The Eyes of Our Heart

Poetry
By Design
Evokes images

Images
Awaken thoughts
To open minds

Minds
Process Images
Into poetry

It has been said that a picture speaks a thousand words;
How can one paint a picture for the blind?
If words upon a page evoke images in the mind
How can one see what he has not experienced?

Much is wrong in our world which only opened eyes will see.

"Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God." -- Hebrews 12:2

Did We Really Hear the Hearing?

Times of trial come to every generation
At some point along the way.
These past weeks of hearings relating
To the highest court nominee
Had very much to say

About the state of this great nation and
The forces at play who wish
To dominate, to seize the reins
Of power and to control
How "we the people" like goldfish

In a bowl are treated and how much
Freedom we are allowed when
Our Constitution clearly states that
Power of the government is derived
From the people, both now and then

When it was drawn to protect the very freedom
That we of older generations were
Taught that we enjoy while
Slowly those very freedoms have been
Taken from us as we defer

"Leadership" to those who were elected
To represent, not lead.  For leadership
Resides in the electorate, not the elected,
And those who represent should do only
That which reflects and does not worship

At the altar of power which they seek
By their begging hands which manipulate
The purse strings, so deeply entangled,
To rest ultimately in those whose God
Does not stand at Heaven's gate

To rescue us from our sin and greed, but
Seeks to draw us away from that which is good
And right and just.  Evil resides in the hearts
Of men -- and yes, women -- and it rises
To the puppeteers who stood

Behind the scenes of a disintegrating Republic,
No longer One Nation Under God,
But a seething mass of conflict between
Powers of this earth who no longer represent
But, give those who sent them less than a nod.

Redefining Who We Are

Where I grew up there were no tracks
For trains to run through town.
It seems the Founding Fathers
Either chose not to seek the rail
Or, didn't have the political clout
Or, perhaps had located our small town
In the wrong place.

I love to hear the trains today as
Their lonely whistle blows
To warn cars and pedestrians
To get out of the way because they are
Coming through and can't
Easily stop to accommodate those
Who would be laggards.

I think about the commerce that rides
Upon the cars as the clickety-clack
Of their passage unfolds and
The sound of mighty engines rolls
Away among the warehouses and
Other buildings that line
The shiny rails and blackened ties

And I think of the history that I have read
Of how the first tracks were placed
Across a country still wild and covered
With game and people who didn't
Understand what was happening that
Would destroy their way of life.

Descendants of those early crews have
Blended into the populace for the most
Part but, enclaves still exist in places
Like San Francisco where the Chinese
Origins are clear and the culture
Has endured but, there are other

Groups who played their part in building
These great roads that opened up the
New acquisitions to settlers who sought
Cheap land and opportunity.  They had names
With roots in Ireland or in
Italy or perhaps in other places

That produced those who followed, speaking
German and Scandinavian languages
Until subsequent generations blended with
The English pioneers into a much more
Homogenous type until the resurgent
Darker pigments of the Southwest

And the newly freed of the Southeast spread throughout
The land and today are changing once again
The ethnic boundaries that have long defined,
Yet long diffused genetic material into
A slowly evolving amalgamation that
Transcends origins and borders

But, gains a new identity, as yet unclear,
Just as the rails which first
Drove across the trackless, undefined
Wilderness opened the way and the borders
To a newness that penetrated every aspect
Of who and what we are to become.

Threads in Common

Is there something as we age
That causes us to reach
Way deep inside to things from the past?

It seems our memories
Oft improve with passing time
Into images throughout our life to last.

It takes only a few words
To invoke a vivid scene
When the picture in our mind is strong and pure

And the common thread between
The way we each have lived our lives
Brings connections that through many years endure.

The North Side of the Square

I have only fuzzy memories of the Square in my hometown
When the old Courthouse stood empty and alone.
It's second life as a hospital had come to an end
And it was being torn down to make way for something new.

A long metal building soon stood on the north side of the Square
And stands there to this day, though somewhat changed.
Three new businesses soon occupied the space
And each of them was special in some way.

If memory serves correct, the one to farthest west was
Bill Kelly's Men's Clothier full of suits and ties and
Dress shirts to outfit the gentlemen there in town in
The finest sort of clothes that could be found.

Dad sometimes shopped in there because way back in that day
A suit and tie were appropriate attire for teaching school.
My link to that store wasn't for the clothes I wore but for
The help Bill gave me much later in my years

When he recruited me to replace him at the Savings & Loan.

