.

It never starts high, nor mighty.

Peace comes from the ground up.


Born in soil, growing wild.

Peace cannot be cultivated.

Alive! Breathing.  A child.

Peace comes from those too.


Peace is a soft voice.

A smiling face, an open hand.

It comes, a choice.

Dancing on broken dreams.


Two wonderful prompts for dVerse Poets – a ballad  for Form For All (which I have attempted after only one cup of coffee) and a poem for Peace Day.  These I combined into Peace Begins. Enjoy. And be sure to stop by and see what the other amazing poets wrote!

six seasons or more

Six Seasons Cree – Lac La Ronge Band


Balance. We look for it wherever we go.

We break time up into bit sized pieces.

We order the seasons into four or more.

We strive to make it orderly this chaos.


Balance. We look for it however we go.

We walk our life tight ropes barefoot.

We drive between the marked lines.

We seek to stay on the even keel.


Balance. We look for it whenever we go.

We dance to the right music, in time.

We climb the ladders and chase goals.

We map it out on a chart, in color-code.


Balance. We fail and we fall reaching it.

We forget that balance is not our design.

We neglect that which balances us.

We mourn in hindsight with 20-20 glasses.


Balance. We forget the seasons between.

We don’t recognize  freeze up and break up.

We forget to enjoy one seeking another.

We neglect the warning of flying webs and geese.


Balance.  We have forgotten it in our rush.

We put it on the calendar but don’t live it.

We drive fast to catch up to the next thing.

We live in the moments that have not come.


Balance. We have built a world on a myth.

We cry for relief from the regiment and cringe.

We seek wildness and cower in our yards.

We desire freedom and love our chains.


Balance. We need more seasons I think!

We need one for laughing like 8 year olds.

We need one for dancing like sunflowers.

We need one for snowballs and goofballs.


Tansi!  Joe is talking about balance today as he tends bar for the dVerse Pub Open Link Night. We are studying Cree and the Cree people have six seasons – adding in Freeze up and Break up.  I think they may have had more, one for each moon that is named.  The names are long in Cree but they make sense.  You can read about them here: http://www.kayas.ca/sixseasons.html Ekosi

It is not about horses

Saddle your own broncs


When you can saddle and ride my broncs

you can tell me how to do it.

Until then ride yer own horses.

It’s not about horses.

It’s not about riding.

It’s not about broncs.



Life has piles of crap here. And piles there.

And you’ll get some on your boots.

Sometimes on your jeans.

Under your nails.

In your nose.

But it’s not about the boots.

But it’snot about the crap.


We forget, in our super connected world,

that some things don’t belong to us.

We forget, in our need to connect,

that some things should be left alone.

It isn’t your business to be in my business.

I’ll mind my business if you mind your own.


Hank Jr. sang it well. He’s not alone.

Mind your own business. We can’t.

It isn’t easy to avoid the gossip

It is hard to encourage, support.

To be there when it’s ugly and hard.

But it is about love. And being there.

It is always about that. Being there.


Slogans, Sayings. Memes. Tweets.

Status updates come pouring in.

We watch news tickers because

it takes too long to hear the whole

story. Who wants to anyway?

It is about the whole story.

It is about the people, the heart.


So unless you are digging in.

Unless you are moping up.

Unless you are dragging hoses

to put out fires or making soup

to feed the masses. Unless you

are willing to do what is needed

you can hush and get outta the

way of those who are willing to do it.


Saddle your own horses. Ride em too.

Corral your broncs. Brand your cows.

Help your neighbor when you can.

Fill some plates and top up the hope.

It’s not about horses, or cows.

But it is about hearts and souls.

It is about doing what we can

when it is needed most.


I’m tending bar at dVerse tonight and we are talking about sayings, phrases, tweets and signs that can inspire our poetry. Stop by won’t you?  And I am so pleased you stopped by.  Thanks!  Thanks to Pastor Kevin Weatherby of SaveTheCowboy for his great western wisdom.

jazz funeral



The wheels on the hearse they roll, they roll.

The tears down her face they roll, they roll.

Our steps, stately as thunder, they roll.


The horns they mourn, so low, so low.

The sax she weep, so low, so low.

Our hearts they droop so low, so low.


