—Poetry by Kimberly Bolton, Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
FULFILLING MY DUTY
In centuries of silence, with a heart of infinite patience,
A tree grows.
A tree takes its pleasure in growing,
Feeling its roots uniting with the earth.
And the earth is a tree’s only allegiance.
From a distance, a tree appears motionless,
But up close it is alive with motion,
With the shenanigans of birds in the tangle of its leaves,
The whip-crack of its branches in a winter wind,
The musical drip of rain from its leaves.
A tree whispers its own green language,
As it reflects on its curious existence.
It is an eternity of eternal growth.
The tree fulfills its duty to poetry.
I strive to fulfill my duty as poet.
In centuries of silence, with a heart of infinite patience,
A tree grows.
A tree takes its pleasure in growing,
Feeling its roots uniting with the earth.
And the earth is a tree’s only allegiance.
From a distance, a tree appears motionless,
But up close it is alive with motion,
With the shenanigans of birds in the tangle of its leaves,
The whip-crack of its branches in a winter wind,
The musical drip of rain from its leaves.
A tree whispers its own green language,
As it reflects on its curious existence.
It is an eternity of eternal growth.
The tree fulfills its duty to poetry.
I strive to fulfill my duty as poet.
THE HIGHWAY
This highway I travel today and have driven so many times
in past wanderings on my way to somewhere else,
where others, in their cars, trucks, SUVs, RVs, Porsches,
Harleys, Fords and Chevys, go their own way to wherever it is
they go.
This highway was once a thoroughfare,
was once a road heading out of town,
was once a prosperous trade route,
was once a rutted wagon trail,
was once a backwoodsman’s footpath,
was once an old animal path through dense woods.
It is a route on a modern-day map
that saw millennia of generations leaving,
on foot, by wagon train, by bus, or moving van,
some never to return,
others who felt compelled to come back
to the place where their journey began.
I think of them as I drive this lonely stretch of highway near sunset,
and I think I see them out there,
ghosts in the twilight, traveling along with me through a landscape
of buried memories and a past, when it sees my headlights coming at a
This highway I travel today and have driven so many times
in past wanderings on my way to somewhere else,
where others, in their cars, trucks, SUVs, RVs, Porsches,
Harleys, Fords and Chevys, go their own way to wherever it is
they go.
This highway was once a thoroughfare,
was once a road heading out of town,
was once a prosperous trade route,
was once a rutted wagon trail,
was once a backwoodsman’s footpath,
was once an old animal path through dense woods.
It is a route on a modern-day map
that saw millennia of generations leaving,
on foot, by wagon train, by bus, or moving van,
some never to return,
others who felt compelled to come back
to the place where their journey began.
I think of them as I drive this lonely stretch of highway near sunset,
and I think I see them out there,
ghosts in the twilight, traveling along with me through a landscape
of buried memories and a past, when it sees my headlights coming at a
distance, vanishing beyond the hills.
JACK
1871-1873
When ole Jack Patterson left his Pa’s farm
over near Cross Timbers,
He made his way to Cotton the next county over.
He’d been hearin’ about the good farmin’ in this part of the country,
so he got on his horse and rode out.
He found a purdy piece of land just north of Maxey Branch.
Jack saw right enough the soil ware rich fer plantin’.
Corn, maybe a little wheat by-the-by,
and plenty of pastureland to graze cows.
He wanted pigs fer butcherin’ in the fall,
and to raise horses.
‘Course it’d be a while afore all that come to pass,
but Jack put down what little money he had in his pockets,
on sixty acres to secure it, then set to work payin’ off the rest.
That ware in the summer of ‘seventy-one, I expect,
some six years after the war.
Jack was twenty or thereabouts,
and no stranger to hard work.
Jack Patterson made hisself right to home with the Cotton folks.
Hired hisself out as a farm or field hand.
He dug post holes, strung fence, cut wood, threshed wheat,
baled hay, er lent a hand with the fall butcherin’.