In the middle stood Duncan's 5 & 10 Cent Store which
Brings cheerful memories of standing at the counter
With a quarter in my hand trying to choose a piece of candy
From the rack in front of me as Bob sat there

Behind the register waiting on my Mother with her purchases
Who was trying to hurry me to make up my mind what I would choose
But, I also remember the toy bins over on the east wall
Where I would spend every chance I got looking over

The selections for something special like a set of
Roy Roger pistols and caps to go with them and
A holster to hold them so I could be the champion
Of the cowboys & Indians wars which were inevitable.

I can still hear Bob's voice there at the register....

Major James had the White's Auto store which occupied
The east end of the building and it was where I first remember
Eyeing the BB Gun that I would save my money to buy someday
But, more importantly, Major gave me my first job

Working in the public eye and I would wash the store windows
Every morning and dust the shelves and make sure everything
Was in its place and he would send me to the back where
I would spend many hours assembling bicycles and other items

That he had ordered in preparation for the Christmas season.
Major had me learn every county in the Panhandle and South Plains
And be able to locate it on a map because to him it was important
That I know my geography, but also so I would know

How far it was to the storms which brewed and know the danger
When we listened to the announcement from the National Weather Service
That a tornado had been spotted in Hockley county and how
It might become a threat to us as it moved northeast.

I can still smell Major's pipe in my mind....

The occupants have changed through the years, but
The building is still there.  Leon's Grocery was probably
The longest enduring of all those who passed through that building
That is filled with many good memories.

Some Childhood Memories

Way back in the day when I was just a kid
We lived on the east side of our town.
The house, it wasn't large, but
I didn't know it then
'Cause I had everything that I could need.

The driveway was of dirt and there was no garage
But, beyond it was a big old empty lot
Where we had dug a hole that
Was the perfect place to spend
Hours and hours just digging in the dirt.

We had a great big garden that Dad kept oh, so neat
With not a single weed there to be found
And Mom planted flowers
In a bed around the house
With the prettiest blooms there were around.

In the back were willow trees grown from cuttings
Off of trees that were to be found
North of town out on the Draw
And in the front were two Pecans
That were dug up near a well

Off the Curry place where they were grown from seed.
We had a cellar too, there in that big back yard
That Dad and Grandpa and my uncles
Had hand dug and lined with cinder blocks
Because Dad didn't like the storms.

He was raised in Oklahoma and he knew what they could do
'Cause he'd seen so much damage they had done
Since he was raised in the heart
Of Tornado Alley where they saw so many
Dancing across the Plains.

I remember in the mornings on every Saturday
I would wake up early in the winter time
And lie upon the floor in front
Of the old propane wall heater
And watch Roy Rogers on the black and white T.V.

Yep, we had everything that we could need.

Fall Weather

Light slowly seeps into awareness
As the dim outline of trees in the distance
Materialize above the silvery fog
Which hangs along the creek.

The cool dampness is a pleasant change
From the sultry heat which has hung on
Long past the peak of summer
When it is expected.

The cattle move like specters through the mist
As they harvest the wet succulence of the recent growth
From rains which seemed long delayed
As the heat of August domed the land.

A sense that Fall has arrived has finally
Leaped from the start of school and
The Friday night rituals of football and marching band
To the weather itself.

The harvest is in full swing as crops
Are brought into the storehouse against the needs
Of the looming months of cold
And rest for the land

As it hibernates until the time when earthly tilt
Brings longer days again which are
Warmed by the nearer sun which releases
Dormant seeds to spring anew.

The Backyard Battlefield

A brilliant tactician,

She seeks the high ground

From which to survey

The battlefield.

Her keen eye glances skyward

To the branches

Which overhang

The lush terrain.

Nostrils slightly flared

A scent draws her

To look slightly

To her left

And she quietly leaves

Her lofty perch on the planter

To enter into a

Stalking crouch.

Movement catches her eye

And she freezes,

Awaiting the coming

Inattention of her prey

Which is focused on finding

An acorn, or

A pecan hiding

In the grass.

The stalk continues

With laser-like intensity,

Always keeping

The tree between

Her line of approach and

The furtive prey

Which occasionally

Sits up to wave

Its bushy tail as if taunting,

Or perhaps,

Warning her that

It is aware of her

Approach across the yard.

