"bales" poems
Casualty: my interest fading
Once waxing moon now seen waning
And I did concede your irksome warning
And watched as the rest played out
So let bygones be gone, fallen out by the side
Of this road, worn down, still restless, keeping straight
Eyes glinting off token little bits of hospitality
Mother nature being so inclined at times
The stress so unnerving, I hardly doubt it
But tension is eased once it comes to acceptance
And I accept in full, finding time to unwind
Winding stretch of lonely road, dotted here and there by
An occasional landmark
Or a lonely tractor pulling behind it
Iron bars, old and rusted
Found in their hold
Bales of hay or
A small little pond
With a bench beside it
Holding initials carved against the grain
With a heart surrounding
As mine beats slower
At last, the sun begins going down
And the moon grows brighter
Even in its state
And my feet move faster
Though my body is withering
I feel this separation growing
As my mind takes flight and leaves me
Behind, in the twisting twilight
And alone, I walk along
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 6:31 AM UTC
Light train chugging, working to outrun
Over exerting, pulling along your freight
Sand is running out under the diminishing sun
Fastidiously you tug on your enormous weight
Segmented equal in seven hulking proportions
Weaving between sleeping rocky giants
Assertion in your drive gifted from the high heavens
Borne of light your cargo load of tenants
Silver blurred rays glinting back as reply
As you power your way through
Defying seconds, before the last rays should die
Against odds, delivering what is due
Questing to alleviate my inflicted darkness
Spear of brilliance slicing through my mind
Illuminating the farthest and tiniest of crevices
Nook and crannies that willed me blind
Careful manoeuvring to keep your balance
Through scenic views fraught with treachery
Furiously working to keep your cadence
Hopeful of unloading the load you carry
What lies dormant in that cargo of yours?
What sleeps easy within those boxcars?
What stokes the fire to diligently run your course?
What promises you bear, travelling near and far?
Bales of hope and crates of strength
Supplies of kindness and self-worth
Reside within your immense length
Intact and lay quiet within your formidable girth
Reliant on the light that fuels and feeds
Your axles seem tireless guiding forth those wheels
Thundering over land with the power of a thousand steeds
Armed to your teeth with alloys and steels
Expelling grit and dirt as you pummelled across
Grey-white fumes, shoot up to the sky
Flag flogged by wind, billow and toss
Blaring your whistle as you race on by
Propelling forward, horizon up ahead
There it is...in all its tenebrous glory
Darkened locomotive seething mad with dread
Brace for the clash and the loads the two carry
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
(from “A Love Song” by William Carlos Williams)
<•>
familiar that apple google and amazon
have me under 24 hour surveillance
e-specially now
as I am in their
geosphere of influence
but sending me a love poem of WCWs that isolates my locale, my intended inebriation status,
and is addressed to me personally (“you”),
that’s just creepy
so charged am I, obligated to oblige,
to counter-compose a love song of mine own,
under the pinot “influence,”
(in a manner of speaking)
which a love taught me to love
what if,
a new love song ecrit,
to an old and loverly land,
a woman-land designed to be desired,
no difference -
kissing a new girl first time,
a wet and unforgettable
compote
when falling
on the neck of your one beloved anew renewed
now I tremble-tread
for the line of great predecessors,
“the land lover scribes”
skilled in natures homaging,
is like a line out the door,
around the corner as if
a new flavor ice cream
has just been isolated and mined and I...
<•>
*I,
but a novitiate
in a far away, wild untamed world
where my nature taken by her nature
cannot deny paying my just due:
selvage
late middle English, from self + edge
how perfect!
