Poetry: Cat Tight Transforms

 

With a stretch of transition,
I transform night into day
body and soul awaken so slow,
to the bitter sweetness of life
which is so heavenly sensed.

Time means nothing to me.
Cats care and have not, you see,
clocks or alarms or times to be
places like here or there,
or anywhere.

We lions have no closets to open,
no purpose but life, but to hunt and to live.
No worries outside my litter box,
which, by the way, clean it, slave!

To awaken tight sleepers
A king must be fed,
before he hunts and stalks
to eat a fresh breakfast
prepared by my slaves.
And maybe a spot of milk,
but not too cold, and my milk must never
be given too old.

Then off to my stalking, to warm up the day.
After a check on the birds I see in the yard,
a brief hiss aimed at the dog
so he knows his place, as least of my slaves,
then onto my perch, high above my kingdom.
You’re lucky to have me, that’s what they say.

On to the work of annoying the human
who is trying to write without
my permission, cajole her I will,
surely, she knows the importance of kill.
King cat is awake, all bow down so humbly
in homage to him. I’m sure that you will.

©Bill Reynolds 3/18/2019

Look both ways. The king wears fur. Mind the gaps and claws.

The Greatest Gift

It cannot speak
cannot see or hear
No feeling or form
It moves through the universe,
But it never leaves my soul

It has no name
but knows me well
it makes no sound,
But explodes in every human heart,
it is the beginning and the end
the lost and the found
the discovery and burn.

It is in every thought of every day,
It crosses and straightens,
It eats nothing but feeds everything
It curses not but many swear upon it
It sticks like glue and slips too easily away
Without cost it is the dearest of all
Giving strength to the weak, it
brings the powerful to their knees.

To give love,
To take love. The love of life,
The sights and the sounds and the smells
the feels and the tastes of love.
The least and the greatest of all gifts

Both taken and given.

© Bill Reynolds

Let your love look both ways, to what is and what might have been.
Fill the gaps with the time we have, as precious as it is.

Poetry: The Tractor

The tractor rests, over near the barn
she’s not minding the cold, snow, and ice of winters
nor the dry pounding heat of summers,
a little rust, peeling paint, heavy worn tires,
little more than time causes the hulk any harm.

Made to plough and cumber a heavy beam, this ox
of steel and rubber carried men to the work
of sowing seeds with a seeder and a drill,
for tilling of soil with tiller and rotary box.

This mammoth hand of farm and ranch alike
pushes and pulls all kind of cultivator and harrow,
she drags wagons full of fertilizer to make
bull and cow shit fly over ditch and burrow.

Pulling mowers and rakes for the gathering of hay,
with bailers in tow bringing seed in to feed,
with tires made heavy with water in and mud out,
that tough old tractor stands ready for more work.

The Case International, the Massy Ferg’ and the old Ford;
the John Deere and the New Holland or Caterpillar rig.
Germany’s Fendt and Japan’s Kubota.
Canada has a claim with Cockshutt tractors.

Maker of the world’s finest cars will not be omitted,
As Italians lay claim to the craft for the harvest
with a Lamborghini (seriously) trattori pulling that shit.

This old boy was just a wee lad
when he grabbed hold of the wheel
for learning to drive in the only front seat
of a farmer named Dixon and his old Massy Ferguson
we all had great fun in the summer’s hot sun
as the day’s work of the land got done,
for the wheat and the hay (and a little play).

©Bill Reynolds 3/11/2019

Poetry: March

Since March was the first month of the new year in ancient Rome, some historians believe the Romans named March after Mars, their god of war.

Time for a poem – warning ADULT LANGUAGE. If you’re easily offended, don’t read it. (Now you’re really curious, right?)

Man of March

Kiss me goodbye said Winter,
his eyes a-twinkle and a
guilty smirk, we find the
month of a Roman god, of
the lion and lamb, the
time of dancing transition
from the hard cock of cold
mister Winter to a soft sweet-
smelling moist pussy of
Spring, when even the
fucking pear look lovely
dressed with flowers and
the promise of new life
born of Spring, before
the Dragon swoops down
with heat and fire after
April, the last of the Kind
before October’s dance
(at 73) of fest and feast.
Hello, March, Man of
Venus and Lover
of Spring’s Pleasures!