The strike comes

Like lightening

And the furry target

Scrambles for the rough bark

That leads it up

And out of reach

Of snapping teeth.

From a branch high above

The chattered scolding

Sounds a challenge

For another day.

Weaning Calves

Round them up and sort them out
The cows go to the right,
Calves all go the other way.
Watch her, she wants to fight.

Check your count and don't miss one,
Sometimes the calves slip by.
"Use the gate to cut her off,"
The Boss says with a sigh.

Babies bawling through the fence
To see where Momma stands;
It's not so much they need them,
Fear drives their demands.

It's time for them to grow on up
And make it on their own.
They know how to eat the grass
Just like their Mom has shown

Them since they hit the ground
About half a year ago
When they were born into the cold,
And sometimes it would snow.

But, life's a cycle going 'round
And this is just a step
Along their earthly journey.
And now they will be kept

In a pen that's set aside
For such a time as this.
And even though she will be close
Their Momma will they miss

For a few days until they have found
That they no longer need
The nourishment that she provides
As they learn to eat their feed.

Very soon they won't depend
On Mom on whom they leaned
And one more time I'll smile and say,
"The calves have all been weaned."

Grandpa's Hands

I remember as a child,
Taking Grandpa's hand
And feeling all the calluses it bore
And seeing all the cracks
That held a little grease
Left over from some
Mechanical chore.

His fingers were quite twisted
With knuckles very large
From arthritis that he
Tried hard to ignore
Although it was quite painful
And his hands were always sore
He never failed to reach out to me

When I came to visit him.
As years passed by and I had grown
And Grandpa had retired
He'd often sit within his chair
To smoke a pipe that sat
Within his twisted hand
And I admired

The fact that he always would
Reach out to me to shake my hand
Although it often was his left
Because the right one hurt
So badly and was stiff
With pain so bad his pipe
He could not heft.

Too many years of labor
On the farm and with the cows
While rheumatoid arthritis
Slowly destroyed those hands
That had worked and scraped
And built for his family.
Those hands are something that I miss.

The High Plains

Pale straws bend as unseen
Forces sweep
Across the nearly featureless
Landscape
That stretches for miles
Unending,
Broken occasionally by
Deep green
Sprays of needles and
Dried stalk
Of the yucca known as
Bear grass.

I lean slightly into
The invisible
Never-ending force of
The wind,
That restless, timeless
Bringer
Of storms and drought
And change
Upon this landscape
Swept flat
By Eons of scouring
Movement.

I am covered by a sense of
Peace
When a slight hint of dust
Tickles
My nostrils as I gaze
Across
The seemingly forever
Plains.
It is the serenity of being
Home.

A Birthday

Today is my Mother's birthday,
She just turned eighty-one,
And so I thought I'd do a post
About her just for fun.

She keeps her house all neat and clean
And worries about her yard
If it doesn't look just perfect
She takes it kind of hard.

Whenever we come visit
There'll always be a place
Set aside, just for us,
To escape from the rat race.

I know it's hard to be alone
As she is day by day
And I can't seem to find the time
To often get her way,

But, when I do she welcomes me
Just like she always did
With hot meals and a restful place
Like when I was a kid.

She gets around quite well for one
Who has lived her many years
And thinking that she might not could
Is one of her only fears.

She cooks enough to feed a host
Each time that I am there
And I eat more than I should
As if it was a dare.

Tonight's my turn to take her out,
A dinner on the town.
When I asked her if she'd eat a steak
She said, "I won't turn it down!"

Ties That Bind

In between the earth and space
There stands an organism
That ties the two together.

With arms that stretch toward the sky
It seeks the sun's vast energy
And scours the air for molecules

While sending deep into the earth
Its toes to drink the moisture there
And mine for needed minerals.

Upon its limbs in summer garb
Are tiny engines made to capture
Light that falls upon them.

That light excites the cells to bind
The carbon waste of others
And free the oxygen of life

To be breathed by those who need
This catalyst for their vital function.
It stores the carbon in itself

In fibrous growth that help it stand
Against the storms and winds
And ravages that assail

To give it strength which makes
It valued by the builder for
Shelter and other usefulness.

It breaks the earth with its strong feet
Allowing microbes to enter there
And further free the needed wealth

Of minerals contained therein
Which enrich the lives of smaller plants
That need such nutrition

To then be used by beings
Higher still to create the cycle
Until decomposed they fill the earth again.