“an edge,
woven on a fabric during manufacture,
intended to prevent unraveling”
the pacific coast air
the irregular shoreline - expanding/receding,
god’s own forestry reserve,
the cascades, a goal on the horizon,
country roads where ancient wheat stalks grow wild
all a tonic intermingled, an alcohol to
imbibe through mouth nostrils eyes and skin
all will be my own selvage!
preventing the eastern unraveling disease,
a nearly incurable permafrost low grade
kate spaded infection,
brought along with me for decades,
my loon June companion, now stalling out,
lost from my happy head
a vineyard on every corner,
marijuana growing next door,
rivers that change like children growing up and down,
cheek to jowled property line
live the berries and the hazelnut groves,
god’s hay bales wrapped in plastic
like marshmallows dotting the landscape*
all daring you to say
I could
love
it here
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
Sanctuary is here; hiding in plain sight
Bedimmed beings step into the light
Stumble upon you may; hear us you might
All is welcome; no guard dogs that bite
Step inside, matters not armed or unarmed
Come as you are; steady or alarmed
Sip and drink from our collective fountains
Rest your eyes on our self painted mountains
Come on close and meet us all
Under shady trees or beyond the knoll
Some of us don masks or hide behind names
Some come naked but we're all one and the same
See our lives, spun from heavy layered bales
Woven intricate telling fantastic tales
Weavings we let fly, to catch each other's fables and stories
We admire them for what they are and the seed each carries
Be aware... Should you not understand
We may bear similar signatures but wear different brands
We, the people, trade in euphemisms
Broken sentences and long forgotten idioms
We are weavers, dreamers and scribes
Pouring here the outside world we imbibe
We are unguarded hearts speaking in metaphoric tongues
We provide safe haven for bruised souls with punctured lungs
So welcome traveler, shed your load
You might like it here in our coveted abode
Revel in the monochromatic sights you see
Where freedom of thought is revered in this here Sanctuary...
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
THAT crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, "O sea-starved, hungry sea.'
5.9k
I hear a wind whispering from the hills
It comes down tickling the woodland rills
From far is heard the frightened murmur of leaves
As it pounces on them like wayside thieves
It shakes the branches of flowering trees
And their weak petals drop like confetti in the breeze
Over hills and trees it loves to skip and stray
Always in motion, never inclined to stay
It moves unhampered over streams and field
With no resistance to its might, they simply yield
Like a child, it romps over the sloppy meadows
In its gentle touch, dances the gleeful flowers
It skillfully pleats the blue chiffon of the ocean
Sometimes curling waves in electric motion
Over the sea it runs puffing up the sails
And over the sky heaping clouds in bales
Sometimes it steals furtively like a lover
And disappears kissing our cheeks under cover
Often it comes capering with a lilt and a swing
We feel delighted when we hear its merry song
Like a nomad, the wind roams from place to place,
Hiding its mysterious presence from our glance
From an unknown hide out it comes like a spirit
But always making us feel its vigorous might!
At times it gains force and roars like a beast
Felling trees and wreaking havoc with its twist
In rampage, it sweeps the sea and the ground
Triggering sparks of fear and horror all around
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 9:43 AM UTC
The stink of fish on earthen streets
A hot wind blows from ochre hills
Black faces shine with brilliant teeth
Street market ***** doth cure all ills.
Redness in her plaited hair
Rhythm in her steady tread
A harmony of balance, she carries
Water jars on her head.
A market girl is singing
As she sits among bananas
The drama in her music
Is as dusty as the street,
It fills the air with magic
As it lilts above street chatter
In the atmosphere of Africa
Where new and ancient meet.
The goat boy herds his docile flock
Through camel trains and bales
The steamer tethered at the dock
Announces that she sails
With billowed steam and mournful wail
It echoes through the town
And the planter and his agent
Bargain with a harried frown.
The bleating of the goat herd
And the stench of fish and dung
Is as ordinary as Africa
In the searing mid day sun.
Zanzibar is spices, Zanzibar is Stone.
Club Zanzibar is whiskey on the rocks
Consumed alone
Or shared upon the balcony
In the shadow of a palm
With the turquoise Indian ocean
Reaching out beyond the arm.
Do you see the dhows are sailing?
Do you see the fishing nets?
Do you hear the oarsmen chanting?
Did you see black muscle flex?
