—Poetry by Kimberly Bolton,
Jefferson City, MO
—Photos by Katy Brown,
Davis, CA
OLD HISTORY LIVES HERE
Old history lives here, recorded rung
by painstaking rung in the heart of the trees,
those ancient historians.
Old history lives on here, secreted in the creases
and folds of the hills, sown and reaped in
the fields, season after season.
Long ago, the people of the Big Canoe
came up from the river to roam and to hunt,
to build their burial mounds to honor their dead.
After them came the covered wagons driving
down out of the hills into the Nile Valley of the Ozarks
Plateau in this new territory called the Missouri.
They came here with hearts brimful of hope
for forgiveness of past failures,
leaving behind them thin soil dibbled with rock,
and an uncharitable sky tight-fisted with rain.
They came here with faces hardened by disappointment
and heartache, yet outlined with a strong sense of
yearning for better times to come,
uplifted by a buoyant faith that this just might
be the place to do it.
It was this faith that made the months-long journey
more worthwhile, even as hardship followed
in the ruts of their wagon tracks.
Yet, their innate human need to make
a better life for themselves and their children,
and their children’s children, spurred them onward.
They did not see themselves as the heroes
and heroines of their own story,
but simple, ordinary people rising with the sun,
imbued with the desire to lay claim to this land,
even as it was the land itself that claimed them
for its own.
Old history lives here, recorded rung
by painstaking rung in the heart of the trees,
those ancient historians.
Old history lives on here, secreted in the creases
and folds of the hills, sown and reaped in
the fields, season after season.
Long ago, the people of the Big Canoe
came up from the river to roam and to hunt,
to build their burial mounds to honor their dead.
After them came the covered wagons driving
down out of the hills into the Nile Valley of the Ozarks
Plateau in this new territory called the Missouri.
They came here with hearts brimful of hope
for forgiveness of past failures,
leaving behind them thin soil dibbled with rock,
and an uncharitable sky tight-fisted with rain.
They came here with faces hardened by disappointment
and heartache, yet outlined with a strong sense of
yearning for better times to come,
uplifted by a buoyant faith that this just might
be the place to do it.
It was this faith that made the months-long journey
more worthwhile, even as hardship followed
in the ruts of their wagon tracks.
Yet, their innate human need to make
a better life for themselves and their children,
and their children’s children, spurred them onward.
They did not see themselves as the heroes
and heroines of their own story,
but simple, ordinary people rising with the sun,
imbued with the desire to lay claim to this land,
even as it was the land itself that claimed them
for its own.
WHAT ONCE WAS
I.
Once, this remote land was settled by those
seeking shelter among the hills and trees here.
Those who came from ‘back east’, from Appalachia,
and the Blue Ridge, and from farther away,
the wild moors of England, the fens of Scotland,
the fells of Ireland.
They came here to the Ozarks Plateau,
because deep in their ancestral memory
this place, with its camel-humped hills, its
shadowed valleys thick with dark woods,
reminded them of their ancient homelands.
Farms thrived on soil rich and loamy.
Families begat families.
The village center, with its grist mill for
grinding wheat, its general store for purchasing
what couldn’t be grown at home, its communal well
I.
Once, this remote land was settled by those
seeking shelter among the hills and trees here.
Those who came from ‘back east’, from Appalachia,
and the Blue Ridge, and from farther away,
the wild moors of England, the fens of Scotland,
the fells of Ireland.
They came here to the Ozarks Plateau,
because deep in their ancestral memory
this place, with its camel-humped hills, its
shadowed valleys thick with dark woods,
reminded them of their ancient homelands.
Farms thrived on soil rich and loamy.
Families begat families.
The village center, with its grist mill for
grinding wheat, its general store for purchasing
what couldn’t be grown at home, its communal well
at the crossroads upon which cows were herded
to market and farm horses plodded with sedate dignity,
was once the beating heart of this place.
No could imagine, or would want to,
living anywhere else.
Life was hard, as life was apt to be,
but there was comfort and familiarity, too.
Why live in a city that gave outsiders like themselves
the cold shoulder?
Why live among strangers they dare not confide in,
who smirked or sneered at what was to them their
strange ways, when here everyone knew everyone else,
and they all shared the same story?
II.
Time, that merciless invader who waits for no one
and treats all equally, marched down out of the hills
into the valley, taking over.
Economic downturns, the chokehold of debt,
wars that claimed their men, crops that failed,
were followed by enticements of better pay, taking
children and grandchildren out of the fields
and onto factory floors.
Once, this land was rich with folk customs
and traditions of a people who lived here,
now remembered no more.