A tree
Is key.

Words on a Page

Words written on a page
Are windows
Into that
Which lies beyond
Our own experience.

We learn,
We imagine,
We live
The words.

In them we may see
The pathways
Not traveled
And find enlightenment
For our needs.

We learn,
We imagine,
We live
The words.

It may be the "how to"
Or, a Biography
Or, it might be
A flight of fancy
That provides escape.

We learn,
We imagine,
We live
The words.

They provide insight
Into that which
Went before
Or, perhaps a glimpse
Of what lies ahead.

We learn,
We imagine,
We live
The words.

Through recorded experience,
We learn.
Through recorded conjecture
We imagine.
By embracing the written word
We expand our lives.

Power

I have cords for everything;
No matter where I look
It seems there is attachment
To phone, t.v. and Nook.

They tie things to a power,
Unseen but always there,
That flows through wires and other things
By man's unfailing care.

It reminds that we're connected
To the Father up above
Who seeks to empower us
Through His unfailing love

If only we'd reach out to Him
Through prayer in one accord
His power would recharge us
And He doesn't need a cord!

Daydreaming

In my office there's no window to look out upon the world
So, I must use the window in my mind
To allow my drifting consciousness to wander where it will
And see what new adventures it might find.

Instead of looking out upon a street filled with cars
Or, a parking lot, or even yards of grass
My thoughts drift to the mountains and a cold tumbling stream
Or, to a deep cold lake as still as glass

With surface broken only by the tiny little lure
I would toss out as temptation for a fish
Until I feel the tug, almost like electric shock,
Of a glistening rainbow trout as I would wish.

There upon the distant shore I see across the way
A regal elk come stepping from the wood
To drink from crystal waters where I seek the tricky prey
Then he looks upon the place whereon I stood

And I salute him for his boldness, for his total lack of fear,
As he sounds his eerie cry into the air
That calls his tiny harem down to drink there by his side
While he keeps a silent watch upon them there.

A fog comes slowly drifting down the wooded mountainside
To obscure the vision far across the lake
And again I see the ripples from the fish that I have sought
With temptation for the bait I hoped he'd take

Until the whole scene finally faded from my mind
Into a blank computer screen before
And I realized what happened as I sought to fill the page,
Preferring to be daydreaming once more....

Pulled Curtains, Open Doors

It is said the eyes
Are a window to one's soul.
I think sometimes
That is true, however,
There are times in which
The shades are drawn,
The curtain pulled,
So that which is deep within
Is obscured
From prying eyes.

Laughter,
Pain,
Loss,
Life itself,
Are hidden.

The tiny lines
That etch the corners
Of the windows give a hint,
As do the creases
Around the mouth
And chin,
Which reveal a tiny piece
Of the wear and tear
They have received
Through the years.

Kindness,
Love,
Patience,
Invested time,
Open doors.

Coyote

Far across the pasture upon a slight rise
I see you watching me,
Knowing that you saw
My approach long before I was aware
Of your presence.

You drop your head and tail and begin
To trot at a measured pace
In the general direction
Of a copse of trees
Across the fence.

Were you hunting and I interrupted
Or, were you headed home
From an all-night chase
With your buddies
And their yipping chorus?

There is abundance now, but it was
A lean summer in which the
Fare was scarce and difficult
Yet, you look to be
Well nourished.

You are part of the balance that I know
Is necessary yet,
I am unforgiving when I see you
In springtime around the
Newborn calves.

Right now I am tolerant of your presence
But, beware come spring
For I will be watching and
If you stray too close I might
Send a shot your way.

Visiting the Neighbor

We own a couple of Charolais bulls
That we call Curly and Moe.
Their job is to keep the girls happy
And it's one they seem to know.

Yesterday as I was checking the cows
I looked across the fence
And there was Moe looking at me
Just like he had good sense.

I thought, "No, that can't be him!"
And double-checked the brand
But, sure enough it was him alright
As big as a brass band.

I knew I had to get him back
But, the neighbor wasn't home;
He wasn't supposed to be there,
His job was not to roam!

So, I opened a gate that's been there for years
Likely put there for just such a case,
And headed afoot 'cross the neighbor's place
Not really wanting a chase.

I figured that Moe was ready to go
Back from whence he came
But, no, that wasn't the plan that he had
And so commenced the game

Of me trying to coax him to that tiny gate,
A place where he'd never been,
And just when I'd get him almost to it
He'd circle around me again!

