Down at the Farm
Down at the Farm
Susan's Grannie Maude was all alone out at the farm. Grandpa Herman had passed away at the age of one hundred three. Susan and her only daughter Carla drove out to stay with Grannie Maude for the three no school months. Susan and Tom, father to Carla had finalized their divorce. He was quite generous because the woman he was to marry after the divorce told him to make it final. Susan thought it humorous and quite laughable that he did what Janake told him to do. Susan heard that when Carla was to visit her father Janake would get a nanny to take care of the “Brat Kid” to keep her out of their way. Susan thought Tom deserved that nasty uncouth woman!
Arriving at the Farm Grannie was there on the porch waiting for them. A little small talk then inside to have refreshments. Old Harold, Grannies hired hand, said he would bring the bags inside. Entering the big living room there was a large painting hanging on the wall. A little blonde pig tailed girl standing on a stool. Pail in hand watering three horses. Another pail of apples sat outside on the ground below the barn window. Two cats were in the picture next to an old milk can.
"Ma Ma is that you when you were little?" Asked Carla.
"Yes sweet Carla that was your Ma Ma when she was about your age. She loved the horses and all the other animals down here at the Farm.. Your great Grandpa Herman painted that picture " said Grannie Maude.
"Nutmeg, Charlie and Buddy were always my favorite horses. I was not allowed to open the barn door unless Grandpa Herman was at home. The horses would get out and we kids and Grandma never would have caught them. I used to carry a half pale of water over to them every warm day. Standing on the three leg milking stool I lifted that pale up to each horse quenching their thirst." reminisced Susan.
"Why were there only three legs on the stool?" Questioned Carla.
" The ground is uneven out here. When one was busy milking the cows or goats the stool could shift then all the milk would spill. The three legs make it steady." said Susan.
"If the milk spilled would the kitties lick it up?" Asked Carla.
"Creamy would but Poppy would run away." said Grandma. A cat that looked like Creamy came running into the house when Harold opened the door. His hands were full of suitcases.
"Great Grannie is this Creamy in the picture?" asked an excited Carla.
" This Cream would be the Great Granddaughter to the Creamy in the painting." laughed Grannie.
"The same as you and I." said Carla hugging Great Grannie .
Carla and Susan stayed in the bedroom across the hall from Grannie Maude.
“Grannie the bedroom looks the same as it did when I used to stay here except for another twin bed. The extra bed even has the same spread as the original.
“Where did you find two the same?” asked Susan.
“I found it at a tag sale for four bits a year or so ago. I could not pass it up?” said Grannie.
“What does four bits mean?” asked a curious Carla.
“Fifty cents.” answered Harold. Carla looked confused.
“Pa Pa now you have confused the young lady.” laughed Ray.
“You must be Carla. My name is Ray. Harold is my Pa Pa. I will tell you what a teacher would say to his students. In the United States, the bit is equal to one eighth of a dollar or 12 1⁄2 cents. In the U.S., the "bit" as a designation for money dates from the colonial period. Back when the most common unit of currency used was the Spanish dollar. Also known as "piece of eight", which was worth 8 Spanish silver reales.
Carla still looked confused. Grannie laughed and told her four bits meant fifty cents or two quarters.
She then introduced Ray to Susan and Carla.
Ray lived with his father Harold across the street. He indeed was a school teacher. He had no children. Ray was a widower having lost his wife five years ago in a traffic accident. Grannie Maude asked them to come over that evening because she was making fried chicken with all the trimmings.
Carla said “That is my favorite Grannie food. Ma Ma makes it for dinner when we miss you. We love you Grannie. ”
©Julia A Knaake
Butterfly Soul❋
Once you happen upon poetry that whispers to your soul
and throbs in your heart
you'll be entranced.
A soul is hard to move
but poetry is a song
that only the soul hears;
a melody
only the heart can sing.
everyone's souls dance
to different beats,
some fast,
some slow,
turtles
and
tigers,
butterflies
and
grasshoppers.
And when a poem
takes the form
of a butterfly,
it throbs a butterfly soul,
and tiger form,
a tiger soul.
a poem that flits like fire,
or dances like wind
may escape
your grasp,
but just keep hunting
and you'll pounce
on poetry
that throbs
your soul,
whether you're
a dragon
or a butterfly.
❋ ❋ ❋
Autumn Leaves
I smile up
At the vibrant trees
And it seems like
They're smiling back at me
The wind flits about
And teases my hair
I'm so happy
I leave behind my cares
I close my eyes
So I can hear
Those autumn sounds
Because autumn is finally here
I feel something
Brush my head
I open my eyes
And amongst the orange and reds
A yellow leaf like the sun
Shines bright
And smiles up at me
With its vibrant light
And even though
Autumn has just begun today
I know I'll be sad
When the autumn leaves go away
And winter comes and autumn leaves
So You Don’t Like Poetry?!
And what should I tell you?
Should I ramble my tongue,
Or my accent will frighten you?
Let me sing you a little song,
If you didn’t like it! Well, screw you.
Please don’t kill me, I’m too young!
Thank you.
-Life is poetry, and we’re dancing on its rhythm-
#Sarcasm #Poetry #Philosophy
Falling Into Winter
Crisp apple breeze
In a pumpkin spice sun
Gold medal leaves
Sparkle through rust
The first of the freeze
Brown on the mums
Now naked trees
Bare branches above
Red sunsets tease
Before the grey comes
The dropping degrees
Starting to numb
The ground and the bees
Silence the hum
As the earth goes to sleep
For the cold winter months
Grievance
already
moments counted down
tick by turned out tock
mantle clock stands near
to silence
tried again
this day; waking full
fledged, Eden bound, by
sound of cradled rock
of ages
spent on stones
lodged like pendant gems
in streams well rippled;
sorrow stippled dead
end drowning
looking back
or forward, grasping
threads once woven, tied
or cloven, nature
wills its end
Flecks of Sawdust
I keep forgetting to forget about you
your love tore my whole heart out
leaving it ground into flecks of sawdust
leavings strewn on the ground of my life.
I’m bleeding inside learning to survive
without your love and passion warming me
encircling me with what once was.
I tried to replace you but the new man
in my life looks like a clone of you
walks like you, talks like you, reminds me of you
raising the fear that he’ll soon be your twin.
How could you leave me, waking me up
from our warm bed to say goodbye as
you slung you suitcase over your shoulders
slammed the door and left me in shreds?
Tramping on to new horizons, you hike away
from me leaving my painful proclamation
“The last letters of lonesome spells me.”
#challenge @PainOfBeingForgotten #BleedingInside
Fated fools & stolen jewels
Horses
That don't eat,
Die.
People
Who don't love,
Cry.
Desperate faces,
in disparate places,
Hiding the reasons they lie.
Flowers
In lifeless soil
Wilt.
Scottish men
Proudly wear
Kilts.
Ancient-aged whiskey,
Lambs acting frisky,
In Castles made without guilt.
Writers
Spill ink, like it's
Blood.
Pigs
Flop around in the
Mud.
End up as bacon,
In places like Macon,
Washed down with bottles of Bud.
