akin to a dream,

the image, foggy and sorta gray,

Flat Top,

a mesa on the edge of the canyons,

just south of town,

seemed sacred and holy,

still in my dreams,

these past 6o years,

comforting,

a sense of home,

as my journey comes to an end.

 

Home

home,

the place the soul rests,

the body, one with the place,

no need of others,

this is where I belong,

this is home.

 

A Quiet Moment in Time

hills of sand, quiet,

the breeze whispering through the long prairie grass,

cattle graze in the afternoon sun,

the windmill pumping water from the ancient underground,

the world seems right,

so beautiful and pure,

an oasis, from the fallen world outside these hills,

beyond the fences of barbed wire,

and the vacant highways of rural Nebraska.

 

Gates (first published in Rope and Wire Journal-May 2012)

Grandpa and I would salt and cake,

he'd drive the pickup,

I'd get the gates,

my older brothers thought I a fool,

getting gate after gate,

nine in all,

but they didn't hear the stories Grandpa would tell,

or learn the secrets of doing good work well,

letting tools and nature,

give you a hand,

or understanding the farm,

and the lay of the land,

they only thought of the gates,

nine in all.

 

Days Forgotten

days forgotten,

when thoughts free,

and the heart happy,

children allowed to be children,

and adults acted like adults,

lazy summer days,

and cold winter nights,

both enjoyed by the town folk,

fishing and swimming in the river in the summer,

and ice skating on the pond by the river on winter nights,

the action now all on cellphones,

artificial and manufactured,

trapping billions in the web.

 

Road through the Ranch

The road through the ranch was only two ruts in the prairie grass,

gates and windmills the main sights to see,

weaving and winding through the hills of sand,

forced to find  routes,

avoiding the valleys and hills so high,

scaring deer out of thickets of wild pear,

and chokecherries,

checking fences and water levels in the stock tanks,

one of my favorite routes I have ever driven,

now only a memory.

 

Waters run

 

waters on the move,

running west to east,

traveling through hills of sand,

an oasis of trees and grass,

in this land of sun and sky.