After months without a view because of the beautiful, tall cornfields, the distant horizon can be a mesmerizing sight, filled with the smells and sounds of a different, yet familiar, place.
Looking east from where I live, the lagging warm temperatures of day create a hazy, foggy pastoral scene, of a morning, across the recently harvested cornfields and it is a blessing in magnitude hearing the geese feeding frantically and invisibly until the fog lifts. Then when the sun begins its rise, the shadowy glimpses of distant objects on the horizon command your every instinct as you look, listen and smell the uniquely, coming day.
You are alive and you have taken the time to notice it! Have a great day and try not to take it for granted…..look, listen and smell of it….for you are blessed to be alive!
Mornings After Harvest
Across the trampled field of corn, filled with geese in the early morn’,
the distant horizon peeks beneath the fog
that partially hides the distant train headed north in a misty rain
as my ears pick up the howl of a farmer’s dog
chasing geese along the fence, in and out of a fog, so dense,
the geese themselves don’t know which way to go.
And all you hear are gaggle screams, like those heard…. in nightmarish dreams,
as a lifting fog exposes the new day’s glow.
That’s how it is each country morn’, looking east where once was corn,
across the fields now flattened for the plow
that soon will turn the stubble down exposing all the black and brown
after feeding every deer and bird and cow
that lurk and wait for harvest day so they can romp and eat and play
before the winter winds begin to blow
and life again is cold and harsh; birds all dreaming of the southern marsh,
and the rest of us await the coming snow.
copyright 2013 t. j. gargano
Filed under bloggers, Blogging, countryside, Fall, fog, God, heart, Life, Love, mental health, mood, Nature, poetry, prairie, snow
There is a place I like to go
to sit and try to dream
when part of life has lost its glow
and lowered my esteem
down to a point that makes me feel
I should have offered more
and that is why I look to dreams
for what I’m looking for.
And where’s this place I journey to
to sit and gaze in stare;
perchance to stumble on a view
and catch it in my snare;
catching dreams that float around
when everything is still
in a place that’s like a whim
and only lasts until….
I waken to a soothing breeze
and wrinkles ‘cross the stream;
whispering notions in the leaves
I know it’s not a dream?
And I feel much better than I did
although I can’t explain
but I know, you know this place, like me
where refreshing soothes the pain.
Your place might be a comfy chair
or maybe in your bed
or beneath a tree in the city square
or on the road that’s up ahead.
But mine is usually by the stream
that meanders among the trees
where solace found, stills my heart;
and life’s again, at ease.
© copyright 2013 t. j. gargano
Living in the country affords some luxuries, one of which is having lots of bonfires and gatherings of friends and family, around them. Over the years, our gatherings have included games when all the ‘kids’ were young, always guitars and singing, and…always Uncle Steve (‘Big Weave’) entertaining everyone with his numerous jokes and stories fresh from the ‘road.’ He was honored as a ‘Million Mile’ hauler.
‘ Big Weave’
His name is ‘Big Weave’ and his size could deceive in the
shadows of the bonfire at night,
and no one quite knew why the wind always blew ‘round
in circles from left to right.
He always seemed cold whenever he told exciting
stories as the wind blew hard
as he circled the fire without any ire, holding tight
to a stick from the yard.
The shadows he cast in the darkness didn’t last like
the stories remembered by all
of his truck driving days and all of the ways he
managed to answer the call
of driving through rain, over hilly terrain; to the cities
in his big rig, he’d go
and deliver his load then back on the road
to a place that they’d soon let him know.
He stops at a chair…. and…. in a stern stare, lays down
the stick on its side
and continues a tale while he picks up a pail
and empties on the fire, what’s inside.
The flames burst high, sending embers to the sky
with people moving back from the heat
and there’s chuckles in his talk, though he never stops his walk
and together they lose not a beat.
The fires have burned as the years have turned and yet
the gatherings prevail,
and while…. there’s less song, the talk is still long
and the food doesn’t live to be stale.
And the younger ones boast, as their marshmallows roast,
‘bout their dreams and what they believe,
but me, I just wait, like a fish for the bait, for the
bonfire stories from ‘Big Weave.’
The fires will claim, though they won’t be to blame, the
chairs that will empty in time,
And it’s easy to dream about what it will seem like
when years have completed the rhyme.
But they’ve burned for years through smiles and tears
and kept us all warm in the light.
So the hope is they’ll burn…. at every year’s turn
and the memories will flame…. strong and bright.
© 2012 t. j. gargano
Yesterday on the way to town
I saw a cow….laying down
near a sign saying ‘Wonder B_e_d’
painted on the side of a leaning shed.
The shed provided an area of shade
and a perfect bed…. the cow had made
and looked content, chewing her cud
watching the herd, in the sun, in the mud
by the watering hole, battling the flies
and she probably wondered… ‘who are these guys?’
and she laid there contently and without a care
and I thought…’she’s smart’…. and I continued to stare
to see if any other cows would challenge her space
or if they read the sign, from their watering place
or were they smarter than her, ‘cause they knew what it said
and they didn’t go over there….cause it didn’t say….bed.
For sure, who knows what a cow can read?
They know when it’s time for the farmer to feed
and they always make haste to be there on time
and there are signs on the barn about organized crime
that they try to ignore….but see just the same
as they hurry to get there; to get there and claim
what’s rightfully theirs…. the big bag of oats
that’s covered with wordings…. and market quotes.
The truth of it ….is a lacking confirmation
‘cause if she read the sign, it would be an aberration.
and, too, she’d be wrong in what it really said
as nice as the shade was…..the faded sign said…. ‘Wonder Bread.’
© 2012 t. j. gargano
The sun is looking close, this morn’, two miles to the east
And rising up quite slowly…. like slowly rising yeast
to adorn a perfect sky, cloudless against the blue
and awakening all us country folk, the many and the few.
Many like the ducklings, waddling after mother
A few like little possum…. hanging out without each other.
But all enthralled to see the light to help them see the way
as they roam the countryside, where they roam each day.
Fog is hiding the distant trees that hide the little lake
that sits behind a vacant barn where milk cows use to make
their milk that farmers use to truck to almost every town
but time has marked a wicked path…. not leaving much around.
Beams from a coming car, through the fog faintly glow
Coming ‘neath the underpass where speedy trains now go
The county road’s still necessary; connecting to the city
and still in fairly good shape…. through country that is pretty
The eeriness of the early dawn…. softly casts a spell
The grass is leaning, heavy and limp, by dew it can’t expel.
But the country morn’ is coming – its haze it soon will lift
and everything that’s living will receive a splendid gift.
© 2012 t. j. gargano