Halloween On The Range

It’s not the same anymore.

Halloween on the range

Where the trick or treaters stay far away

No sweets handed out

Ain’t that what it’s about

No decs to put out on display

Halloween on the range

Where the generator stays on all day

Where we don’t decorate

None can see for God’s sake

What’s the point with the dust and decay

Halloween on the range

To us it’s just another day

Where we don’t celebrate

Cause who’d participate

We just wait for the next holiday

 

 

 

How Many Is Enough?

A solar poem.

One two three four five six seven eight

How many solar panels does it take?

Nine and ten and eleven and twelve

Now you’ll have to buy some shelves

Thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen

This is really getting extreme

Seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty

Quick the generator’s empty

 

 

Another Dirty Poem

A different point of view.

As much as dirt gets in my house

On the boots o’my lovely spouse

It really is so magical

I can make a shiny ball

Holds my maters fast in place

Is my cats main bathroom space

Chocolate topping on the earth

To our food it does give birth

Holds our metals gems and rock

Guards the gold I must unlock

Is the perfect playground toy

Whether you’re a girl or boy

Gives your lawn a place so sit

And your house and other shit

And there is no doubt about it

Really just can’t live without it

Although in it I must dig

Keep it out of my new rig!

Dirt

Yet another poem inspired by my circumstances.

Dirt it has an evil soil

Dirt it really make you toil

Vacuum sweep and wipe it out

Pour hot water from a spout

Add some dish soap and it’s gone

Put it out onto the lawn

Comes in from your boots and shoes

Inside outside you must choose

Creeps up on the window sill

Full of germs that make you ill

Clogs the vacuum’s filter bad

Makes you wish you never had

Way too much dirt comes in here

Wipe those boots off will you dear?

 

 

This House

A poem of an end and a beginning.

This House
Forgotten
Dark, shutters closed long ago, wood rotting and jagged, nails bent and rusty
Waiting to snag the reckless
The smell of despair and disrepair
Air as still as a mausoleum
Furniture crouching silently – waiting patiently for yesterday
Pale images a reminder of that which once was
Color faded, movement stilled, light dimmed, love lost
Sitting silently in the darkness, longing for escape
Memories stale, recall slowly scrubbed away by the ages
Time indistinguishable in the preternatural fog that filters through careless cracks
Sunken eyes shift towards a mirror, gazing into eternity
A crack appears in a corner and a razor of light splits the blackness, blade of light cutting through the dust
Outstretched hand tracing the beam to its source, touching the crack
The facade dissolves
Brilliant mirror shattering, a deluge of fire spills in
Chairs, tables, furnishings circling madly, vortex violently devouring all
Liquid incandescence lovingly embracing every door, every rafter, every chair
Fire scours away all that has gone wrong
Flames recede, taking all secrets with them
The house is no more
I am Free
Yesterday has returned
I begin to walk

Another Man’s Treasure

A hillside tells a story from another time.

The last people who lived on our property left in the late 1950’s.

We’ve narrowed the time down by going through their trash.

Back then, people who lived away from town dumped their garbage on their own property away from the house.

When we first found bottles laying on an embankment near our trailer, we excitedly set to work sifting through the dirt and piles of garbage. We pulled out bottles, cans, car parts, broken cookware, the first TV dinner trays, and other stuff dating to the early 1920’s.

We noted, through the artifacts we uncovered, the evolution of man’s refuse from heavy iron objects meant to last a lifetime to the beginning of the disposable age of cartridges filled with replaceable razor blades, the TV Dinner trays, and old tubes of toothpaste and Preparation H (hemorrhoids are nothing new, after all).

spoons and vacuum tubes

Holding someone else’s possessions in my hands after so many years left me wondering what their former owners were like. Of course they did dishes, cooked, cleaned, cried, laughed, drank, and read books……all of the things we do today but was the culture different? I’m sure their leisure time was spent much differently with the exception of some old standbys Endcap Entertainment.

The land passed through a succession of owners but no one saw fit to stay here for sixty years – to care about the place. It sat quietly waiting with only the deer, the ants, the trees, rocks, and soil to occupy it’s time.

DSCN2332
Toy plane.

But these family’s stories have been preserved, ironically, in the things they cared least about at the time they were left behind. An egg beater thrown near the base of a young tree is disappearing into decades of its growth.

old english

Tin cans, rusted into scraps, litter the slope. Parts of machinery that held up better under the gentle onslaught of time, still insist they are useful.

Salad forks, spoons, lamp bases, marbles, and can openers lay encased in the dirt inches below the soil. Protected from the elements, souvenirs from Japan, a hand poured heart made of lead, vases and every other type of thing a family would use during the early to mid-twentieth century stayed behind when they moved. I wouldn’t think of taking my trash with me, either. 🙂

One day, I found a bracelet bearing the name Tommy Best, tossed down the hillside with the rest of the trash. Why, I wondered? I called him and asked:  Blast From The Past.

bracelet tommy best
I found the owner of this engraved bracelet. He’s now eighty years old.

With every mundane object or broken keepsake we unearthed, I wondered what the family might think of us happily digging up what they threw out after dinner one night in 1945?

Would the lady of the house mind that I polished up her can opener and was using it again for the first time in sixty years? I bet she wouldn’t.

wouldn’t mind if I was a ghost.

PS As I was finishing the editing on this post, a cupboard door in my kitchen quietly opened by itself. I really wonder if they’re watching now. 

Cold

Inspired when the inside of our trailer froze last year.

Cold By Linda Jordan

Stealing along a darkened road; it’s path crooked
Fleeting around trees, leaves shivering in its wake, grass frozen mid-bow in homage
Inspecting, watchful, it’s purpose clear
A lone traveler comes; hungry for warmth
A house in the darkness; to the porch, peeking into windows; a door ajar
Cold sees an opportunity
Leaning in like a party guest offering unwanted advice, seizing the moment to enter
Quickly occupying every nook and cranny; nesting, rooting,
Inching forward through every carelessly cracked window, down every open chimney flue
Seeping along the floor, hugging corners
Inspecting cupboards, trying on boots and gloves
Filling closets and testing bed sheets; searching
Halting in a darkened corner, cold utters a sigh; glittery breath frosting windows in the vacant night
Uninvited visitor, unwelcome guest in the quiet
Faintly, the sound of voices tug at the fringes of its weary consciousness;
Lights flicker on interrupting its blue reverie; the rising sound of laughter assaults it’s crude senses
Suddenly feeling exposed, resolve melting, Cold hurriedly gathers it’s things, shoulder’s its frosty rucksack, and dissolves into the baseboards and walls, hiding
Whispering down halls, tendrils collecting its belongings along the way, cold escapes out the door as a warm body enters, door shut rudely at it’s back
Indignant and disheveled, Cold collects itself, shrugs its pack into place, and starts once again down the road trailing winter behind it

horese snow
A snow sculpture I did last year. The picture at the top is also a snow sculpture I did and enhanced with Photoshop.

Nature: Works of God

What if math is beautiful?

environment forest grass leaves
Photo by mali maeder on Pexels.com

Organic cathedral constructed under God’s direction

Architect of perfection

Wild shapes and patterns conceal sublime mathematical formulae

Arches bow in natural geometry

Divine order concealed beneath seeming chaos

Tale etched in rock, microbe, DNA, atoms

Poetry scripted in God’s hand

Story without beginning or end

Unedited by malice or choice

Unmarred by Ego

Every moment now

Every place one

Seen from the unseen

Known from the unknown

Matter from nothing

Imagined by the Creator