Then he decided to head toward the creek,
And I thought, "Well that's Okay.
He's probably headed to a hole in the fence
That allowed him to come over today."

Of course I was wrong as we walked near a mile
With him looking for holes in the fence
Until he got clear to the far south end,
Me following like I had good sense.

Then he turned around and started right back
The way that we had just come
And I was beginning to wish for some help
And frankly, feeling quite dumb.

He finally made it clear to the gate
I had opened when e'er I did start.
He looked back at me with a smirk on his face
And through it quickly did dart!

I wired it back shut so he couldn't get out
And headed him back to his place
With him calling out every few steps or so
As if he had just won a race.

So, then my next chore was to go 'round the fence
And figure just how he got out.
I never did find anything out of place
So, I figure he jumped, the big lout.

Porcine Nemesis

We enjoy the wildlife on our small piece of rural property in Northeast Texas.  We see coyotes, deer, and the occasional other small animal and our game cameras capture images of those we never see, but know are present, such as bobcats.  There is one wild animal, however, that we are not thrilled to have and that is the feral pigs.

The pigs are destructive.  They tear up the ground for roots and grubs and can leave large areas of pasture looking like it has been bombed.  There are many places along the fences that are obvious trails for them and it is not uncommon to find the bottom wire broken in those places from the frequent pressure of the larger ones squeezing underneath.  They also can carry disease which may potentially spread to the cattle.

Hunting them is a challenge because they are one of the most intelligent animals.  They seem to make a circuit of a very large area and are unpredictable as to when they will be in any particular place.  Some likely stay on our place, but they seem to travel between us and several of our neighbors along the river bottom.  One can go for days watching for them and see nothing and then large herds of them may appear as if out of nowhere.  Their trails through the woods show signs of hundreds passing through and the proof of such large groups is frequently caught on our game cameras.

Trapping them is a way that some in the area attempt to get rid of the hogs.  They quickly learn about the traps which must be moved frequently to remain even marginally effective.  Most of those who trap the hogs don't do so to eliminate them, they capture the young ones and feed them for a short period and then sell them to one of the local butchers with connections to outlets for "wild boar" meat.

We also have a neighbor who likes to run them with dogs.  I have told him repeatedly to call and ask permission before coming onto our place to hunt.  He doesn't.  His dogs also are used to find stray cattle and I have seen torn ears on a couple of my cows that I suspect were caused by his dogs.  I wonder sometimes if he encourages the proliferation of the hogs so that he can hunt them.

The state now has authorized the use of poisoned bait of a specific type to help with the hog problem.  I don't like putting out poisoned bait because of the potential unintended consequences on other wildlife.

It is a big problem for which I don't have an answer.  I wish someone did.

Conflicting Attitudes

In the stillness of the morning
I watch the gentle rain
As it falls upon this city
Where I find myself again.

After days in a hotel room
It will good to be back home;
I have need to check the cattle
To make sure they did not roam.

And there's other chores awaiting
My attention there you see
That no one else will do
So, they wait there just for me.

I guess it's good to feel I'm needed
And I don't give a hoot
When I find my sock gets muddy
In a worn-out holey boot

Because I'm thankful for the rain
And how it helps the grass to grow
So, there's feed for all the cattle
And perhaps the creek will flow

And wash out all the dead tree branches
That have fallen from the drought,
But, I worry about the fence
And how they just might take it out!

So, I'm ready to get home
And check the fence there at the gap
Then count the cattle as they're grazing
Hoping there's been no mishap

But, instead of being worried
I will think on gratitude
For this gentle rain a falling
And adjust my attitude.

Heroes Wear White Hats

My heroes have always been cowboys;

At the top of the list was the King.

He could ride, he could shoot as he whipped the outlaws

And on top of that he could sing!

He rode on a horse that was everyone's dream

And Trigger was his name;

A gold palomino, swift as could be,

The fastest one in the game.

They don't make 'em like Roy and Dale anymore,

At least not up on the Big Screen.

Today they portray all the cowboys

As ornery, low-down and mean.

Hollywood needs to go back to the day

And make cowboys heroes again.

It's important for roles to be healthy for kids

And help the young boys become men.

[The photo above is one I took yesterday at the Briscoe Museum of Western Art in downtown San Antonio, Texas, of the saddle and bridle of Roy Rogers.]

