"hunker" poems
a home, above all else,
is familiar.
it does not have to be comfortable,
nor does it have to be full.
a home is probably a favorite place to be,
or maybe it houses some of the cruelest memories.
I like homes where I can drive quick and still avoid each upcoming pothole--
ones where old neighbors and new couples hunker down for their respectful chapters of life.
I like homes where I can walk around each obstacle in the kitchen with my eyes shut tight and only bang my shins a little bit.
a home is a sense, an intuition.
it is a place where you can dance while no one is watching.
you can fling your tears and regret at the walls and let them absorb your true feelings,
hushing you with their pillows and soft sounds and views.
a home is a home anywhere you choose it to be,
but above all else,
a home is familiar,
and that is a home to me.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
The desert is a killer
An unforgiving foe
Be careful how you handle her
Take things very slow
If you are lost in her confines
Be careful where you go
It is best to hunker down
If you're in the know
Your enemy is water loss
Long sleeves are a must
Head cover is primary
A wide brim you can trust
Cover every inch of skin
Cover up your mouth
Do not expend your energy
Go north instead of south
North of cliffs you hide from sun
It's the sun that kills
Stay where you are... IMPORTANT!
Unless you have good skills
You can find water sometimes
By following the birds
Deer and other animals
This is what I've heard
Pile stones in cairns
Make arrows from sticks
Showing your direction
So rescuers find it
Always move at night
The temperature will plummet
Sometimes it gets very cold
And people do die from it
It is best to wear light clothing
Conserve body water, dont sweat much
The desert rats drink often
But do not eat their lunch
It is best not to eat it all
Or eat cactus fruit and such
It contains good water
But don't eat a lot. Don't munch.
water, *Water, WATER!*
Drink this at all costs!
Find shelter from the sun
If you do get lost
Going to the high ground
So you can see the land
Finding habitation
Of folks living in sand
Carry maps when possible
Carry Bowie knives
If you wear thick glasses
A fire could save lives!
Make a fire in the desert
Create light and smoke
Magnify the burning sun
With the glasses of which I spoke
Hand sanitizer can be a help
In starting any flame
Put lots of stuff creating smoke
Getting helps the game!
But stay out of the fire's heat
Unless you're very cold
Always conserve water
It is liquid gold!
Carry a Camelbak
A backpack with a tube
To drink the water easily
These are often used
Travel light! Important!
Conserve your energy
So you don't lose water
Analyze your ***
If it is light like lemonade
You're probably ok
If it's very dark
You'll need water that day
Keep your head, don't panic
It's best to keep your cool
You can think! You have a mind!
These tips are simply tools
There are other tips
To Google in your strife
Carrying a cell phone
Could just save your life!
SoulSurvivor
(C) 9/18/2016
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
I remember my old Grampa
And the way he used to look
He had so many stories
He was much better than a book
I remember on our visits
While the folks would head outside
Gramps would get us grandkids
And take us for a story ride
He'd hitch up the hay wagon
We'd get up and off we'd go
Then gramps would start to talking
And so began the show
He'd tell us all the stories
Of our folks when they were young
Some he had to censor,
And sometimes bite his tongue
Now, Grandpa told the stories
Whether we were in or out
And we'd all sit and listen
To what they were all about
When we'd gather by the fire
He'd pull up his rocking chair
He'd have his pipe and all us grandkids
And his dog, Whiskey, always there
We'd all sit in front of Grandpa
We'd want to take in every word
And he would speak up louder
To make sure that we heard
He'd tell us tales of Cowboys
Of bank robbers and the trail
Of how the west became the west
And how his horse once lost his tail
The folks would gather round too
When it was almost time to go
But, Grandpa, being Grandpa
Wasn't set to end the show
See, he'd told the tales forever
To our folks and all their friends
You could tell that some were truthful
And in some the truth....well....bends
The older ones among us
Knew deep down that most were fake
But, to see old Grandpa work the room
Man, that man just took the cake
We'd get together monthly
All us kids stayed close to home
We weren't like lots of others
Who had that built in urge to roam
The stories, we'd learn later
Were mostly from TV
He'd be talking of those cowboys
And of how things used to be
A few years back we lost him
His dog had up and died
Gramps old heart was broken
He couldn't take it, though he tried
My brother tells the stories,
Not as good as Gramps at rhyme
But, the kids all hunker round him
I'm sure that he'll be good in time
We still go on the hayrides
Tell ghost stories now instead
To all us grown up grandkids
We still hear grandpa in our head
Each month we get together
There's near a hundred now in all
The kids go with my brother
And he tells tales ten feet tall
The stories are consistent
Of old cowboys and the west
I can close my eyes and listen
And still like Grandpa's versions best
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 11:47 PM UTC
For all the lady poets
whose songs are sung
who dance on fire
when the night comes
who are willing to
go to the heart of the matter,
whose desires erupt
behind the smile
who hold secrets
and shadows,
who can turn you
into slick wet stone
with one word,
one look
one touch
one tap on the shoulder.
Who hold you between
their finger tips
roll you into a
tightening knot of
desire and fear and apprehension
and
bring home your reality
far too clear.
For all the lady poets
who know you too well
who know that shell
who can crack you
in a moment
and never look back
or
love you into life
or
leave you child like
stammering and wondering.
For all the lady poets
who love you too well
who are with you
for the moment,
know your
heaven and hell
and
open their words on these pages
a sweet treat
a sweet longing
a sweet surrender
the lady poets
can spin you
twist you
and
put you back on top.
The lady poets
hold the keys
have the words,
vast universes inside,
hold on
it's an exquisite ride
better buckle up
hunker down
hold on tight
without the lady poets
I'd never make it through the night.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Jy het die son gaan haal
Toe dit nag was.
Oor die horison gedraf
En hom terug gesmokkel in jou tas.
Jy het hom net hier , skuins
Bo ons koppe gehang.
Sodat ek jou altyd kon sien
En nooit moes verlang.
Maar die maan het my bygebly
Haar geduldig in my skadu toegevou
-N fluisterstem in my oor
"Kyk, hy mors met jou"
Jy het die son gaan vang
Toe dit nag was
En in sy lig
Sien ek toe , wie jy eintlik was.
Jy het die son vir my gaan haal
En gedink as jy loop
Ek in sy skerp lig sal verdwaal?
Maar toe jy gaan toe hunker die maan
Sy het my trane weg gevee
En ek het saam met haar gegaan.
Gister sien ek jy kom aangedraf
En jy sit die son in jou koffer.
Toe jy weer oor die horison verdwyn
Lag ek en die maan, oor jou nuutste slagoffer.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 1:05 AM UTC
Dorslip en droogkeel huig ek
in die donker van terg gees middernag
vir die soet nektar name
waarna hierdie barslip hunker.
Skimletters vorm elke klinker
net so ryk soos 'n paar gisters terug.
Pype weerhou om die klank deur te laat,
wat finaal n skerwestorting bring.
Is ek aan n groter soeke om woorde te smee-
wat getuig van verlange en ander leed
,of aan jou invloed die pryseer te gee.
**** jy in heimwee ook dan aan my,
dit is al wat ek wil weet
of het jy ten einde my liefde by n ander gaan kry?
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
“The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
“But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
(should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’),
and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains.”
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
Rolling hills and sprawling trees
Easily lost in expanses of green
We lose all our troubles, worries and cares
Sometimes ourselves in the frost-bitten air
The smoke from the fire rises and curls
The quick flowing stream tumbles and swirls.
The tent in the meadow, my humble abode
Like these old mountains, my problems erode
The sun sprints west as nighttime steals in
I hunker down to escape the cold wind
The fire and I swap stories and smokes
He tells me the stories of long bygone folks
When the cold is too much, I call it quits
I take a quick pull and crawl in my tent
Out here I can't feel the weight of the world
My shoulders are free, my mind is restored.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
want my fyn porselein is nou skerwe op die vloer
als wat goed is in die lewe;
saam met die suur melk uitgemoer
al my heuningtee en moerkoffie staan nietig in my kas
, ek hunker na n glasie brandewyn
om die herrinneringe mee weg te was.
Want Vader al val 'n duisend aan my sy
en tien duisend hier langs my
vlieg Eros se pyle net die heeltyd verby.
Ek is moeg vir alleen wees
moeg vir bang wees
vir koue voete
koue hande en
'n hart wat altyd koud sal wees.
waars die liefde en genade
waarvan ons in ******
en die Bybel lees.
Waars my stukkie hemel.
Waars my engelkoor.
Is dit ook tussen my suur melk...
of het ek dit deur bottervingers verloor?
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
Dark gray walls reflections
Feeling Make Me Handsome
The unnamed city rocked by boredom
Thou dreamed of being dazzled
More than much hundred
If the stars will serve as shelter
For Your Love I Will Be The Sun Hunker
The Way I love You Make me Stronger
The day we bows
For Love Not Sorrows
The night posing with elegance
Shining light From your Face
Your eyes open up carefree
Take my hand We are Free
You'd like that one again
Traveling In Our World To Cross The Line.
So come, oh yes come.
Oh come I Will Take You With me
Dancing on the moon
Wander through the dunes
Dancing on the moon.
Escape for a moment
The breath of torment
Smile again,
Perfume pleasures
Forget your tears, your sorrows
keep The Words
I know the way.
It's Love Today.
Dancing on the moon
Wander through the dunes
Author / Aladdin
FB / Aladdin Aures
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 5:52 AM UTC
Do dust bunnies have consciousness?
Does instinct guide them?
Instructing their best chance of survival
Is to hunker down,
Go out of sight,
Hide under a piece of furniture?
Will they survive & thrive in Dust Land,
Dust Land Planet Earth
Where cat hair is
“A sizeable constituency,”
So would say some latter day Machiavel’.
When spring comes, at last,
Will the minority Party
The Politburo in absentia,
Pick up on,
Comprehend the fact?
The red-red boffin
Goes beaucoup mnemonic, again.
“Wake up, wake up you sleepy head!
Get up, get out o' bed!
Cheer up! Cheer up!
The sun is red.
Live, love, laugh and be happy!”
The red-red-Redbird comes
Hammer & Sickle cell, again.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Pardon me while I wipe this ******
spit out of my mouth.
Speak and write improperly
Bathe in holy water to wash
away the sins off my body
less charming and loving
then you would expect
it might not had been what it was
but it left a bad taste on my tongue. like taking five shots of whiskey
and licking your ashtray
I tried to stray far beyond
your ripped and shady nylons
the bloodletting on your stained sheets
where I will never sleep
try not to **** me on the way home
I should have stayed where I belong
the dark pool room
the underbelly of a red light saloon
I get paid again next Friday
not that im going to give you any
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
ruin my beautiful morning from
nine till 10 am. spare yourself refusal from
five till seven
thick thighs emotional charged
I have hard boiled eggs
a dog snoring on the floor
a pain in my neck
and my arms and ankles, their nerves are jumping towards the door
heat is up to high IM sweating
like you the *****
Bukowski wrote a song
it is scratching, the needle
typewriter with a loud roar
I cant recall the wine
but the short cigarettes were brown
eyes squinting
I listened like a boy to him, and you
you and your drunk salutes and slurs
commanding a performance from my soul
as if you were Sylvia
such a stupendous, gracious love story
IM haunted by your stare
I do not even think you are here
after all you are a ..... no,
there is really no time for this
the whiskey on my lips you adore
IM sick against a wall and
people are statues above spitting
their teeth below
statues on a wall urinating below
my angst kisses you all farewell
may my spirit fly today
pain grows in the dark
all ye gather,elephants in the room and hall
i hunker down under the blue glow
of the evening news
hiding from both of you
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
Blompen ; dompen
My pen lè los in my hand ,
Bibberend soos 'n straatkind in die kou;
Net so blinkoog - net so hol,
Vol drome wat in die agterkop brou
Maar die ink loop hortend oor die blou
Treinspore, mompelend soos 'n man
Wat die vreemde dialek van opgee praat
En sy laaste vloek op die hemel inspan
*** sku sluip die musa in die skemerson
Waar net echoes van haar in die droewige letters lê
En die gebeendere van hol woorde waai met die wind
Tot waar sal net die uitgedroogde môre kan sê?
My pen is nietigvaal teen die goudskrif teen die muur
En hunker uit desperaatheid na 'n siggaret
, want die ander het vere en woorde wat vlieg...
*** skep ek 'n wereld met die dors pen wat ek het?
My môre lyk puntloos en onvoltooid.
My gemoed knak en splinter oor die papier.
Die ink loop meer kunstig onder fisika
As die hand van die skrywer, Die verlepte Angelier
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.
Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.
Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.
All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.
Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.
Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.
My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.
My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.
Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
My vingers jeuk om iets te skryf
My hart bloei storms
Maar my vingers jeuk
My gemoed eb en vloei
Maar my vingers jeuk om iets te skryf
My siel hammer verwoed teen my ribbekas
En my vingers jeuk om te skryf
My pen hunker om te vloek
Die swart ink wil die wit vel breek en skree
My polse wil huil
My longe wil verteer
En my nek wil omhels word met n tou
Maar my vingers jeuk om te skryf
Ék kan nie díe jeuk krap nie.
Dít klou aan mý wese
En dít krap mý verstand
En ek bloei waansin
En ek wil skree vir die maan
En ek wil vloek tenoor die son.
My vingers jeuk on te skryf
En ek gee in tot die demoon
Wat honger na n stem.
Iewers sal my woorde weer
N lee papier vind...
En dan kan ek sy lastergille tem.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
*Down in the depths of a wilderness;
the derangement of **** and of wisp.
A creature is arched in a hunker
over bundled leaves; golden and crisp.
Its' blistered hands riddled with splinters
Its' tired face blackened by dirt.
Its' glowing and warm disposition,
Worn pale by commotion and hurt.
It is wary from cold and from torment;
the dark of the forests damp chill.
But it scuffs at the bones as with tinder
igniting the marrow with skill.
Wiping its' brow with its' forearm
the creature desists with a gasp
Smoke trails up through the forest.
A spark has alighted at last.
The flame inhales fallen pine cones;
blazing up through the bramble and briar.
Excitement and fear harmonizing,
'till their voices can't sing any higher;
'till the heart is consumed by her fire.*
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
Pull the curtain from over your eyes
See beyond the constructed lies
Stop your judging and demented cries
Of those whose point of view you deny
Feign ignorance to the truth you will not see
Watch the tide rise as common sense recedes
Hunker down in your dogmatic cocoon
Only to emerge and naive buffoon
Logic and science are trickery and bewitchment
Such are the thoughts of the ignorant
Stick to your beliefs and fears like glue
For you read it in a sacred book so it must be true
Ask no questions and deny no absolutes
See where that takes you if you are so resolute
Watch the world crumble around you and blame the devil
For hes the creator of all ills and evil revel
Watch the powers that be consume and destroy
As they take away all living things health and joy
Pretend I offend your moral code
But deep down inside you fester with hypocritical mold
To NOT ask questions and seek new ways
Is to annihilate the future of all earthly days
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
The clouds roll in
The storm is starting
Rain is falling
Wind is howling
Darkness appears
The sun is no longer
People flee
Animals take shelter
Others hunker down
Braving the storm
48-72 hours
Of a catastrophic storm
Hits our country
With major damage to be done
We pray for you
We pray for safety
God will shed his light
The sun will shine
Things will be repaired
Life will go on...
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 9:02 AM UTC
Off in the distance
you could see the clouds forming
a blanket of white
on a canvas of blue
the wind was beginning
to give birth to some devils
and what was to come
only hardened men knew
"cut loose the horses"
let them run wild
we'll get them all later
when the storm
has passed through
they'll be safe in the canyon
the ones that aren't broken
the devil is coming
and the sky still showed blue
lock down the horse barns
and lock up the cattle
the wind is beginning
it'll be here real soon
out in the desert
when the wind starts to howling
it'll bring up the dust
and it'll block out the moon
The temperature dropped
and the sky had changed colour
the blue was now gone
it was now kind of grey
the clouds were still forming
you could see there behind them
a funnel of black
the devil at play
once it gets going
nothing can save you
get inside fast
and hunker down low
there's a silence so eerie
before the train rumble
that only the older
cowboys do know
put out the fire
get low and stay hidden
the devils at play
and he'll tear you apart
the wind is his plaything
and you'll be his victim
he'll skin you alive
and he'll rip out your heart
the horses run wild
some may not make it
others will live
as they make for the caves
those we have broken
are at the mercy of nature
we'll know once we're done
just how many we saved
the wall of sand hit hard
a black sheet of horror
you could hear it outside
as it ripped at the wall
back in the corner
the young cowboys were shaking
the old one's stood guard
against the devil's strong call
for hours it raged
and it tore at the building
sand getting in
where the building gave way
nobody spoke
until early next morning
they just sat and watched
the devil at play
silence, just silence
meant the storm was now over
the door was thrown open
the devastation was seen
the corral was empty
but, for two wild turkeys
and there was a single dead horse
where the stable had been
the devil spoke loudly
he sent quite a message
the horses are mine
they run wild and run free
i'll keep the storms coming
this was the fourth in a decade
leave them to run
or you'll all deal with me
the old cowboys looked round
and they took in the damage
lit up a fire
and said thank god we're alive
we've made it through four
and we'll rebuild even stronger
if we ever can hope
to get through storm number five
the will of a cowboy
and the will of the devil
one is much stronger
it's as strong as the land
the devil will fight you
it's just in his nature
but, the cowboy will win
because he's part of the land
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
You were still asleep
when from music I awakened
to a sudden gale
And to my delight
chimes played wildly in the night
wind is slicing wooden rail
Got me out of bed
frozen in my sleepy head
clinging to the words
Could I keep this song?
write the lyrics all night long?
theme for lonesome birds
stood to stretch and see
caught a glimpse, eternity
moon was center stage
sparkling diamonds perched
far out in the universe
glitter snow on page
beyond ice laden trees
snow had nature on it's knees
mean subzero chill
Funny just today
sun broke icicles away
outside window sill
Winter snow then ice
weather man's advice, not a
time to drive alone
Not to drive at all!
would be a better call to
hunker down at home
Opened up the door
chilled my carcass to the core
music of the snow.
Back inside again
in the warmth of down and friend
I decided to forgo
Winter lullaby
soothes and lures a tired eye
back to dreamy home
Hearing starts to fade
while wind chimes serenade
long and winded poem
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
a refugee from wealth,
he and his Dartmouth degree found the spot
farthest from his New England roots, and the first roots
he saw there were those of a banyan tree, giant gray tentacles
piercing the Asian earth, imploring the black soil
for atonement, he thought
the natives said the tree was older than God
immortal, but cursed with some blight that bedeviled them
and that prudent pruning of ailing arms would be wise
the man had only a Swiss Army knife
with its minuscule saw, but soon he set about the task
of trimming the behemoth, one mad millimeter at a time,
and mad was all the natives saw
this white creature, high in the canopy,
often from dawn until the sun sank in the jungle behind him
sawing away, a half branch a day, treating the gargantuan arboreal
like a prize bonsai
villagers would come, hunker, watch in the shade of the tree
once in a great while, they would see a branch crash on the ground,
at which time they cheered the pitifully patient woodsman
many offered to help, some leaving bow saws,
axes at the banyans' base, but he would have none of that
over and over he received new red knives with their tiny saws
these parcels the only mail he got
even during monsoon rains,
the man's labors did not desist
though his audience waned
appearing to defy physics' uncertain laws
the tree was nearly felled, but the man disappeared
before his colossal task was done, the locals claiming he climbed
into the thinned canopy one day and never came down
not even a well worn blade was found
allowing the witnesses to aver he was yet high in the heavens
resting after love's labor had wearied his hands
but perchance healed his heart
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
Are things really that bad,
can we really not face another day,
count our lucky days,
be full of thankfullness!?
I mean it's not like
we're landing on
the beaches of Normandy
this morning,
hopping a freight to Auschwitz
to shower,
dressing warm to hunker down
at the Bulge,
gearing up for
a hike in Bataan
or stripping down
to catch some
bright rays at Hiroshima.
You see,
things could be
a helluva lot worse,
let's be grateful for living!
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
can we all hunker down
under the Magnolias
in the sand of the Plantation
driveway under
a confederate flag anymore?
draw our plans like Lee
would have, with a saber
a picture of lines
scribbled in the sand-
our carbine- loaded by our side
at the ready
our heritage the old war
or states rights
or slavery
when so much time and lives
have passed
and people oughta know more
about peoples,
about history,
about struggling
which all races do.
It wasn't pretty then.
Not the least bit.
And cotton , high or otherwise,
needs no slavery,
and bigotry is
ancient as
sorghum and
horse meat.
And man is man, proven to depend on a
falsity or hate to
defend his ancestry, his teachings,
instead of the question.
Here, with a stick
I scribble, while
down hunkering,
the least threatening position,
to ask of myself,
have I done what
I could. And the answer
of course,
the black man and the Mexican,
the Redman, the sensible ,
might answer, is
it will take time.
Do we have enough?
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
The Old Man sat out front and watched
As the sky started to change
The clouds were forming quickly
They were looking rather strange
He said "It's time to round 'em up"
"Get ready for a ride"
"We've got to get the horses"
"And get them all inside"
"A day, maybe two at most"
"We'd best get set to hunker down"
"It won't be long before"
"We see more white than brown"
"Those clouds on the horizon"
"The way they dip and make that hole"
"That's the Window Into Winter"
"On that, I'd bet my soul"
He walked into the bunkhouse
Grabbed his gear, and looked around
He yelled, "That's The Window Into Winter"
"Snow, will soon be on the ground"
Now, normally, the clouds roll in
There's a storm and then the snow
With The Window Into Winter
It gives us time, it lets us know
"Someone get a list made"
"We need supplies, and need them fast"
"That Window won't stay open"
"It's gonna close, it will not last"
"Heed the Window into Winter"
"It gives us one more chance before"
"Jack Frost and all his helpers"
"Come knocking at our door"
Now, remember when you see it
Between the clouds up in the sky
There's a hole between the mountains
And that says, that Winter's nigh
It's The Window Into Winter
Now get along and get to work
Bring the horses in and hurry
There's things to do, so do not shirk
Once the hole has closed up tightly
And the clouds are all but one
Then The Window Into Winter
Will be no more, the fall is done.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC