—Poetry by Kimberly Bolton,
Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
COUNTRY LIVING
Small country houses nestle in the shelter
of the Ozark foothills.
Shadows move swiftly over hills and pastures,
as clouds sail across the bright disc
of yellow sun on a speeding wind,
ruffling through corn and wheat fields.
Through summer’s burn and winter’s white scorch,
time appears to have stopped just short of a line,
never to cross over, preserving the past.
These same roads, once populated by horse and wagon,
are now traversed by cars and trucks.
Neighbors still congregate at fences,
still wave to strangers just passing through.
Friendliness continues to be a given in this part
of the country.
Generations have made their lives here,
through trial and error,
lives founded on grace through hard work,
and honesty,
living to old age with pride in the purpose
and pleasure the land gives them.
Lives salted with joys and sorrows,
seasoned with the intricacies of the human condition.
The chronicle of their lives told and retold by
the labored breathing of the wind in the trees.
Small country houses nestle in the shelter
of the Ozark foothills.
Shadows move swiftly over hills and pastures,
as clouds sail across the bright disc
of yellow sun on a speeding wind,
ruffling through corn and wheat fields.
Through summer’s burn and winter’s white scorch,
time appears to have stopped just short of a line,
never to cross over, preserving the past.
These same roads, once populated by horse and wagon,
are now traversed by cars and trucks.
Neighbors still congregate at fences,
still wave to strangers just passing through.
Friendliness continues to be a given in this part
of the country.
Generations have made their lives here,
through trial and error,
lives founded on grace through hard work,
and honesty,
living to old age with pride in the purpose
and pleasure the land gives them.
Lives salted with joys and sorrows,
seasoned with the intricacies of the human condition.
The chronicle of their lives told and retold by
the labored breathing of the wind in the trees.
I WILL LIFE UP MINE EYES TO THE HILLS
Morning, just as the sun begins to rise
over the crest of the hills,
was her favorite time of day,
no matter the season.
This morning she steps out her back door,
eases the door shut, pulls her woolen shawl
close about her shoulders against the chill.
Feels the crunch of frost underfoot.
Only a few scraggly leaves cling
to the bare branches overhead.
A white fog hovers over the field below the house.
The sun rises higher, illuminating her beloved hills,
in golden light.
The rooster, perched on the fence post,
announces the start of the day.
As the fog begins to lift, three deer
emerge from the wood, down near the creek bank,
delicately tonguing the cold water.
Everywhere she looks the hills hug the holler close.
She draws comfort from it.
She knows of the great mountains out west,
snow-capped, majestic, reaching up
to nearly touch the heavens,
though she has never seen a mountain for herself,
and perhaps never will.
Yet, the hills of the Ozarks Plateau
are as noble in their own way
as the mountain ranges of the west.
It is to these hills she lifts her eyes each day,
from which she draws her strength.
These hills from which spring her deep abiding love
for this place she calls home,
and nowhere else.
Morning, just as the sun begins to rise
over the crest of the hills,
was her favorite time of day,
no matter the season.
This morning she steps out her back door,
eases the door shut, pulls her woolen shawl
close about her shoulders against the chill.
Feels the crunch of frost underfoot.
Only a few scraggly leaves cling
to the bare branches overhead.
A white fog hovers over the field below the house.
The sun rises higher, illuminating her beloved hills,
in golden light.
The rooster, perched on the fence post,
announces the start of the day.
As the fog begins to lift, three deer
emerge from the wood, down near the creek bank,
delicately tonguing the cold water.
Everywhere she looks the hills hug the holler close.
She draws comfort from it.
She knows of the great mountains out west,
snow-capped, majestic, reaching up
to nearly touch the heavens,
though she has never seen a mountain for herself,
and perhaps never will.
Yet, the hills of the Ozarks Plateau
are as noble in their own way
as the mountain ranges of the west.
It is to these hills she lifts her eyes each day,
from which she draws her strength.
These hills from which spring her deep abiding love
for this place she calls home,
and nowhere else.
THE OLD HOMESTEAD
Heading out to Cotton
for a Sunday afternoon drive.
The cabin is gone now.
A barbed wire fence is put up with a
NO TRESPASSING sign posted.
Nothing left but the well from which she used
to draw water, capped now,
and the old Indian mound, undisturbed,
we are happy to see.
The same hills and trees she used to gaze upon
from her kitchen window.
Down in the field, behind where the old homestead
once stood, cows graze in the sun
knowing nothing of the past.
____________________
Today's LittleNip:
The fresh and crisp air of the country reminds us that our blood surges of the natural world and how tied we are to the sprung rhythms of earth and sky, weather and season.
—Kilroy J. Oldster, Dead Toad Scrolls
____________________
Many thanks to Kimberly Bolton for today’s poems. She says they are from her book that she is currently working on, titled "Down in the Holler". Keep working, Kimberly! We’ll be rootin’ for you!
Somehow, I must’ve thought the Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest deadline was June 21. Turns out it’s JULY 21, so you still have time to enter. Info: slolowe44.blogspot.com/2022/04/2022-voices-of-lincoln-poetry-contest.html/. (There’s that Medusa-rust again!)
____________________
—Medusa
Heading out to Cotton
for a Sunday afternoon drive.
The cabin is gone now.
A barbed wire fence is put up with a
NO TRESPASSING sign posted.
Nothing left but the well from which she used
to draw water, capped now,
and the old Indian mound, undisturbed,
we are happy to see.
The same hills and trees she used to gaze upon
from her kitchen window.
Down in the field, behind where the old homestead
once stood, cows graze in the sun
knowing nothing of the past.
____________________
Today's LittleNip:
The fresh and crisp air of the country reminds us that our blood surges of the natural world and how tied we are to the sprung rhythms of earth and sky, weather and season.
—Kilroy J. Oldster, Dead Toad Scrolls
____________________
Many thanks to Kimberly Bolton for today’s poems. She says they are from her book that she is currently working on, titled "Down in the Holler". Keep working, Kimberly! We’ll be rootin’ for you!
Somehow, I must’ve thought the Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest deadline was June 21. Turns out it’s JULY 21, so you still have time to enter. Info: slolowe44.blogspot.com/2022/04/2022-voices-of-lincoln-poetry-contest.html/. (There’s that Medusa-rust again!)
____________________
—Medusa
For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
