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

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.

❋ ❋ ❋

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

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

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

You sit with blood

On your hands and

Tell me the neighbor

Is the bad man

Your pointed lips

A slick steel band

That wraps your face

And cuts demands

Expressionless you

Hide your lies

And you tell me

They’re bad guys

The thought of truth

Is your tongue tied

A guilty heart

In a necktie

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

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

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.

ROLLING

The Sounds

INSIDE

Not Yours

Not Mine

NEVER

Speaking

Always

Record

Keeping

SILENT

Ticking

Cuing

Action

Scripting

Mime of

VOICES

MOVING

#InnerSound