Have you watched the dripping sweat
Cascade on alabaster brow?
Have you inhaled the scent of Africa
And allowed it to allow?
Colobus monkeys in the treetops
Narrow lanes in the bazaar
Dull white walls adorn stone buildings
And the rupee is by far
The favorite tenure of the Island
Since the days when slaves were sold
By Arab camel caravaners
Who traded coin for young black gold.
East and west collide in concert
Africa and Asia blend
The Sultan's mix of race and spice
In Zanzibar, beyond lands end.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
3rd June 2008
Oct 13, 2009
Oct 13, 2009 at 11:06 PM UTC
I know I didn't treat a lot you right
I'm a closed book with a big bad padlock on it
maybe you could say trust issues
but **** it I love you guys
no ****
(maybe a little)
because no matter where or how I have been
I have had some great people there for me
to keep me walking along that tight rope
without the fear of a body full of broken bones
We climbed hay bales in Drax
and ran away from the farmer in his combine harvester
we let everybody's tires down
and we went to the club and stayed until closing time
until after there were no taxis left
walking four miles home at four in the morning
we had a laugh mate
And to my Yankee friends
The rest of the world may hate you
but I don't
(much)
video games all night
ding **** ditch
homecoming and prom
and smoking cigarettes behind best buy
whole days spent on a couch laughing harder than we were high
the bowl we bought together
aptly named Willem Defoe
Marathon movie nights
post virginity loss high fives
telling me you were proud of me
for how I handled my parents' almost divorce
And I'm a cynical, ******* introvert
and at times I never want to see a human being ever again
but when that feeling fades
you guys are the first people I text
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
.
Fazzy moams on wivvel crusts
carry jazms on flocked pavs.
Rinkulled witty over sark
unburcoaled plinks of bloo.
Serry nark are they cronking
and fillipas grapples in kloque.
Verx on spappled gurns are they
torting through gattering weems.
Fernol wend the schism klone
Glolling fast in clutty pawk.
Scenty flox drozzle by teas
Nisting on cowt rinnalled dawn.
Yurish casts of nash pigoon
stoz over hinty-hanty bynum.
When in merdeen lemp quimsy
dilly noff flyx and wempwarble.
For loofin under korots mingle
At the imtem tong fallop.
Shoozy bales of cremp deflate
and gwample rooks the plisties.
©Pagan Paul (22/06/16)
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
Take me to a place where I can be with you.
A place where the ocean meets the sky
And the sunset on the horizon is painted by God's best artisans.
Take me to a place where you'd hold my hand
In a deep evergreen forest,
Lush with thick foliage and dewy from rain.
Take me to a place where I can taste the sweetest fruits on your lips,
Where my senses are overjoyed by a multitude of flavours,
Each one reminding me of you.
Take me to a place,
A field,
The moon and stars shining
And a night as clear as mountain waters.
Take me to that field,
Where the grass grew tall
And hay bales were laid alongside us.
Where the ground was mostly dry
But still damp,
Where regardless, we laid down among the carrot lace
And you were beneath me,
My very definition of beauty.
The moon in your stormy-blue eyes
And a smile playing at your lips
When suddenly,
Your smile disappeared and you looked right at me,
Lips parted.
Instinct took me,
And although inexperienced,
We worked together like oiled machines
With all our gears functioning.
It was the first and the last time,
Coldest and hottest.
It was a raging inferno
And an arctic storm.
I felt like I was stolen of breath
But given new air.
You filled my lungs and intoxicated me,
But I could have never been more sober.
Take me to that place again.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC
Under sizzling and bleeping
The time runs nigh
Between heaven and hell
In a room, too bright
Runs a body deadly circles
Captured in pipes
While the fellowship falls silent
As the headman decides
To live and let die
Slow, but soon, the dying noise
Leaves a weakly beating heart
Fighting it's own pointless war
No men alive shall ever thwart
And lifes children turn quiet
As they face the final loss
The fact they can´t deny
They live and let die
Now, the silence bales and centers
Around the fallen prey
Slowly, death spreads, like a cancer
Drives the living far away
Until only ease is lagging
In the minds that still stand by
Relief about the outcome
To live and let die
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 3:23 PM UTC
266
This—is the land—the Sunset washes—
These—are the Banks of the Yellow Sea—
Where it rose—or whither it rushes—
These—are the Western Mystery!