Just did what needed be done so’s he could lay money by
fer that sixty acres he had his heart set on.
When they had a spare minute, sometimes Jack’d go off
out to Reaves Woods with the Redford boys or Lyman Grady,
and do a lil huntin’.
All them boys had been through the war.
Whatever side they’d been on didn’t matter none now.
The fightin’ was over and done,
and out of all their friends and neighbors,
they was the onliest ones to come out alive.
That was somethin’ they guessed, so they was like
brothers to each other.
Jack made a good life fer hisself here in Cotton.
Grew sweet on Emmet Loeffler’s oldest girl, Arlis.
Took her out fer buggy rides, church socials and such.
Ruby Loeffler was happy her girl had a beau,
and started a pattern fer a weddin’ dress afore Jack
even thought ‘bout gittin’ down on one knee.
Arlis was a might flighty if you was to ask me,
and the girl couldn’t cook worth a lick.
Lyman, Jesse Redford, and myself, we told Jack
not to rush into anythin’. There was other fish in the stream.
Jack even went so fer as to write his Pa to ask what he
thought.
Arlis and her Ma ware a-chompin’ at the bit, but Jack
wanted his Pa’s blessin’ first.
Ole Will Patterson wrote from his farm in Cross Timbers,
sayin’ as how he had no objection,
but to watch out that Jack didn’t burn his fingers,
and Jack took it to mean his Pa was a-warnin’ him not
to make a hasty decision.
In the end it didn’t matter nohow.
In that same letter, his Pa begged Jack to come home.
Will was feelin’ poorly, the work on the farm was too much fer him.
Money was dried up, times was hard.
After two years, Jack up and left Cotton,
leavin’ Arlis high and dry, with no guarantee when he’d be back.
Lyman promised to look after his land fer him
while he tended to his Pa, and Jack promised to send him money
ever month to make the payments.
We all hated to see him go,
but blood is thicker than water.
It’d be nigh on to ten years afore folks in Cotton
saw Jack Patterson agin.
1871-1873
When ole Jack Patterson left his Pa’s farm
over near Cross Timbers,
He made his way to Cotton the next county over.
He’d been hearin’ about the good farmin’ in this part of the country,
so he got on his horse and rode out.
He found a purdy piece of land just north of Maxey Branch.
Jack saw right enough the soil ware rich fer plantin’.
Corn, maybe a little wheat by-the-by,
and plenty of pastureland to graze cows.
He wanted pigs fer butcherin’ in the fall,
and to raise horses.
‘Course it’d be a while afore all that come to pass,
but Jack put down what little money he had in his pockets,
on sixty acres to secure it, then set to work payin’ off the rest.
That ware in the summer of ‘seventy-one, I expect,
some six years after the war.
Jack was twenty or thereabouts,
and no stranger to hard work.
Jack Patterson made hisself right to home with the Cotton folks.
Hired hisself out as a farm or field hand.
He dug post holes, strung fence, cut wood, threshed wheat,
baled hay, er lent a hand with the fall butcherin’.
Just did what needed be done so’s he could lay money by
fer that sixty acres he had his heart set on.
When they had a spare minute, sometimes Jack’d go off
out to Reaves Woods with the Redford boys or Lyman Grady,
and do a lil huntin’.
All them boys had been through the war.
Whatever side they’d been on didn’t matter none now.
The fightin’ was over and done,
and out of all their friends and neighbors,
they was the onliest ones to come out alive.
That was somethin’ they guessed, so they was like
brothers to each other.
Jack made a good life fer hisself here in Cotton.
Grew sweet on Emmet Loeffler’s oldest girl, Arlis.
Took her out fer buggy rides, church socials and such.
Ruby Loeffler was happy her girl had a beau,
and started a pattern fer a weddin’ dress afore Jack
even thought ‘bout gittin’ down on one knee.
Arlis was a might flighty if you was to ask me,
and the girl couldn’t cook worth a lick.
Lyman, Jesse Redford, and myself, we told Jack
not to rush into anythin’. There was other fish in the stream.
