—Poetry by Kimberly Bolton,
Jefferson City, MO
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
THE PIONEER PLANTS A TREE
WHERE THERE WAS NO TREE BEFORE
He was a pioneer who did not follow the wagon train
any farther west than the plains of northern Missouri.
He found a piece of land that suited him,
built a log cabin from wood he hauled back from
WHERE THERE WAS NO TREE BEFORE
He was a pioneer who did not follow the wagon train
any farther west than the plains of northern Missouri.
He found a piece of land that suited him,
built a log cabin from wood he hauled back from
the crick,
and married a plains girl who was as pretty
as a prairie flower.
A year passed and the missus was in the family way.
They went down to the crick and brought back
a young sapling to plant near the cabin,
and planted it there where there was no tree before.
They vowed that for each child that would come,
they would plant such a tree, and young as they
were,
they knew without doubt they would plant
an entire grove of trees!
But life would have its way, as life always will.
And instead of trees, a half-dozen tiny gravestones
were planted on the prairie, where there had been
no graves before.
The young sapling they’d planted that long-ago
spring
had taken firm root despite all that prevailed
against it,
standing fast against storm and snow,
and the ever-constant bullying of the winds that
swept across the prairie.
Sunlight warmed the sap, inducing it to flow
through the trembling, slender trunk of the tree,
until new spring shoots unfurled themselves
from the tips of its tender branches.
At night, long after the man and his missus
were abed, a myriad of stars kept the tree
company, and the moon told stories
of the days of yore.
Tales of the Great Ice Age.
Reminiscences of when the land was young,
and the mighty mastodon and majestic bison
ruled these plains.
It recited the legends of the Kickapoo, the Shawnee,
the Ioway, and the Osage.
The wind, too, sang the ancient songs
of the tribes.
And the young tree kept the stories and
the songs and the legends always close
to its heart, so they would always be
remembered.
After many long and lonely years
of life on the plains,
the old pioneer and his missus
went to their heavenly reward.
The log cabin stood empty,
until nature began to take back its own.
The solitary tree stood guard,
braving the seasons and the passing years.
It was a steadfast witness to the wagon trains
on the distant horizon, following the western trail
out of Missouri.
Then the steam engines burst out of the eastern
cities, crossing the plains, all the way to the land
of the setting sun that lay beyond
the great mountain ranges,
the startling shriek of its whistle blast
carried away by the wind across the vastness
of the prairie.
The roots of the tree anchored it firmly
to the land.
In summer it stood tall above the waving
pairie grasses.
In winter, it stood stark and bare
against the frozen brake of ice and snow.
After a century, there came a great surge,
pushing its way westward from somewhere,
and nowhere and everywhere at once it seemed.
One couldn’t say how it came about,
only that it did, and it changed everything.
The village that cropped up along the
railroad track grew into a town,
and the town into a great city on the plains.
The noise of the city rushed out across
the prairie until the tree could no longer
hear the songs the wind sang.
There were cars and trucks and huge semis
racing to and fro down the four-lane highway.
Horns wailed and bellowed, sirens shrieked.
There were truck stops, and gas stations,
convenience stores and shopping malls,
high rises, and skyscrapers, and hordes
of people busy at doing what people do.
And then there were the lights that blazed
all night:
Headlights, stoplights, fluorescent lights,
and neon lights, turning night into day,
so that the stars seemed to retreat deeper
into the night sky.
The moon, too, appeared to keep its distance,
growing quiet and no longer sharing
its stories.
The tree missed the stars and the moon
and the stories and the songs.
Eventually, the city cried for more
elbow room and the suburban sprawl
of new-fangled houses ousted the critters
that called the prairie home into
involuntary exile.
The plains went under concrete:
Concrete driveways, concrete foundations,
concrete sidewalks and paved streets.
A concrete surround encircled the wide base
of the one and only tree on the plains.
A brass plaque designated it a centennial tree.
A park was created for the people of this new
state-of-the-art neighborhood who had no know-
ledge of the log cabin that once housed the pioneer
and his missus, who had planted the tree with
a heart full of hope for the future.
Yet, how the tree longed to tell them
the story of the pioneer and his wife,
who, along with their children, had been
moved to a more contemporary cemetery
outside the city limits.
Oh, how the tree wanted to share with them all
it knew of the company of stars and the stories
of the moon,
and the songs it had learned so long ago
from the eternal prairie winds.
And how it came to be that a tree was planted
Where there was no tree before.
But no one stopped to listen.
and married a plains girl who was as pretty
as a prairie flower.
A year passed and the missus was in the family way.
They went down to the crick and brought back
a young sapling to plant near the cabin,
and planted it there where there was no tree before.
They vowed that for each child that would come,
they would plant such a tree, and young as they
were,
they knew without doubt they would plant
an entire grove of trees!
But life would have its way, as life always will.
And instead of trees, a half-dozen tiny gravestones
were planted on the prairie, where there had been
no graves before.
The young sapling they’d planted that long-ago
spring
had taken firm root despite all that prevailed
against it,
standing fast against storm and snow,
and the ever-constant bullying of the winds that
swept across the prairie.
Sunlight warmed the sap, inducing it to flow
through the trembling, slender trunk of the tree,
until new spring shoots unfurled themselves
from the tips of its tender branches.
At night, long after the man and his missus
were abed, a myriad of stars kept the tree
company, and the moon told stories
of the days of yore.
Tales of the Great Ice Age.
Reminiscences of when the land was young,
and the mighty mastodon and majestic bison
ruled these plains.
It recited the legends of the Kickapoo, the Shawnee,
the Ioway, and the Osage.
The wind, too, sang the ancient songs
of the tribes.
