Leave My Barn Alone

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The links holler, The Red Barn Is A Thing Of The Past!

I want to shout, Leave my barn alone!

In their hurry to get connected, satellited up and

data mapped and sampled they forgot their roots.

They forgot their roots. The culture of agriculture.

There is history here. There are lessons here.

Every barn has a story to tell. Your story. My story.

Every field being computer diagnosed today once

spoke to the one who was closest to it. Soil words.

There are things no computer, map or scan can show.

The land speaks to those who take the time to hear.

Grandpa knew the soil. The plants. The animals.

A computer can only take you so far in the field.

There comes a time when you need to listen.

To hear the soil speak. To feel the artistry of farming.

No true farmer will ever abandon his fields.

Those who know their past, know their roots.

They use the tools and the knowledge.

But they never lose the touch – the sense of the land.

The smells, the feel of the soil, the sounds.

Those things, like the old red barn, can’t be

converted to a computer algorithm or map.

The greatest and best things of the heart

must be felt, seen and lived in person.

Leave my old red barn alone, it will stand.

A solitary reminder of where we came from.

A cherished memory of those long gone.

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Saw an article today, and a few others, where the push to make the public view of farming more high tech and less ‘red barn and red tractor’. It made me sad. People forget where we have come from, how far we have come. They have forgotten the art of farming in their desire to perfect the science of agriculture.  That science was born from those who were passionate about farming and sought to make it better, to teach and learn. It does not replace but enhance. It should never, and can never, replace the knowledge you get by walking a field. By touching the soil. Feeling the wind. Listening to the insects and seeing the life that teems in the soil. Seeing the plants growing, the placement of the seeds and the rewards of harvest is not something to relegate to a data map or daily report. Those have their place, to be sure, but they are tools. Tools of the farmer. Tools of those who love this work. Trust me if you don’t love it you won’t be doing it for long!

~

This poem is dedicated to all those men and women who farm, the generations past and those coming up today. Never forget your roots, they run deep in ag and will keep you on good ground for growing!

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BIG & small

Nature, the touch of God’s hand in His creation.

Moves me. Touches me. Soothes and rouses me.

Brings me tears and silences me in awe. Heals me.

Something as small as a sunset reflected in a

rain drop, something as massive as a storm.

Wee little bee darting bloom to bloom.

River carving it’s way to the sea.

There is a touch there.

A plan. In the places

where I feel the ground

most holy are those where

God speaks through the wind and animals.

Where flowers struggle to bloom, and burst forth.

Exuberance embraces to soul when birds soar where we

can never really and truly go. Lifting wings and crying out from it.

Nature soothes my soul when there is too much paved over. Too much built.

Too many machines, wires, poles and buildings. Too many people crowded around.

Nature releases me when I stop to breathe. To hear baby magpies complaining.

When I see birds hopping on hedge tops or dancing in puddles fresh from the rain.

Apples fallen before they ripen, feeding the tree from below. The circle of life, the cycle.

It is part of us. Lay on the earth, feel your pulse in the soil. Hear it in the wind.

Clouds soar above, weightless seemingly, and yet full of many millions of gallons of water.

Life given from both storm and calm. Sunshine and rain. Met, sometimes, in violence.

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dVerse has us thinking about nature. Nature is something near and dear to me.

As a farm wife, photographer and lover of all things created I find both healing and balance in the nature around me. From the aftermath of a storm to the reflection of sunsets in the rain barrel. Animals playing, hunting, living. Plants growing and dying. Being no more, and no less, than intended. Being fully. Isn’t that what we all should be doing? Working on the being and not the doing?

Visit the other poets, and leave them some love. 

Six by Twelve

Who am I? What words say the most about me?

Faith for without it each day would be a walk of darkness.

Grace that which we get, and must give, freely. As it was given.

Offbalanceweirdgeekystrangefunrulebreakingsinginglaughingsoftietoughie – it is one word if you don’t have spaces!

Seriously though, passionate, could be one. In love. In life. In all all. Live at the edge of your veins.*

Without those things I wouldn’t have the means or desire to be as thankful as I am.

For understanding deeply that the most important things in life are, indeed, not things at all.

They are son and husband. Loved. Beloved. Cherished. Treasured. Laughed with. Prayed over.

So thankful for the ups, downs, insides and outsides that make up this crazy mi vida locaLife.