Jack even went so fer as to write his Pa to ask what he
thought.
Arlis and her Ma ware a-chompin’ at the bit, but Jack
wanted his Pa’s blessin’ first.
Ole Will Patterson wrote from his farm in Cross Timbers,
sayin’ as how he had no objection,
but to watch out that Jack didn’t burn his fingers,
and Jack took it to mean his Pa was a-warnin’ him not
to make a hasty decision.
In the end it didn’t matter nohow.
In that same letter, his Pa begged Jack to come home.
Will was feelin’ poorly, the work on the farm was too much fer him.
Money was dried up, times was hard.
After two years, Jack up and left Cotton,
leavin’ Arlis high and dry, with no guarantee when he’d be back.
Lyman promised to look after his land fer him
while he tended to his Pa, and Jack promised to send him money
ever month to make the payments.
We all hated to see him go,
but blood is thicker than water.
It’d be nigh on to ten years afore folks in Cotton
saw Jack Patterson agin.
HOLDING OUT FOR JOY
I’ll enjoy my peace and quiet at home, thank you,
With the television turned off on politicians
Who think they have all the answers.
Instead, I shall set great store by books and music,
And in the essence of the season,
Whatever season it is.
I choose to leave behind me all the mischief
And misery the human mind can fathom,
And walk the green hills to absorb by osmosis,
The wisdom of trees.
I’ll take pleasure from the grass
Under my bare feet,
The song of birds who warble in angel-speak,
And such glorious sunrises and sunsets
That would stop the tide of hostile folk in their tracks.
Hope strains mightily these days
At the terrible chains we’ve smithied on an anvil of hate,
Anchored by links of our tenacity for mistrust,
And suspicion of one another.
I do not want to waste one more moment on such.
Instead, I will hold out for an all-consuming joy to grab me up,
Hold me close, even for a little while.
A joy that will stop my breath in awe,
So that I may carry the memory of it with me
All the days of the life I have left.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
In 1883, Sitting Bull was a guest of honor at the opening ceremonies for the Northern Pacific Railroad. When it was his turn to speak, he said in the Lakota language, “I hate all white people. You are thieves and liars. You have taken away our land and made us outcasts.” A quick-thinking interpreter told the crowd the chief was happy to be there and that he looked forward to peace and prosperity with the white people. Sitting Bull received a standing ovation.
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Kimberly Bolton for her fine poetry this morning, carrying us to farmlands and mountains and the wisdom of the trees . . .
I’ll enjoy my peace and quiet at home, thank you,
With the television turned off on politicians
Who think they have all the answers.
Instead, I shall set great store by books and music,
And in the essence of the season,
Whatever season it is.
I choose to leave behind me all the mischief
And misery the human mind can fathom,
And walk the green hills to absorb by osmosis,
The wisdom of trees.
I’ll take pleasure from the grass
Under my bare feet,
The song of birds who warble in angel-speak,
And such glorious sunrises and sunsets
That would stop the tide of hostile folk in their tracks.
Hope strains mightily these days
At the terrible chains we’ve smithied on an anvil of hate,
Anchored by links of our tenacity for mistrust,
And suspicion of one another.
I do not want to waste one more moment on such.
Instead, I will hold out for an all-consuming joy to grab me up,
Hold me close, even for a little while.
A joy that will stop my breath in awe,
So that I may carry the memory of it with me
All the days of the life I have left.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
In 1883, Sitting Bull was a guest of honor at the opening ceremonies for the Northern Pacific Railroad. When it was his turn to speak, he said in the Lakota language, “I hate all white people. You are thieves and liars. You have taken away our land and made us outcasts.” A quick-thinking interpreter told the crowd the chief was happy to be there and that he looked forward to peace and prosperity with the white people. Sitting Bull received a standing ovation.
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Kimberly Bolton for her fine poetry this morning, carrying us to farmlands and mountains and the wisdom of the trees . . .
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.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
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.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
