Breaking News… at Horicon Marsh

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“A triple-decker of brawny Canadians
are gathering at Horicon Marsh;
here in the state of Wisconsin.
This is the largest freshwater marsh which
has hosted migrating bird since 1950.”

“Let’s listen in on their conversation…”
“Harold, why is it you always need to be first?”
“I told you Hank, I’m the youngest!”
“Now wait a minute,” chimes in Hue,
“My T4 is higher than both of you together.”

“This three-sum seems a bit restless,
as Autumn’s sunlight is rising lower
in the eastern sky; on this 50 degree day.
We have trail-blazers in our presence
or maybe I should say sky-soarers.”

“Known for their famous V-formation;
there seems to be some confusion
as to who will lead this fine group.
Late breaking news… an agreement
has been made! They will rotate!”

“Though the Canadian goose is a
renowned bird at Horicon; it is
understood that more than 305 types
of fowl have been sighted in this
legendary wetlands through the years.”


Linking up at dVerse… where news is breaking!

Let it SHINE

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“This Little Light of Mine… I’m gonna let it SHINE!”

Shine through, shine out, my humble self…
shine as a guardsman firm; filled to carry on.
Shine in love languages, shine in understanding
with compassion, branches from the heart.
Shine endless, stretched from dawn till dusk;
the babe, the broken unceasingly shine and bury not.
What rotten roots, what pain and sorrow
lurks about childhood’s vacant chambers?
Endless bright light, which heed so great
its flame is lit… flickers on and on and on.
Hide not the light for love to shine along.
Not knowing who or when? Yet shine your
light strong in word or deed of love… shine on!

Children are thirsty to be accepted and loved, as brokenness abounds. Shine a light to carry them on. Poem based off a childhood song “This Little Light of Mine”; which I’ve been humming for weeks. Poetry form from the poem “Weave in my Hardy Life” by Walt Whitman, 1819 – 1892. Linking up at dVerse… where the music has just begun.

Face of Stone

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Along historic 66 they lurk;
past silver arches on two feet
cries from foothills of the Ozarks.
Towers of concrete comes alive,
as if citizens could be stacked as cards.

The face of rock, so clear, one sees
luring to unsuspected traveler near
copper glaze upon its bitter stone.
On the meat of thriving craggy tors
there is a calling, ever calling to entrap.

Trees once gathered in congregations
having been replace by the beasts
whose souls are buried in stony dirt.
Where once gigantic rocks, layer cakes,
no longer sweet in a generation gone…

Fly, fly elevated above horizon,
take wing and taste the sweetness
as foliage groans… then chants.
There Ozark’s stone faces, vagabonds
regain place, of monstrous billboards.

West of Branson

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In various nooks and crannies flocks rest;
they fly and skim cream from atop tall pines.
When blows mild with scent of cedars
spring… layers upon layers in air again.
Squint and man will fade from pastoral view;
then all remains are God’s hills of golden sun.
 
West of Branson, south of Sunday
the wild rose surely does remain;
sits next to sassafras spender.
While baritone whistle humbly moans
to awake parliament of odd old owls
just down from pristine Everett’s cliffs.
 
Stay awhile, seek throbbing heart of land
once bound in bundles under southern sun.
Man-made roller coaster from Ozark protégé;
her hills with curves of grown woman.
We duplicate… then replica from nature.
I know what is real lays west of Branson.


Past golden fields of grain, roaring Mississippi, and bald headed eagle we found renewed friendship and new. Nice meeting another dVerse blogger. This is for you Kathleen… as I link up to dverse.

Finally, Going to Branson…

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I’m finally going to Branson,
climb Ozarks, stroke the eagle,
witness transformation on canvas,
and breathe air like a new born.

Drift down the Mississippi,
join catfish perched under barge;
deem dreams of great explorers
and history across new land.

I’ll be a gypsy traveler …
a Finn, a Sawyer, or a Twain;
tie up planks and settle in a
search’n for adventure.

It’s there in rural Branson
friendship will renovate as
newer friends I embark;
a porthole to discovery .

I’m finally going to Branson,
climb Ozarks, stroke the eagle,
witness transformation on canvas,
and breathe air like a new born.

Doing some traveling over at dVerse… below you’ll find a piece written last winter, but now I’m going to Branson

Going to Branson

I’m gonna go to Branson someday
to meet a friend and share southern warmth;
let my pale skin soak in golden sunshine,
wake up early to hear the song birds melody…
eat grainy grits, ripe peaches, or meaty pecans.
Whatever they may eat in Branson?
Leave the land of frozen tundra where
trees are draped in winter scarves and
land it covered with a snowy quilt.
Critter prints dance atop frosty drifts,
smoke curls from burnish chimney tops,
and peaks of snow adorned parking lots.
I’m gonna go to Branson someday!

December 2013

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