And the young tree kept the stories and
the songs and the legends always close
to its heart, so they would always be
remembered.
After many long and lonely years
of life on the plains,
the old pioneer and his missus
went to their heavenly reward.
The log cabin stood empty,
until nature began to take back its own.
The solitary tree stood guard,
braving the seasons and the passing years.
It was a steadfast witness to the wagon trains
on the distant horizon, following the western trail
out of Missouri.
Then the steam engines burst out of the eastern
cities, crossing the plains, all the way to the land
of the setting sun that lay beyond
the great mountain ranges,
the startling shriek of its whistle blast
carried away by the wind across the vastness
of the prairie.
The roots of the tree anchored it firmly
to the land.
In summer it stood tall above the waving
pairie grasses.
In winter, it stood stark and bare
against the frozen brake of ice and snow.
After a century, there came a great surge,
pushing its way westward from somewhere,
and nowhere and everywhere at once it seemed.
One couldn’t say how it came about,
only that it did, and it changed everything.
The village that cropped up along the
railroad track grew into a town,
and the town into a great city on the plains.
The noise of the city rushed out across
the prairie until the tree could no longer
hear the songs the wind sang.
There were cars and trucks and huge semis
racing to and fro down the four-lane highway.
Horns wailed and bellowed, sirens shrieked.
There were truck stops, and gas stations,
convenience stores and shopping malls,
high rises, and skyscrapers, and hordes
of people busy at doing what people do.
And then there were the lights that blazed
all night:
Headlights, stoplights, fluorescent lights,
and neon lights, turning night into day,
so that the stars seemed to retreat deeper
into the night sky.
The moon, too, appeared to keep its distance,
growing quiet and no longer sharing
its stories.
The tree missed the stars and the moon
and the stories and the songs.
Eventually, the city cried for more
elbow room and the suburban sprawl
of new-fangled houses ousted the critters
that called the prairie home into
involuntary exile.
The plains went under concrete:
Concrete driveways, concrete foundations,
concrete sidewalks and paved streets.
A concrete surround encircled the wide base
of the one and only tree on the plains.
A brass plaque designated it a centennial tree.
A park was created for the people of this new
state-of-the-art neighborhood who had no know-
ledge of the log cabin that once housed the pioneer
and his missus, who had planted the tree with
a heart full of hope for the future.
Yet, how the tree longed to tell them
the story of the pioneer and his wife,
who, along with their children, had been
moved to a more contemporary cemetery
outside the city limits.
Oh, how the tree wanted to share with them all
it knew of the company of stars and the stories
of the moon,
and the songs it had learned so long ago
from the eternal prairie winds.
And how it came to be that a tree was planted
Where there was no tree before.
But no one stopped to listen.
THE REAL-EST PLACE I KNOW
It is something I never really think about.
Until I do:
the flower, when it buds open, the petals
unfurling—
does it make it a sound as it unwraps?
And before that, the seed.
If I listen with my ear near to the ground,
can I hear it cracking open?
Or sense the giddiness of the roots unraveling,
taking hold in good old Missouri dirt?
How do we not hear the hiccup the earth makes,
just before belching out green, as the season
makes its annual crossing over the bridge
spanning death and life?
No, it’s not something I usually contemplate.
Until I do.
Like now, when the frayed remnants of winter
are banished for good.
This is the real-est place I know,
where the trees favor the view from their lofty
heights,
and a clutch of birds, punch-drunk on the gorgeous-
It is something I never really think about.
Until I do:
the flower, when it buds open, the petals
unfurling—
does it make it a sound as it unwraps?
And before that, the seed.
If I listen with my ear near to the ground,
can I hear it cracking open?
Or sense the giddiness of the roots unraveling,
taking hold in good old Missouri dirt?
How do we not hear the hiccup the earth makes,
just before belching out green, as the season
makes its annual crossing over the bridge
spanning death and life?
No, it’s not something I usually contemplate.
Until I do.
Like now, when the frayed remnants of winter
are banished for good.
This is the real-est place I know,
where the trees favor the view from their lofty
heights,
and a clutch of birds, punch-drunk on the gorgeous-
ness
of the day, talk over one another as fast as they can,
excitable, delirious even, to talk to whoever will
of the day, talk over one another as fast as they can,
excitable, delirious even, to talk to whoever will
listen.
And I am listening.
All the while, the river floats lazily on its back,
soaking up the sun.
And the sun, unspooling down through the leaves,
splays atop the blades of grass, in all directions.
I reach down, lay my bare hand on the green ground,
feel the great heartbeat of the earth rising up,
rising up, through my fingertips,
thrumming against the palm of my hand,
vibrating up my arm, pulsing deep into my veins,
beating in rhythm to my own.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
When I was a child, I was certain that I could remember what it was like to live on Venus; I could remember what it was like to live in the American Plains. I could remember. And it's ancient memory. We all have it. It's just that some of us access it more than others.
—Patti Smith
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Kimberly Bolton for her songs of the plains and the heartbeat of the earth!
And I am listening.
All the while, the river floats lazily on its back,
soaking up the sun.
And the sun, unspooling down through the leaves,
splays atop the blades of grass, in all directions.
I reach down, lay my bare hand on the green ground,
feel the great heartbeat of the earth rising up,
rising up, through my fingertips,
thrumming against the palm of my hand,
vibrating up my arm, pulsing deep into my veins,
beating in rhythm to my own.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
When I was a child, I was certain that I could remember what it was like to live on Venus; I could remember what it was like to live in the American Plains. I could remember. And it's ancient memory. We all have it. It's just that some of us access it more than others.
—Patti Smith
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Kimberly Bolton for her songs of the plains and the heartbeat of the earth!
For upcoming poetry happenings 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!