The gates they swing so slow, so slow.

The stones pass by so slow, so slow.

Our hands they clapping so slow, so slow.


The graveyard bell it ring, it ring.

The grave digger he sing, he sing.

Our voices join in, we sing, we sing.


The box, body no soul, it go, it go.

The hole she call it in, come let’s go.

Our hands drop in dirt, we go, we go.


The gravel path finds a beat, our beat.

The music changes! A new beat! New beat!

Our bodies sway, our hearts beat! Beat!


The dirge is over, she gone. She gone.

The mourning is done. We done. We done.

Our parasols turn roun’ and roun’.


The ‘membering begins, begins.

The celebrating begins, it begins.

Our march turns to dancing spins!


The horns they sing in joy, in joy.

The sax she shout in joy, in joy.

We remember with joy, with joy.


The song celebrate our freedom!

The body from the soul cut loose!

Our dirge go to dancing. We free!


The black clouds, they gone! They gone.

The sun, she shine on. She shine on.

Our hearts they rise on. Rise on!


The body be dead and gone. Gone.

The soul it rise and be gone. Gone.

Our souls they live on. Live on.


We are all about Jazz tonight at dVerse Poets Pub.  I recall watching Live and Let Die, and seeing the jazz funeral when I was younger. Then learning more about it from, of all places, NCIS’s Abby.  When Gay gave us the prompt, I had to do some more reading. Check it out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jazz_funeral!  Traditionally the dirge is the funeral march, slow and stately. It is a formal good bye with all the expected mourning.  After the soul is ‘cut loose of the body’ the music, and atmosphere goes towards celebrating life! Joyful songs, dancing, twirling parasols and handkerchiefs along with much more joyful music accompany the exit from the cemetery.  What a cool way to celebrate a life! 


A slow down prayer


Hold on you are going too fast!

Don’t rush the days away so.

Time will come when you are

asked, “Did you see the ____?”

And you’ll have to say you were

too busy to notice the little

blessings in each moment.


Don’t rush the days away so.

Hold on you are going  too fast!

Time will come when you are

asked why you missed these

little blessings in your hurry.

Don’t you know they only

come once and are gone?


Hold on! You are going too fast!

Don’t rush the days away so.

Babes grow fast, seasons rush.

Firsts happen one at a time.

The day may come when you

wish you had slowed down

to enjoy their laugh, their

tears but it will be too late.


Don’t rush the days away so.

Hold on. You are going too fast.

Harvests only come after the

sowing and the growing and

you can’t rush them in your

hurry to get there, or here

The when won’t get done

faster in your impatience.


Hold on, slow down. Be still.

Don’t rush away the days.

The storm hides the sun

but the sun always shines

brightly through the clouds.

Time will come when you

will notice the blessings

you rushed past to get there.


Don’t rush the days away so.

Hold on, you are going too fast.

Laugh a little, be some kinda

SiLLy and do something wild.

Bottle up the memories!

Spend the moments you

have now, right now. They

don’t keep any better

than cut flowers who

are already dying at the

first cut of the knife.

Fading as you watch.


Too often we are caught up in the myth of measured time, the convention of spaces between moments, and we think if we are busy we can get to a point in the future faster. And we miss SO MUCH doing that!  And what we miss, and glimpse of over our shoulders as it passes away cannot be found again the same way.  Steal those moments, treasure them, hunt them down and live them with big deep breaths.  Even a storm has sunshine above it, just waiting to stream through.

Sharing at Open Link Night at the dVerse Poets Pub. Stop over won’t you?

Also this is a sister post to one I am doing at Strawberry Roan. Come by and check it out!


Hold on. You are going too fast!


I remember everything

Meatloaf sings, I remember everything!

and I smile.  No one really does, but

sometimes we can have a memory

jog that brings back more than

we could ever have imagined.

A sound, a smell or a photo.

It can bring it all back from

afar or sometimes, from

the near past in a time

when we almost did

not make the time

to have fun and

laugh a bit or

a lot. Be silly

and dance

or toss




It is a gift my husband gave me. Not wrapped

in shiny paper or with a glittery bow but a

gift all the same. He brought me to a

place where being silly, doing some

THING funny was over half the fun.

Dancing in the rain is one thing,

another entirely to do it on

the roof of the truck out

in the hay field. Laughs

mingling with the rain

until we didn’t know

if it was tears or

just raindrops

washing us

in joyful


Being silly. A cupcake war, covered in blue icing.

Like some crazy Smurf killers covered in a

sugary gore. Sides sore from laughing.

Who would have thought we would

do that? For not reason but this:

to make a memory. So we can

say, “Remember when we

____________________!” so

we can laugh on the

hard days when

it seems the

joy is far

and so



The lawn mower wars elevated to a new plane.

Instead of just playing tag, which is fun, we

used the abundance of ripe apples and

ornamental plums to arm ourselves.

From ambush we attack.  Sniping

and carpet bombing with the

sour little crabs, the big

green pie apples and

laughing. So hard.

Just laughing

and making


set of


Waterslide rules are easy. Make a wave. A big one.

If you get it over all the sides like a tsunami you

are the champion.  He is the only one who

can do it, you know.  He can come down

like a torpedo and explode that water.

Our little man shrieks and howls in

pure joy. Clear laughter that is

able to echo through the

years and bring us back

anytime to the places

where we made the

random memories

that brought us

the biggest

parcels of


I think I shall work harder to capture those moments of sheer joy.

Grandpa finding a way to mow the lawn AND win a water gun

war without even getting off the tractor.  The epic battle

that rose to historic levels when Grandpa entered the

fray.  The joy on their faces playing with the new set.

Dukes of Hazard slot cars – three generations all

set up on the floor and the smiles, the shouts

it makes the kitchen table seem a grand

place to witness them just being guys.

Nothing will take those away from

him, or from them or from us.

They belong to us, and I have

the photos to prove it.

Maybe I’ll take more

videos and make it

so we can bottle

that laughter

and watch

that joy


I was thinking about remembering as we were prompted so eloquently at dVerse Poets Pub tonight. And yes, as we all can, i could have gone down the road of melancholy or even sadness. Lord, we have enough ya know?  But instead I thought we should seek some joy, some silly and embrace those memories.  We should never regret what brings us joy, and we should never forget it either!  From the silly to the sublime we each find joy differently but it requires hunting. Joy isn’t always found so easy, but it is a memory that will come back with a light prompting!  What are you remembering?




Waving golden fields

precious harvest

waits to be


Each grain

powerfully small

and strong enough

to leave their mark there.


The riddle is two part: what action transformed this wood and where was the wood found.


Cautious tails wag, friendly.

Wary of them with

five of their

six ends



Who is getting a wary greeting?


Beating within and

beating without

the instrument

God loves best

in our hands

and in our



Old legend as told to me by a ____________________.  What is described here?


Rooted deep.

Growing tall.

Row next to

row. And yet

they move.

To follow

the sun.

We should

be so wise

to not see



This one is so easy – NO MORE HINTS!

Serenity Prayer Failure



The writing is on the wall.

In English and Ukrainian.

Apparently the only two

who would happily

forget they were in

air full of combustible

explosive dust whilst

they enjoyed a smoke.


The writing is on the wall

of my heart and soul.

I confess this to be

true. I am a Serenity

Prayer failure of the

highest order. It seems

I cannot let things

go as easily as faith

would require it of me.


The writing is on the wall.

On the sky as Icarus smokes

all the way back down to

the sodden hard earth.

We should bow to his

ashes though, can’t you see?

In order to fall first you have

to rise. In order to fall

from the sky you have

first to fly. Fly. Fly. Fly.


The writing is on the wall.

The abandonment begun

so many years ago is

finally complete and done.

You have chosen a path

I won’t travel down.

We three will remain

on the path we have

chosen. The one less

travelled by.  The one

with the writing on the

walls of our hearts.


Inspired by so many things.  Reading and reviewing a wonderful new book by Jo Ann Fore (When A Woman Finds Her Voice), discovering a quote by a poet whom I am now devouring the words of (Jack Gilbert) and realizing that some people leave you, they just take their sweet time doing so. But knowing they are gone leads to a kind of freedom you can’t imagine.  Linking up with the wonderful poetic voices and pub-masters at dVerse for Open Link Night.  Won’t you stop by?