A Bowl of Oatmeal

With slow steps the old man shuffles through the door and eyes the room for familiar faces.  He's early so he takes a seat at the end of the long table where his friends will soon gather.  The waitress brings him a heavy mug filled with steaming black coffee and he smiles and says, "the usual," as she asks what he'll have to eat.

He thought how for 65 years he ate the same thing every morning; oatmeal with a couple of strips of bacon and steaming black coffee placed before him by loving hands that were up and about cooking his breakfast while he was getting ready for the day.  She would hand him his paper and kiss him on the head as she placed it on the table there before him before sitting down with her slice of buttered toast, apricot jam and her own cup of coffee.

It was their morning ritual.  They would sit quietly, him slowly turning pages as he read the news and her catching glimpses of the headlines from across the table....

The salty moisture beaded on the rim of his eye as his mind wandered while waiting for the waitress to bring his breakfast and the other old men to come and sit and joke and talk about their ailments and complain about Washington and the weather.

Words on a Page

Sometimes when I sit and think,
Or look at a blank page,
I wonder why I take the time to write.

Instead, I could just take a nap
Or, sit and drink a cup
And in the peaceful moment take delight.

But, I feel compelled it seems
To put the word to page
Recording there the things that fill my mind.

Is it some gremlin in my head
That's bent to waste my time
Or, are there reasons I have yet to find

That drive me to apply my fingers
To the plastic keys
And watch the words that scroll across the screen

That sometimes seem so simple
And at other times complex
While most of them are likely never seen

By anyone but me who cares
One whit 'bout what I write
Especially when they're as they are today

Where they are just a sequence of
Black letters on the page
And nothing there important for to say?

Read to Me?

Grandpa in his easy chair
Hears all the kids around
And smiles inside at all the sounds
Of happy feet and games
Until one with bubbling laughter
Says, "Grandpa, read to me!"
Then goes to fetch her favorite book
And climbs into his lap
Joined by others
Until the chair is full
And more gather around
To hear the story told
Which excites imagination
And remembered words
From something heard so many times
It has become a part
Of memorization.

As pages turn and years go by
Those same, once small ears
Who learned to love
The written word are often found
With book in hand
Absorbing
That which other hands have written
And imagination
Grows and grows
Until one day shares
With their own children
The stories of waking years
That brought so much joy
To young hearts.

Then children grow and move away
But, joy of reading never
Leaves and often
As time allows a book is found
In hands no longer young
But, who wait for
Generations new to come
And visit and sit upon their lap
To hear the stories once again
Of favorites and new
And imaginings of others
Written there upon the pages
As they turn to reaching hands
And wiggling bodies
Enthralled.

Dimly, tired eyes
See blurs where once stood
Words upon the page
And silent tears slide
For what was lost
And memories rise
Of happy laughter
And tiny bodies squeezed
Into the chair and on the lap
Until is heard the quiet
Sound of youthful voice
Asking what is wrong
Until is heard,
"Would you read to me?"

Time for Rest

There's never enough time to get the things done
I think that I should do
And yet I find time to do the things
I really want to do.

I sometimes leave things 'til it's almost too late
To get them done in time
And sometimes the order of things I get done
Has no reason or rhyme.

I make lots of lists to keep my tasks straight
And then sometimes I find
I add things to my list long after they're done
As a palliative to my mind.

Then there are days I get nothing done
While thinking alone as I sat;
Those are the days I find time to relax
And I am quite happy with that.

We are made to work but, we need to get rest
Or, we pay a toll with our health
Even though the world teaches us "no time to waste"
In the continual search for wealth.

But, God has a different plan that he defined
And I find that His plan is the best;
He said we should have a full day of rest
As a rule and not just suggest.

Building Fence

Take a mark and find the line;
Clear the brush and weeds and vine.

Set the corners up just right;
String the wires all nice and tight.

Pound the posts into the ground;
Hope no rocks will there be found.

Tie the wire with even space;
Then the stays go into place.

A level gate is wanted most
As hinge mounts go into the post.

Hang the gate right in its place;
Wipe the sweat from off your face.

Building fence, the rancher's chore,
Was so much fun, let's build some more!

A Remembered Opening Day

Hunting season comes around
In Fall of every year;
Through much of this great country
The quest is for the deer.

But, I grew up upon the Plains
Where deer were scarce to see;
It was hunting for the birds
That held excitement for me.