Suburbia, with all its conveniences of modern life,
has left this land abandoned.
Farmhouses stand empty, windows resembling forlorn eyes
looking out onto a world it does not recognize any more.
Derelict barns sag in on themselves as if they no longer
have the heart to withstand the abandonment.
Tall weeds have choked the once thriving fields
and pastures.
Nature encroaches a little more each year,
reclaiming this land for her own,
as it always was, as it will be again.
One can still come here, listen to the sound
of a stream rushing over rocks in its way,
the chirring song of insects in the deep grass,
the wing-beat of a bird taking off in flight,
the low voice of the wind conversing with trees,
the trees in turn conferring with one another,
as they remember what once was and is no more.
This is what is left behind.
This is what is left behind.
to market and farm horses plodded with sedate dignity,
was once the beating heart of this place.
No could imagine, or would want to,
living anywhere else.
Life was hard, as life was apt to be,
but there was comfort and familiarity, too.
Why live in a city that gave outsiders like themselves
the cold shoulder?
Why live among strangers they dare not confide in,
who smirked or sneered at what was to them their
strange ways, when here everyone knew everyone else,
and they all shared the same story?
II.
Time, that merciless invader who waits for no one
and treats all equally, marched down out of the hills
into the valley, taking over.
Economic downturns, the chokehold of debt,
wars that claimed their men, crops that failed,
were followed by enticements of better pay, taking
children and grandchildren out of the fields
and onto factory floors.
Once, this land was rich with folk customs
and traditions of a people who lived here,
now remembered no more.
Suburbia, with all its conveniences of modern life,
has left this land abandoned.
Farmhouses stand empty, windows resembling forlorn eyes
looking out onto a world it does not recognize any more.
Derelict barns sag in on themselves as if they no longer
have the heart to withstand the abandonment.
Tall weeds have choked the once thriving fields
and pastures.
Nature encroaches a little more each year,
reclaiming this land for her own,
as it always was, as it will be again.
One can still come here, listen to the sound
of a stream rushing over rocks in its way,
the chirring song of insects in the deep grass,
the wing-beat of a bird taking off in flight,
the low voice of the wind conversing with trees,
the trees in turn conferring with one another,
as they remember what once was and is no more.
This is what is left behind.
This is what is left behind.
SMALL PLACES
The poetry of the hill folk speaks eloquently
of small places like this,
where once the weather was determined by
woolly caterpillars, or kitchen habiliments
hidden deep within the heart of a persimmon.
They planted by the phases of the moon,
living out lives in rhythm with the seasons.
Nearly unknown to the larger, outside world,
small places like this take up a large space
in the hearts of those of us intimately familiar with them,
where once our ancestors called home.
I can’t say that I am not glad of it.
To others, this is the crossroads of emptiness on
the road to nowhere.
To the ancestors it had been all the world most
of them would ever know or care to.
Tucked into the hills among the trees,
they were content on this parcel of land;
tho’ it was little enough they had,
their needs, by comparison to ours, were few:
A roof overhead to keep out the rain.
Food grown themselves to stave off hunger.
A fire in the hearth to ward off the chill,
with plenty of elbow room to breathe.
From out of the Appalachian mountain range,
from deep in the Shenandoah Valley,
from out of the green hills of Ireland,
and the rocky crags of Scotland, homelands
of their forebears, they brought the songs
of hardship and survival into the Ozarks Plateau.
They sang of simple lives engaged in struggle
and strife, of small hearts grown large over time
with an inbred nostalgia for the old homesteads far and away,
which they may never have known themselves
except in their songs and stories,
and which this place, deep in the dark Ozark hills,
soon became loved and beloved in all its particulars,
which an outsider could never come to understand.
or take to heart.
Here, there was no need for the grand gesture,
or the complexities of city life.
Simplicity was a creed folks lived by.
To extend a hand to those who had less than themselves.
To revere and respect the nature of nature itself.
Cities shout to be heard over their own noise.
Here in the hill country, a subtle whisper will do.
Pay attention.
The trees will tell you.
They were here once. They are here still.
The poetry of the hill folk speaks eloquently
of small places like this,
where once the weather was determined by
woolly caterpillars, or kitchen habiliments
hidden deep within the heart of a persimmon.
They planted by the phases of the moon,
living out lives in rhythm with the seasons.
Nearly unknown to the larger, outside world,
small places like this take up a large space
in the hearts of those of us intimately familiar with them,
where once our ancestors called home.
I can’t say that I am not glad of it.
To others, this is the crossroads of emptiness on
the road to nowhere.