Night after Night
Her purple traffic
Strews the landing with Opal Bales—
Merchantmen—poise upon Horizons—
Dip—and vanish like Orioles!
2.6k
In 1814 we took a little trip
Along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississipp'
We took a little bacon and we took a little beans
And we caught the ****** British in the town of New Orleans
We fired our guns and the British kept a coming
There wasn't nigh as many as there was a while ago
We fired once more and they began to running
Down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico
We looked down the river and we seen the British come
And there must have been a hundred of them beating on the drums
They stepped so high and they made their bugles ring
We stood behind our cotton bales and didn't say a thing
Old Hickory said we could take 'em by suprise
If we didn't fire a musket 'til we looked 'em in the eyes
We held our fire 'til we seen their faces well
We opened up our squirrel guns and really gave 'em
Well they ran through the briars and they ran through the brambles
And they ran through the bushes where the rabbits couldn't go
They ran so fast the hounds couldn't catch 'em
On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico
We fired our cannon 'til the barrel melted down
Then we grabbed an alligator and we fought another round
We filled his head with cannonballs and powdered his behind
And when we touched the powder off the gator lost his mind
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker,
he could sell one hundred wet-down bales
of that white stuff. He could clock the miles and the sales
and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter
had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word
had been tried over and over, at any rate,
on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered
over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef:
a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war!
How suddenly gauche I was
with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home
my father was in love with maps
while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and ****
Except when he hid
in his bedroom on a three-day drunk,
he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk,
his matched luggage
and pocketed a confirmed reservation,
his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk
each night with no place to go,
opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo,
the whole U.S.,
its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones,
through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road,
his heart pushed from neck to back,
his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband,
as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool:
boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull
to the thread
and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino,
a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling,
Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame,
your sample cases branded with my father's name,
your itinerary open,
its tolls ticking and greedy,
its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.
2.3k
Down to the deep south
I trudge
down through the snow
with the pink,
pink clouds
scattering their
effervescence
over spangled, darkened
farms and hay bales.
Across early orange
styles and frosted
footprints, into
fielded horizons.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
The scarecrow, solitary in the field
Tatty coat, all astray
Looks out over all his land
If he could talk, what would he say.
Summer,autumn, winter too
Wind and rain, clouds of grey
He never flinches from his post
If he could see, what would he say
Children play amoungst the crops
Neatly parcelled bales of hay
Days grow shorter, crisper, cooler
If he could hear, what would he say
Invisable tears and a broken heart
His lonely vigil every day
Timeless days and empty nights
If he could walk, would he walk away.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:23 AM UTC
He likes to play pretend
making sense of the make believe
believing all the words
which worked their way
through his windows
he climbs to the top of hay bales
to tumble towards the earth
a heap of laughter
running away from the farmers
perched high atop their tractors
like a tractor beam
he is drawn towards
the endless day dreams
of rainy Mondays
behind classroom windows
but recess is over now
and the bar is open
all night
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
We used to play guns with sticks
and we all knew how to die convincingly
with playing cards in our spokes
we summit hills atop motorcycles
ratatatatatattt
we walked through woods
explorers and pioneers
waiting for dinner or supper or bedtime
when summer was another world entirely
and the stains on our clothes
told stories
and not worries
We would carve sticks into spears
with knives our mothers did not know we had
today we hunt pheasant
we never did catch one
but we made dens deep in the woods
and climbed trees until we didn’t know how to get down
the hay bales stacked four stories high
in the farmer’s field
was a jungle gym
and when the farmer chased us away
in his combine harvester
we were playing Jurassic Park
back when girls were silly, annoying little things
that none of us were quite sure why we liked
and fights were forgotten within the hour
we had better things to laugh at
a marble composition book filled with ****** raps
and graffiti designs
we would take stones and make them into entire planets
but before long
our shadows caught up with us
a stick was just a stick
a bike just a way to beat the heat
and we were all too aware
of the special effects
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Tears of the widower, when he sees
A late-lost form that sleep reveals,
And moves his doubtful arms, and feels
Her place is empty, fall like these;
Which weep a loss for ever new,
A void where heart on heart reposed;
And, where warm hands have prest and closed,
Silence, till I be silent too.
