Some may think it strange — This is my favorite time I sit quietly Watching leaves waft their way down Or swirling as if unsure Where to fall. It’s fall — Leaves falling, falling, falling Left behind ’til spring Or raked into piles and hauled To the compost where they rot “It’s so cold today!” People say, pulling on coats Wild geese preen feathers Preparing for fall; they fly In formation; I stay home
When my granddaughter was littler (she’s now a big 4 years old), I wasn’t working full-time and would go babysit once a week. So. Much. Fun.
Anyhoo — she was just a wee little thing, and I would put on music to play in the background while we played. I had a whole playlist for her.
I pulled it up the other day because I (obviously) hadn’t played it in a long time. It was a lot of Scottish songs. My granddaughter loved Ally Bally Bee and “danced” to it — which involved running around the couch.
I loved The Broon Coo, a song about a mischievous cow that breaks oot and eats all the hay and neaps (turnips) and chases the ducks.
Cows are near and dear to my heart. The cow population is our area has significantly declined over the 50+ years since my parents bought the house I am now living in. When we first moved here, though, there was a working dairy farm next door.
I wrote a poem about it some years ago and thought that I had posted it. Maybe I had and then took it down. Who knows? It happened to be in my overfull WordPress draft folder and I’ll put it at the bottom of this post. It’s not really stream-of-consciousness, you know.
If you’ve ever experienced feeding a cow something from your hand, you’ll know that it’s an unforgettable thing. The smoothness of their nose. The tongue pulling whatever it is off your hand. The slow patient chewing that ensues.
So many people are just in a hurry when they eat. They could learn a lesson from cows.
A horse’s muzzle is dry and it will use its lips to take whatever you’re holding. A cow’s nose is slimy — but in the best of ways, if there can be a best of ways for slime.
I used to walk down the road and play music for the cows. They would walk alongside me on their side of the fence.
Then there was the year the cows stampeded up our road when the guy was trying to load them in a truck. He eventually rounded them all up, save one — and there were feral cow sightings over the winter that year as it wandered the back hills. I don’t know whatever happened to it.
But the Broon Coo song is about a cow that breaks out and gets into trouble — which is what my poem is also about (kind of) except our cow was a black-and-white Holstein.
So I’ll leave you here with a few cow pictures and a poem. 🙂
When my parents bought the farm (literally) Pa Jackson was over the hill (euphemistically and literally)
He milked the cows by hand While the barn cats tumbled in the hay (euphemistically and literally) I watched with wide eyes (the milking, not the euphemistic tumbling)
The Jacksons had a bull To do the job of the artificial inseminator And when our pet heifer, Sock-it-to-me-Sunshine, Wandered over To visit the Jacksons’ cows The bull also got to know her (euphemistically)
Then, our heifer Was in the family way (euphemistically) She was loaded on a truck And sent to a home For unwed cows
The next summer The Jackson’s cows Were also loaded onto trucks And sent to auction Because Pa Jackson was Extremely Over the hill (euphemistically)
A few years later We read in the newspaper That he had bought the farm. (euphemistically)
Lean Into The pained words Uttered by men, Repeated to the God who already knows: I believe in one God … I Confess my faults; Have mercy, please, According to all Your promises — “Lean into the pained words uttered by men”
Share an emotion of yours in a “Dectina Refrain” poem.
Ten lines;
Syllabic: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10;
The tenth line is comprised of the first four lines all together, as one stand alone line in quotation marks. (apparently the quotation marks are optional.)
This wasn’t a requirement — but mine is an acrostic as well.
This whole “share an emotion” business is for the birds in my life right now.
I told my counselor that this week. Not a fan of emotions. At all. Not even a little. Please make them go away.
But I’ve been trying to pray again. Trying is the operative word here.
This is why liturgy is so important. When words fail, we still have words — old words that have been spoken for centuries.
Man, it has been a week. I’ve had a cold (not COVID) and, for whatever reason, struggled to write much.
Kudos to those of you who crank out quality posts every single day, sometimes multiple in one day. I spew forth something occasionally, nonsense most of the time, but this week the well has been fairly dry.
Honestly, I had no idea. When have I ever felt infinite? Pretty much never.
I tried writing something about swimming, because there’s something about stretching out in the water, and reaching towards the far wall that’s very Zen, but not infinite. That poem went into the trash.
On one of the days when I was home sick, I decided to tackle some of the sorting that needs to happen in this house. I live in my parents’ house, the house I grew up in, and it is chock FULL of stuff.
I found the remnants of my mother’s wedding dress. She had given it to me so the lace could be used for my wedding dress. For whatever reason, those remnants were saved. In a box. Under a bed.
The remaining lace was quite yellowed. The heavy satin that the lace had been layered over was spotted and almost brown.
“I should throw this away,” I said out loud. I resolved to do just that.
But I couldn’t.
Kudos to those of you who can or could.
It’s just beyond me.
I closed the box.
But I went back to it multiple times, wrestling internally with what should be done.
That’s when I decided that I would ask one of my sons to help me bury it. Somehow, allowing that satin and lace to become one with the earth again seemed fitting for my mother’s dress.
She always loved a garden.
Finite? Infinite? I’m not sure.
But I did crank out a poem if you care to read it at the bottom.
My mother on her wedding day
Me on mine — Dad, me, Mom
My mother gave her wedding dress To me so I Could use the lace for my gown. I frown, I sigh
As I find the remains of that Dress so many Years later. A wreck of a thing – Fitting, any
Joy I might have had now replaced With a heartache. The box holds scraps of what once was – I pause – head-shake —
What do I do? “Throw it away,” Says one voice in My mind. “It’s just garbage now.” Somehow the bin
Is not the proper place for it. It is a wreck – Like my life – but I simply will Not kill that speck
Of what – Love? Hope? Truth? Connection? It is a dress! Nothing more and yet so much more – But for my yes
My own promise — oh, how I grieve! I will bury The scraps. My heart is still not free To be merry
I’m a little teapot in the air As you might guess I’m exceedingly rare How it is I do this I can’t share I’m just a teapot in the air
I’m a special teapot You’ll agree There’s magic all around us for those who can see Maybe you can fly too! Count to three — Click your heels and follow me
~~~~~~ OR ~~~~~~
I’m a little teapot Watch me fly I hover, I pour, then zoom on by Signal that you need me and I’ll try To zip on over and resupply
~~~~~~ OR ~~~~~~
I’m a special teapot Yes, it’s true Here, let me show you what I can do I can pour hot tea all over you Be nice to me or get your due
~~~~~~ OR ~~~~~~
Maybe it’s a secret teapots keep More than holding water and letting tea steep Oh, the things that happen while you sleep! Or do you think a broom just sweep-sweep-sweeps
The poem is made up of quatrains with an aabb rhyme scheme. Syllable count 3-7-7-1. Lines one and two rhyme on a two-syllable word; lines three and four rhyme on a monosyllabic word.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 