To the ancestors it had been all the world most
of them would ever know or care to.
Tucked into the hills among the trees,
they were content on this parcel of land;
tho’ it was little enough they had,
their needs, by comparison to ours, were few:
A roof overhead to keep out the rain.
Food grown themselves to stave off hunger.
A fire in the hearth to ward off the chill,
with plenty of elbow room to breathe.
From out of the Appalachian mountain range,
from deep in the Shenandoah Valley,
from out of the green hills of Ireland,
and the rocky crags of Scotland, homelands
of their forebears, they brought the songs
of hardship and survival into the Ozarks Plateau.
They sang of simple lives engaged in struggle
and strife, of small hearts grown large over time
with an inbred nostalgia for the old homesteads far and away,
which they may never have known themselves
except in their songs and stories,
and which this place, deep in the dark Ozark hills,
soon became loved and beloved in all its particulars,
which an outsider could never come to understand.
or take to heart.
Here, there was no need for the grand gesture,
or the complexities of city life.
Simplicity was a creed folks lived by.
To extend a hand to those who had less than themselves.
To revere and respect the nature of nature itself.
Cities shout to be heard over their own noise.
Here in the hill country, a subtle whisper will do.
Pay attention.
The trees will tell you.
They were here once. They are here still.
SHADY GREEN
Est. 2002
How lucky we are to have such a place,
this small parcel of shady green,
all to ourselves, right here in town.
Long ago, the trees made a place for themselves,
made themselves right at home on this
gentle green slope that flows like a sea of green
onto flat grassy ground,
where sometimes deer come out to graze
because they feel safe with us,
even pose for pictures on the odd occasion.
An old badger who took up residence
under the shed last year will, once in a while,
come out to check on the state of things.
Birds and squirrels wreak havoc with
their chatter and song, which is the way we like it.
The trees practically drip green,
with a liquid green light that spills
out onto the ground in deep black pools of shade,
hence the name we have given this place:
Shady Green.
When it rains, this place transforms into
a Cezanne masterpiece.
I cannot imagine living anywhere else,
or living here without you.
Our trees hold close the great secret of
why we are in this life.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The best path is the one that’s not there, because we are in the process of creating it.
―Craig D. Lounsbrough
___________________
Kimberly Bolton is visiting us today, bringing tales of pioneers and the Midwestern land of their lives, and we thank her for that. Thanks also to Katy Brown for her photos which, although not taken in the Midwest, bring it to mind with their prairie vegetation.
Last Monday I posted some misinformation, saying that this weekend's Poetry of the Sierra Foothills reading would be on Saturday. But that's incorrect. It will be tomorrow, Sunday, Aug. 28, in their new venue in Camino. Check it out on the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column.
NorCal poets will be saddened to learn that James Den Boer passed away on Thursday night. In addition to being a fine poet, James was a fine publisher (Swan Scythe Press), and he will be missed.
_____________________
—Medusa
Est. 2002
How lucky we are to have such a place,
this small parcel of shady green,
all to ourselves, right here in town.
Long ago, the trees made a place for themselves,
made themselves right at home on this
gentle green slope that flows like a sea of green
onto flat grassy ground,
where sometimes deer come out to graze
because they feel safe with us,
even pose for pictures on the odd occasion.
An old badger who took up residence
under the shed last year will, once in a while,
come out to check on the state of things.
Birds and squirrels wreak havoc with
their chatter and song, which is the way we like it.
The trees practically drip green,
with a liquid green light that spills
out onto the ground in deep black pools of shade,
hence the name we have given this place:
Shady Green.
When it rains, this place transforms into
a Cezanne masterpiece.
I cannot imagine living anywhere else,
or living here without you.
Our trees hold close the great secret of
why we are in this life.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The best path is the one that’s not there, because we are in the process of creating it.
―Craig D. Lounsbrough
___________________
Kimberly Bolton is visiting us today, bringing tales of pioneers and the Midwestern land of their lives, and we thank her for that. Thanks also to Katy Brown for her photos which, although not taken in the Midwest, bring it to mind with their prairie vegetation.
Last Monday I posted some misinformation, saying that this weekend's Poetry of the Sierra Foothills reading would be on Saturday. But that's incorrect. It will be tomorrow, Sunday, Aug. 28, in their new venue in Camino. Check it out on the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column.
NorCal poets will be saddened to learn that James Den Boer passed away on Thursday night. In addition to being a fine poet, James was a fine publisher (Swan Scythe Press), and he will be missed.
_____________________
—Medusa
—Cartoon Courtesy of
Public DomainPhotos 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.
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