First came dove, how swift they flew
Across the bright blue skies;
To get the hang of hunting them
Took many, many tries.

I think of when the first I shot,
I was well short of ten,
But, I felt that I was mighty tall
To go hunting with the men.

I don't recall who all was there
But, it was at the ranch;
Dad was far the better shot
Upon the family branch.

But, Grandpa was the one who set me
In the pumphouse door
To watch out toward the water tank
For one, or maybe more

Of those swift creature who might
Light upon the fence.
That gave me an advantage
When my shot occurred and hence

I didn't try to take them
As they darted through the air;
No one then had told me
That it wasn't really fair.

So, I set there on a bucket
With Mom's .410 in my hand
And waited for the dull gray birds
Upon the fence to land.

And when one finally did
I carefully lined my shot
And pulled the small black trigger
While pointing at the spot.

And the blast sent me a flying
Off the bucket to the ground
And dazed, I went to looking
If the target I had found.

And sure enough I got him
Though I was somewhat bruised.
Then I dusted off my britches
And ejected the shell that I had used.

I leaned my mighty weapon
Up against the pumphouse wall
And proceeded to the place
Where my quarry had to fall.

As I showed it to my Grandpa
Who was grinning ear to ear
I had to say I wasn't expecting
To get knocked upon my rear.

Cycling Through the Night

Sometimes in the dark of night
I lie upon my bed
And think on all the many things
That dance within my head.

Of things that I forgot to do
Or, things that wait tomorrow
Or, things that happened in the day
Or, things that cause me sorrow.

My mind is oh, so restless
As I ponder on each thought
And then it shifts unmercifully
To other things unsought.

And I wonder if I'll ever fall
To sleep though hard I try
As I toss and turn about
In my bed there as I lie

Until I wake much later
Not knowing I have slept
But, find my thoughts on other things
Which in my mind have leapt.

But, for an instant
As I wake and come aware
Of some small noise in the night
That once might give me scare

And I remember dreaming,
Something twisted and confused,
Where thoughts of one thing
With another have been fused.

And so it goes throughout the night.
A pattern soon is seen
From waking to the depths of sleep,
To dreams of vivid scene.

Until the morning comes and eyes
Become of time aware
That it is the hour of rising
As at the numbers I do stare

And think, "How did my body know
That it was time to be awake
Without alarm a ringing
Or, my shoulder someone shake?"

This body that we dwell within,
Amazing as can be,
Is made so very special
As it seems so plain to me.

And I wonder how one e'er could doubt,
Oh, yes, I find it odd,
That some would ever question
We're made by the Hand of God.

[Sleep cycles intrigue me and I find it interesting to see how my Fitbit records them and then compare that to what I remember.  Our minds are amazing things.  I rarely use an alarm clock, but instead decide when I want to awake and almost always can do so within a minute or so of that time, if not precisely.]

Seeing the Extraordinary

When we truly look at all we see in this wide world around us
It should fill us with amazement.
We see things from the surface and they become ordinary
Because they are commonplace.
If by chance we look in depth at something simple as a cup
We experience man's inventiveness.
The one I see before my eyes is crafted porcelain,
Glazed white within and black without,
With an etched emblem on the side that faces me
When I grasp it by the handle.
I see the glaze and know it coats a rougher substance
From which it is shaped.
The separation of the colors is such that I wonder
How they made the line so perfect.
The figure on the outside is etched through the black
Into the grainy texture of the core.
It keeps my coffee hot for just long enough to enjoy
A moment of relaxation as I drink.
It was crafted by men who learned the art of making it
From labors built over many generations.
It was designed for a company which sells coffee at
A price far above their competition;
I know because their stamp of copyright is placed
Clearly on the bottom in four languages.
Someone spent a good deal of time designing the logo
Which is etched upon the cup.
That logo was then programmed into a machine designed
To etch it into the surface.
The glazes used upon the cup were mixed by a chemist
So they melted at a temperature
Below that which would destroy the matrix of the cup
Itself upon which they were applied.
After the cup was cooled it was packaged and shipped
To the various outlets of the coffee company
Which then made them available for sale to their
Highly devoted customers (of which I am not one.)
This single, simple cup was designed, manufactured, transported
And sold through a complex process
Involving many people scattered across the continent
To end up in my hand.
To me, that is truly extraordinary.
Just imagine the mind that designed the minds which
Are capable of such things....