in pristine powder

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how eerily silent
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this low and permanent sky
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weighed heavily in veils of gray,
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that sunrise of so forsaken a faded light
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announces morning from night.
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falls and falls and falls
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this relentless snow,
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pillowing high on window sills
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and muting each fresh sound it buries.
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tentative voices die slow in drifts,
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and this morning’s rush is
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suspended in our collective complaint.
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such swift surrender of steely urban arrogance,
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as my skyscraper city is helplessly
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brought to its knees.
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yet the under world still spins
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and wanders in merciless carousels
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of cruel days after hungry nights,
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the aimless trails of pre dawn paw prints
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pattern the pristine powder.
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Friday Repost…..petals open slowly


Friday Repost

for my new friends,
a little dig in the
archives for you.
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petals open slowly

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across undulating fields of truthful wheat
across the window walled skyscraper cities
across churning surf and miles of embattled shore
and a mother’s loving comfort hearing her baby’s cry

know your nourishing and loyal day will arrive
an infinite Sky in her kindness and healing grace
offering all its patient memory and forgiveness
and a wisdom knowing that all petals open slowly

and renewal and its reinvention begin the day
because a child’s heart is a truth we can’t deny
my dearest friend the sun is warming at your window
and our new world awaiting to hear your hopeful reply
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Who is of smiling face
Bestower of all fortunes
Whose hands are ready to
Rescue anyone from fear

It is the child in us
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my morning music and a beautiful video::::enjoy::::

Sunday Prose: The Farm

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The Farm will be random posting of a
little storytelling, oral history and updates
on the renovation of our family farm.
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Silver Dollars
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The sun finally slipped behind the ten foot leafy corn tops, our first full day at our family farm almost complete at eight forty, the entire western sky a warm tangerine. It is serenity still here on this late summer night, no breeze brushing across the grass, not a single leaf in transit, only the fireflies momentarily dotting the darkness silently leaving their slow motion, crisscrossing phosphorescent trails.

It is quiet enough to hear my own breathing sitting on the small steps to the 130 year old farm house, white and wood framed that sits on 3 tidy acres, an almost square parcel, a postage stamp carved into a 100 acre plot, surrounded, fort like by an impenetrable closely planted wall of crops on all four sides.

From these well worn concrete steps through the densely planted century old trees you can spy the gravel road, a quarter mile long canal like passage through a double sided wall of corn plants standing sentry to the county road, our entry is unmarked except for the house directly across the road.

There is one landline phone, no internet service
and an old t.v. and all of us consider this place
our private slice of the universe.
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There is a quiet and humble history on this property, in the trees that were climbed by the children who grew up on this farm, in the still visible foundation outline of the once huge barn, in every dented and gouged pine door casing, the ancestry of Scout’s family is explained in these details and always further illuminated in our post dinner conversations. Country folk love telling stories and with very little fanfare and a matter of fact manner that belies the profound humanity, the empathy like a ribbon that runs through this family, tales were told tonight too.

Scout and her younger brother spent their summers on this farm, it was a working farm then with a huge pasture for the steer that her granpa Pap butchered, chickens and horses, the crops were soybeans, corn, hay and peony plants. The multistory post and beam constructed barn was enormous by all accounts, the heart of any farm and this barn served as the center of activity and endless hours of discovery for the kids too.

The horses and ponies were a favorite, Sccout spent her time learning to care, feed, walk and eventually ride these horses so much so that Gram ordered Pap to build her a racetrack behind the barn. This was no small affair, the size of this track would take out a significant portion of the pasture and there were conversations between Gram and Pap about the wisdom of this idea but as so many of the stories are indicative of the strength and conviction of the women in this family, Gram prevailed.

She always did.

Gram and Pap grew up during the Great Depression and talked often about being ‘dirt poor’, their families barely survived, scratching out a living however they could in this farming town in southern Indiana just outside Evansville and it’s doubtful that they would have described this same piece of land as a slice of the universe then, as we do now. She learned to cook at a very early age, her scribbled recipes, a shaky penciled script written on stained and wrinkled, blue lined loose leaf pages are coveted by the women in this family, every family had but a few until Scout compiled them into a book and each family then received their own copy one Christmas.

Gram set aside her Avon side business in 1970, took her cooking talents and became the head lunchroom cook at the local elementary school, always adding an extra helping of whatever was on the menu that day to the plates of the very poor among the students. There were four kids in particular, 2 brothers and 2 sisters whose family was considered ‘poorer than dirt poor’ even then, lunch was their only nutritious meal of the day.