©Bill Reynolds 3/4/2019

The best time to look both ways is when we are between the times. Mind the gap.

Poetry – City Boy on the Farm

That Summer on the Farm

It was hard work, that summer
filled me with memories
and lessons about life,
living close to nature, those feelings,
a life lived as few city boys knew.

The smell of manure spread on the fields
the milk cow faces up-close to touch
the unlimited number of stars in the sky
first seen by me at fourteen.
Few city boys knew or saw.

The noises of the day, the life,
the tractors, lifting bales of hay
with a hook. The smells, our sweat;
and the taste of fresh raw from-the-cow, milk
and garden peas right out of the pod.
Things learnt, few city boys knew about.

The quiet of an amazingly still cool night,
the sleep of a man who is still just a boy,
the sun in the morning when the cock crows
the waking of nature and all that is life.
Amazing stuff, few city boys know.

The smoke from the fires
the good feeling of hard work finished,
the wait for tomorrow’s harvest and
the craziness of good friends.
Things this city boy soon knew.

The past not forgotten,
the touches, the pain, the
cries and the laughs all
implanted like extra brains in
my heart and my head, parts of me.
Few city boys will ever know.

And there it will stay
till one lucky day — it happens,
I’ll be back on the farm when
I’m finally a boy again, in an old man’s body.
What every city boy knows is true.

©Bill Reynolds

Look both ways in the farmer’s fields.
A man is forever a boy, so mind the gap.

Poetry with a pledge

Happy day three of 2019, y’all.

I gave up making New Year resolutions years ago — never kept them. But, I hope (pledge) to write one poem each day this year. I write 30 poems during April for National Poetry Writing Month, so only 333 more to deal with (two done).

It may not be 365 good enough poems in one year, or ever. But, I’ll try. It’s my challenge.

I’ll share a few and deal with ideas or prompts where I discover them. I plan to keep writing essays and stories, and there is that A to Z blog thingy in April.

Remember, other than exercise and normal functions of life, I write stuff.

I’ve neglected reading and writing poetry most of my life. I want to catch up.

If I fail, I’ll own it and keep you advised.

You have a great year.

(The following poem is from my 2018 unpublished corpus.)

***

The Most Perfect Day

as I stepped onto the trail
I heard the noisy silence of the wild
rustling trees with brushing leaves and needles,
the grasses were dancing with the air
of a breathing Zepher-set movement,
spreading pollen and peace to all.
My footsteps, almost an invasion of the natural
calm.
of life and life and life.
soon, We were blessed by the flowing gift
of a quiet soft rain kissing Us,
My lips, My nose, face, and licking My shoulders.
trees began a dance joyfully in thanksgiving
for the sweet life-giving beverage of the gods.
I became dumbly transfixed
to My internal awareness
of My place
in the plan of the universe
and the circle of life and life and life.

me.

I am alive,
here,
now,
today,
with You
and the trees and the rain.
all are pleased to see Me,
to touch Us,
to be as much a part of Me as
I have become a part
of them,
of You,
of Us,
right here,
right now,

an almost most-perfect day – never alone
fully alive with life. and life
and,
I’m Alive!

©Bill Reynolds 12/30/2018

2019 has more future than past, not so I.
Life is lived forward, but look both ways to be safe.

Mind the gaps — accidents are the third leading cause of death.

Song Lyric Sunday – Girls

Of course! Last week Helen cast the theme of boys. Today, it’s girls (oh hell yes!). I get to show y’all one of my favorites.

Picture me (older n’dirt), my son (40-something) and grandson (preteen), all rockin’ out to one of Opa’s (‘at’s me) major tunes. Here we go:

“Well, take me back down where cool water flow, yeh
Let me remember things I love”

The qualifying hook is the fourth line: “Barefoot girls dancin’ in the moonlight.” (makes Opa smile)

Please enjoy a great video of “Green River” written and sung by John Cameron Fogerty. (Green River lyrics © The Bicycle Music Company).

 

And hey….

Look both ways and mind the gaps, lest you get lost.
“An’ if you get lost come on home to Green River/ Well, come home”
Whoop!!!!

Click graphic for link to SLS page.