The straw broom mimicking a hockey stick
Using the hard corner to help it stand
Never was it considered iconic
Not stamped nor labeled with a regal brand
Every whisk over the years had a cost
Its bright lacquered handle becoming dull
Each laboring a little straw was lost
In time making it less desirable
Now missing the touch of a human hand
Dancing hours away on many a floor
Responding to the hand’s earnest command
Seeking out what may hide in any pore
It was not difficult to be deduced
By an eager youngster it was replaced
River Study, J Laurence Hart (n.d.)
Leaf on a River
My heart as a leaf flows with the river
No port of call is currently listed
Nor stopping to be a solemn griever
River doesn’t yield, heart cannot be bided
Know not where or when the river will end
Heart was once green now a sullen yellow
Never made a choice of lover or friend
Can’t remember ever being a foe
This water journey thought to be unique
Soon found that countless millions are alike
With nothing of great importance to speak
Nor a vein of richness ever to strike
Who determines what someone’s life is worth
Should we be celebrating any birth
The Last Furrow, Henry Herbert La Thangue (1895)
Sun light ricochets off the farmer’s vest,
On this chilly and windy mid-March morn.
Snorting horses pulling plow, displaying their zest.
Blue steel share cutting deep, sod to be torn.
The soil released its pent up energy,
As billows of silk mist took to the sky,
While birds came as an invading army,
Devouring their plump prey from where they lie.
Day now done, horses released at last furrow,
For them will be a rest day tomorrow.
Rest will be needed to pull the harrow,
Soon the field be readied for corn to grow.
Life is not what you do but how you feel,
On this little farm there exists great zeal.
Allensville Hay Press Barn, Switzerland County, Gwen Gutwein (2008)
Its many boards of gray are on display.
Their opened grain bear the signs of aged pain.
From their perfect centers did move away.
Long gone are the days of its mighty reign.
Shows no mighty power to right itself,
Relying totally on my pity.
Knowing each board makes for a proper shelf,
Adding many dollars to my kitty.
Once inside I could feel its unique scent,
Wondering where all those memories went.
Where I day upon day happily spent,
Lingering has changed my early intent.
I’d better go and fetch the proper crane,
As this is where this creature shall remain.
Image manipulated by author
With bucket of water, squeegee and rag,
Performing menial chore I abhor.
For it will always make my spirits sag,
Daily cleaning of the stately glass door.
Fully covered with finger prints galore.
Strange as it be that it has no push bar,
Makes me hate this nasty door even more.
Without a key lock makes it more bizarre.
Limitless numbers who come but can’t pass.
Is this door’s only purpose to harass?
Or clearly an obstruction made of glass,
To ensure creation of an impasse?
Now clearly understanding took an axe,
Gave the mighty wall of glass forty whacks.