Which weeps the comrade of my choice,
An awful thought, a life removed,
The human-hearted man I loved,
A Spirit, not a breathing voice.
Come Time, and teach me, many years,
I do not suffer in a dream;
For now so strange do these things seem,
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears;
My fancies time to rise on wing,
And glance about the approaching sails,
As tho' they brought but merchants' bales,
And not the burthen that they bring.
1.4k
Despite the fact
that other local kids
were in the hay barn playing
Jane stood at the barn doors
looking in apprehensively
and you stood beside her
waiting for her to move in
or say something
but she just stood looking in
are we allowed in to play?
she asked
sure as long as we don’t
cause damage to the hay bales
you replied
and she sniffed the air
and moved in
and looked around
the huge barn
with its semi dark
and smells of hay
and captured sun
and warmth
the other kids played
but took no notice
of Jane or you
as you entered
closed the doors
and moved around
the hay strewn floor
haven’t you been
in a hay barn before?
you asked looking
at her bright summer dress
and white socks and sandals
yes years ago
she said
as she paused
at the edge
of the nearest hay bale
and sat down
and you sat beside her
in the semi dark
with sunlight making
small light through cracks
and holes in the walls
I don’t like mice and rats
she said
and I saw one once
in another barn
and it frightened me
you sat in silence
for a few moments
taking in the air and smells
and then the other kids
ran off out side
into the sunlight
talking of playing
down by the pond
and catching things
you sat still
until their voices died off
and then she said
why have you
brought me in here?
you looked at her eyes
in the dull light
and her lips moving
with their small speech
to be alone with you
without prying eyes
you said
oh I see
she replied
and stood up
and climbed upwards
on the hay bales
with you following
behind her
seeing her sway
as she moved
her hands pulling
her upwards
her legs taking each step
onto a hay bale carefully
then having reach
high up in the barn
she sat down
and you sat beside her
if my father saw me here
he’d think things
Jane said
and she looked at you
with her large eyes
what things? you asked
watching her lay back
with her hands
behind her head
I don’t know
he never said
she muttered
as she lay there
she lifted a leg
and her dress
slipped downwards
revealing a glimpse
of naked thigh
that’s parents for you
you uttered
never saying
what they think
or saying things
but don't explain
you lay down
beside her
on the hay
as outside the barn
the soft sound
of pitter patter
on the roof
of sudden rain.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:39 AM UTC
Cattle
In the photo
she’s striding across the yard
following Blossom and her procession of cows,
from the stack yard to the Home Field
twice a day
after we fed them from bales of hay
untied and thrown in chunks to the manger.