Gram invited these children to the farm every day on the pretense of playing in the barn with my wife and her brother and play they did. The boys built an enclosed fort from the hay bales behind the barn and when they all felt very adventurous and were sure no adults were looking, climbed to the second story rafters of the barn and jumped, one by one into the huge 12’ high pile of shelled feed corn below.

Actually, this story was just revealed to Scout’s parents tonight, to their rolled eyes and ‘Oh, no you didn’ts!’, and we all had a great big laugh at the secrets kids can keep.

But the real reason Gram brought those 4 hungry kids to their farm after school was to feed them, they all shared dinner together and whenever she could, unbeknownst to Pap or anyone else, she would slip them each a silver dollar and send them back home.

Decades later when Gram died, the 4 grown adults who all still lived in the area, all successful now, came to Gram’s funeral and told the whole family this story, the story the they were all learning about as they listened, the tale of a woman quietly sharing what she had with those less fortunate. The 2 sisters and 2 brothers then asked if they could place a small suede pouch they had brought with them, into Grams casket to honor her memory.

The small, hand stitched suede pouch cinched
tight with thin leather roping the family learned,
was filled with silver dollars.
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a wish come true

dear new friends and old,

it isn’t often that a difficult issue, especially one that involves family, is resolved in precisely the way you hoped it would, that everything might just fall into place, and everyone might play their part according to a perfect but unwritten script. navigating family resolutions, at least in my experience, is like living in a colorless, flat landscape of unsatisfsctory compromises.

that absolute ideal, what you really hope could happen, rarely does.

well, i will tell you today that everything did fall into place, everyone did play their part perfectly, without rancor, without a single voice raised, with empathy and resolve and a single minded, selfless purpose.

because sometimes it isn’t about us, sometimes it’s about letting ‘us’ go, about being a conduit for what someone else needs because that person is counting on you to help make it happen, because they can’t themselves. and i will tell you i am proud of every single person involved because when i wrote ‘every single word, each reassuring gesture is crucial’ in ‘one of those moments’, i realized this wasn’t just a reminder to myself, it was a necessity for everyone else involved as well.

and so a wish was made…. and that wish came true.

yes…our lives will change significantly, everyone’s will, in the small day to day details and in profound, unknown ways. yet, as i sit here writing this and despite my weariness and emotional exhaustion, i am incredibly hopeful for what the future holds for us all, here in our family. this week will be a week of transition, and my singular resolve and commitment is no less important now, than it was getting to this point. i’m not ready to write just yet, but expect me on your pages as i catch up with what i’ve been missing.

this experience has certainly crystallized many of my long held beliefs, that our tragic history does not have to be repeated, that there is a pure universal truth in selflessness, that empathy and patience and love are by far, the most important human attributes.

that if we all work together… we can achieve anything.

i will also tell you there were days i lost my bliss, that anxiety held it’s grip and would not let go, that fear ruled the day, fear that this might not be resolved as perfectly as it was.

and each time i felt i might sink a little lower, i would get yet another encouraging e mail from one of you, from so many of you, or another wonderful comment would appear, some from new friends and old i have never spoken to, and about a dozen new friends arrived to remind me that i was being thought of even in my absence. and on days like this i think about how incredible this community is, and how lucky i am to be here among all of you. i consider you all part of my exteneded family.

there are seven words i hold dear to my heart in the English language, words that to me, are the most important words we can say to one another in certain moments.

‘i’m sorry’…’i love you’…and ‘thank you’.

thank you, thank you, thank you all.
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she’s like me

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for Cbear
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hey
mr. daddy,
have i gotta’ news flash for ya’
might wanna’ wake up, and smell that java

ya’ know
your little girl?
she’s 13 already, goin’ on…20?
yeah, she really is, some kinda’ person now

her
ear buds in
those curls bouncing to beats
she’s livin’ in texts, Instagram and Iphone apps

and
she’s like me
music sings, so deep in her soul
she’ll text just to tell me, that a song made her cry

and
she’s like me
just Being, in her solitude all day
’cause she’s creating, she’s not feelin’ lonely or bored

yeah,
she’s so like me
we both, feel the pain of this world
wish we could end all war, and we could all live in peace
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I’m Yours
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Listen to the
music of the moment,
people dance and sing
We’re just one big family
And it’s our God-forsaken right
to be loved loved loved loved loved
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as always, this poem was written to the beat
of this joyous song, and can played as a soundtrack.
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