As my husband so eloquently prays, “Thank you, Lord, for the blessings in our lives.

For the things that make us better people, and for the things that pass us by.”

Amen.

Starlight

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Starlight used to make me so sad.

The bright light of a star long dead

reaching me here with a tragic hope.

I stare at them through teary eyes

and wonder if maybe, just maybe,

we are wrong about starlight.

~

Perhaps starlight should bring me joy.

Those bright lights, so steady, so true.

Guiding sailors, farmers and guides

through time unfailing in their task.

I stare at them through wondering eyes

and think, “How far does your light travel

and maybe, just maybe, your light

isn’t a dead light after all. But reborn!”

~

Starlight, like a phoenix, rises beyond our

measure and while the light of one fades

as it dies, it take so long to reach us that

it never really dims, but is replaced by

a new light, of a star reborn. Born anew

from the faded and thread bare universe.

A patch that seamless joins old and new.

~

Starlight, more alive than dead. Not an echo

of something long since gone but more than.

An echo and a newborn cry, a dying spark

and a flash of new life – all at once. Far in time.

And we, in hindsight only, see nothing but

the endless. The faithful. The star lights eternal.

~

Death conquered, and birth affirmed. Spirals

of eternity weave through my mind and I must

look away. Dizzy and holding tight to the endless.

The starlight.

~

This is what happens when I think too much about things like time, space, light, travel and stars.  I wondered last night, staring at an impossibly bright and starry sky if perhaps their dying light overlaps a birthing light and that’s how we never lose our stars.  And faith is like that too…but that is a deep thought for another day!  Enjoy.

Surely you joust!

joust

Jesters dance, and joke before kings.

Their wisdom hidden in song escapes

the wrath of a leader deaf to truth.

`

Smiths sweat over forges, metal glowing.

Their muscles tense over tools of death

made to save them all and yet not so.

`

Maids wrapped and veiled wander.

Eyes flashing promise, or hope to

those whom they can catch looking.

`

Falconers send their hunters to the sky.

Screaming they soar, and return to

hood and ties – slaves who could be free.

`

Knights wait for their turn in the lists.

Horses pace, eyeing the tilts and

pennants flash brightly, armor gleams.

`

Blunted tips on lances signal this is not war.

Death is not the goal here, dismounting

your opponent is the not-so-secret wish.

`

Music rises and laughter rings loud.

The Medieval Festival makes me long

for a past far distant and darkly present.

`

All things Medieval over at dVerse…grab your sword, shine the armor and find a horse!  Check out the links and leave love, poets live on it! 

Blurred Hindsight

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When you get to this place you’ll know.

The lie of 20/20 hindsight vision.

Looking back the lines are blurred.

I can see you there, what is the year?

Such a fine balancing needed.

You can’t change the past if you

want to be who you have become.

And what a woman you are!

Those wounds they healed.

The scars started to ache less.

The joy lines never got deeper.

But your eyes sparkle so bright.

Looking out the window at the now,

I wish you could see how the wait.

THE WAIT you hated so is over.

You learned to serve in love.

Stayed true to the little gardens

you grew in the small places.

Those seeds now wildly bloom

here. There. EVERYWHERE!

You never knew. Had no clue.

That those things you seeded

along the path, they didn’t die.

They grew. Out of stone. In the sun.

From the dryness they found life.

Drove their roots down deep

past the dry season and found

an endless well of faith, filled.

EVERY time you wanted to quit.

You didn’t. Could have. But no.

Stubborn you, kept going,

If you could only see it now.

Even blurred looking back.

The amazing wild path

you trod. You sowed.

Hindsight may be blurred

and less than perfectly

20/20 is a lie, but the heart

it knows the truth. Wildflowers

bloom where it is wild, weeds

are only labeled by mis-location.

A letter from the future would be grand, giving me some encouragement during the times when the path seems harder, more barren than I’d like. Faith keeps me going forward when I can only see one step at a time, and I firmly believe that changing the past would change me, perhaps enough that I couldn’t be the person I am today. And today I love who I am. I am blessed beyond measure with my husband and my son, our family and friends. I wouldn’t change a thing that happened because it all made me who I am today. HOWEVER! I wouldn’t get in line for a repeat for some things either…ha ha

Check out the other great poets who are sharing at dVerse!

Breaking the American Sentence

Breaking the American Sentence into a Canadian form. eh!

Broken from haiku, the American Sentence was born into poetry. Lovely.

A true bird of snow, no feeble fleeing snow bird, she waits. Silent. Still. Deadly.

Invisible against a snow sky, often missed against the endless blue. Sacred?

Seeing them is a gift we seek. A gift we treasure. Something dear. Snowy!

How many miss the magic? What other treasures pass by unseen? Mystified.

Look around, see what you can see. Owl. Deer. Fox. Joy. Blessings to seek and find. Go! 

Snowy Owl – she flies!

The challenge at dVerse is to break and enter – take a form and make it your own. I broke the American Sentence a wee bit by adding a Canadian ending word. A question. A comment. A statement. Sarcasm. Hope. Something.

Great to be back at the Pub. Stop by the link below, see the magic other poets have woven.

http://dversepoets.com/2015/01/22/meetingthebar-breaking-entering/

Good News, Bad News, No News

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The Good News: harvest is done. Except for baling. Stacking. Hauling.

Essentially harvest is done. Fields empty of crop. Bins and bags filled.

Everyone takes a collective breath. Breathe. Stand back. Done.

`

The Bad News: terror comes home. Can’t go overseas to fight, so here.

Cars as weapons. Gunshots on Parliament Hill. Lock down. LOCK DOWN!

Across the country a collective gasp. Silence. Sit back. It is here. Home.

`

No News: we carry on. One step in front of another. Another day lived.

We pray. We cry. We rant. We rally. We stand. Silent. In awe of both.

Good news. Bad news.  Collective stories, without balance, but some hope.

`

My post harvest return to @dVerse for Poetics with Mary. It is fitting, perhaps, that it is a news day here on the farm and also internationally for my country.  Balance. Faith. Hope. Horror. Disbelief. Good thing we have poetry to turn to. 

Side note: I tried a new thing, QR code poetry. Check it out on Twitter here:

(just scan with a reader and enjoy!)

Where in the world

Riding the high foothills, cattle beside my horse.

Mountains rising high in a western sky.

Walking on red Maritime sands.

Lobster rolls at the Market.

Listening to Cree voices.

Dancing to country

music all night.

Visiting the

places my

ancestors came

here from. And places

I dream of seeing one day.

But most of all, the place in the

world I most want to be, day or night

is with those I love most. Those to whom

my heart belongs, as well as my smiles and tears.

Those who hold my tight when my faith wavers and

I falter in the road to the place God is preparing for us.

Where I want to be, most in the world, is right here.

In the right now. With them. Laughing. Crying.

Arguing and making up. Working. Playing.

Lego and lightning storms. Horses and

cows, tractors and trucks. Silly games

of tickle and Piggies. Making it up

as we go. The world shrinks and

I don’t mind when it only fits

just us three at a time. It is

okay for it to be our size.

The bigness comes and

out we go into the

noise and crowd.

But home. Home

is where we are.

And that is

Where I

Most

Long

To

Be.

 

Abhra has us thinking about where in the world we’d like to be. And there are many physical places I would love to visit again, and places in time I’d love to experience. But if I had to pack it up and go alone, I’d just as soon stay. With my beloved husband and sweet son. Together, wherever that is, is where I most want to be.   Join the other poets who probably took you on a more literal journey by clicking here: dVerse Poets 

does it belong or not?

Overjoyed by the end of the road, celebrating in the wild.

So the road ended, big deal! Make a new one, or have a rest.

 

Wedding photos in a barn loft, future growing out of the past.

Getting dirty. Getting tired. Knowing you are getting it done.

 

God gave us gifts and talents to use, not save up for heaven.

We aren’t supposed to get there in ‘show room’ condition!

 

Dance until the shoes wear out and music drums from your heart beating.

Don’t wait. Dance. Laugh. Be silly. Get dirty. What are you saving it for?

 

Holding dangerous goods close to our hearts – this living can be wild.

Nothing more dangerous than loving someone without reserve.

 

What would you choose: quality of life or quantity? If you could.

Maybe there is a reason we aren’t supposed to know, live each day fully!

 

Claudia has us thinking about contrasts and things on the edge of ‘normal’ (which my husband says is only a setting on the dryer anyway!)…my mix of American Sentences and then italic commentary.  Stop by dVerse and check out the other poets!

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