They wheeze and munch,
shuffle and ****
never to be hurried,
their patience exemplary.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
How can a season cycle in such juxtaposition? The feelings of grandeur sputter to an end, summer closes. The promise of beloved holidays sparks the last bit of life to flame. Huddling into coat collars and gloved pockets we challenge the winds to bite back. Orchards, hay bales, ghosts and goblins. I see my benevolent grandfather raking and re-raking mountains of dry leaves as my brother and I delight in the destruction -I miss him. The days become shorter, we draw closer, closer to someone. I recall so strongly a song by the Get Up Kids that takes me back to the days of trick or treat and homecoming queens. That was lifetimes ago. I’ve broken and healed so many times my heart must look like scar tissue. Jaded. We use to say, “as long as there’s Christmas”. I think this year I’ll ask St. Nick to skip my house. This fireplace has been sealed with hard red brick and wet mortar. None of that matters, really. She needs me, needs me to be strong, to catch her, as if I am the one to fix it. I don’t know how-I never have. I’ve done this all before. This time, I wish you’d catch me.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 5:04 PM UTC
I bounce around from town to town
Never really laying roots
My world is in my duffle
With a second pair of boots
I muddle through with what I have
I'm always on the road
With my thoughts, and few possessions
That's me, always on the go
I do not have a fixed address
My thumb, it leads the way
I've woken up in farmers fields
I've slept near bales of hay
My thumb, it is my compass
I don't reside too long
I move around at random
I'm a lyric with no song
I've slept beneath a starlit sky
Woken up in feather beds
I don't know where I'll be each day
Or where I'll lay my head
I've lived down by the train tracks
Woken up as they go by
I've cavorted with a scarecrow
As the birds still filled the sky
I do not have a fixed address
My thumb, it leads the way
I've woken up in farmers fields
I've slept near bales of hay
My thumb, it is my compass
I don't reside too long
I move around at random
I'm a lyric with no song
I do not like to stick around
To linger, that's not me
When I start to getting comfortable
It's time to leave, be free
I have no one that I'm close to
For to leave would cause them pain
The world is there to travel
And, well....now, I'm off again...
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
hay came in rectangular bales
when I was younger, we used
to stack them and make forts
shooting imaginary indians or vc
depending on the weather.
sunny days we killed indians
rainy days were for killing vc.
the war ended and there were no vc
I grew to respect the indians
to learn their history, my history
watching the news, seeing
white men killing indians again
at a place called wounded knee
once again-wounded knee, dad said.
nowdays hay comes in round bales
the vc are our friends, and the indians
aren't worth shooting anymore.
r ~ 7/2/14
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
It was my first Cathedral,
Cavernous and nearly silent.
Dark enough that I closed,
My eyes giving them time
To adjust to the depths,
Of it's shadowed blackness.
Languid slanting rays
Of penetrating sunshine,
Alive with moving mists,
Of floating, rotating dust,
The only source of light.
The bittersweet scents,
Of venerable age mixed,
With fodder and animal waste,
Not at all unpleasant to sniff.
Leather tack hung on walls,
Awaiting the call to work.
Long delayed, and overlooked,
Replaced by mechanical steeds,
Wheels and blades of steel.
Neatly festooned wall hooks
Displaying wooden handled
Hard-worn steel hand tools,
Flecked with rust, chipped by use.
The choir was in the rafters,
Pigeons’ and Doves
Cooing Heavenly Hymns.
Occasionally the murmur of,
Feathers flapping on high,
Like the sounds,
Of Angels wings.
I climbed the ladder,
Into the Loft up high,
Followed by a friendly,
Old one eyed Barn Cat,
I recall his name was Cy.
Old Cy who knew,
All the good places,
To explore and secretly hide.
And too, where tasty rodents
Were found in heavenly,
bountiful supply.
That lofty perch,
Among the penetrating
slanting rays of sunlight
Inspired a fathomless hush
of contemplation and inner bliss,
I'd never known before, or since.
We sat silent for many minutes,
In a state of transfixed repose,
Old Cy and I, speaking not a word.
We crawled among stacked bales,
Of fragrant fresh cut hay,
Like a lofty Fortress built for us,
Playing and imagining,
Endless flights of fantasy,
Long into the eve of day.
Yes, my Grandfather’s
Old wooden Barn,
Was indeed a magical,
Reverent and sacred place,
As any formal denominational
house, of any faith can be.
If ever, I truly felt,
The presence of Holy Grace
Surely it was within,
That impressionable
all inspiring place.
Even fleeing memories
of a long ago small boy,
Have not diminished,
That big Cathedral's
Prevailing, exalted space.
Spiritually overseen by,
An old, feline, one-eyed
clergyman named Cy.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC