National Poetry Month (poetry contest and win one of my books!)

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April is National Poetry Month.  I have always been pulled in by rhyming sounds, expressions in A-B-A-B form, and with eloquent words.  How a Maya Angelo poem can break your heart or a Robert Frost can transport you to another time.  Into Emily Dickinson’s world and nod knowingly at one of Mary Oliver’s beautiful notes.  The prose, the cadence, the way that poetry takes on emotion and vivid imagery in just a few lines or in a drawn out sonnet.  I love that it doesn’t have to rhyme.  It can be a sentence.  It is a piece of one’s heart transferred to paper in a whim of bravery.

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I am holding a poetry contest.  No pressure, as of course like art, poetry creates itself and there is absolutely no right or wrong way to write poetry.  Just write a sentence, or a rhyme, or a sonnet.  Respond here, or on facebook (facebook.com/pumpkinhollowfarm) or by email (katie@pumpkinhollowfarm.net).  Homeschooling mamas, have your children enter, you enter, if you have never written poetry, enter, let the expression free!  I am offering a free book of your choice that I have written to the winner.  The winner is the one that stirs my soul.  Open March 31st-April 15th.

Here are two of mine I would like to share…

The first one is a tale of many young women.  I am friends with a great many amazing young people and sometimes their struggles can overtake.

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A child in the dark lets out a shrill cry

she is lost within her spirit

but she doesn’t know why.

Growing up too fast

lovers that don’t last

        a piece of her gone

ending life’s song.

Now as she connects with herself

    with her Source

and lays in a hospital bed

through this course

and as she gathers strength

and refills her lamp for light

perhaps she will see the dawn

through the starry night.

And a more happy one…

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Maryjane, the beautiful child that came to be.

I knew her immediate and she had a piece of me.

Our hearts were connected and I love her more and more.

My life awakens as she walks through the door.

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Now, it’s your turn!

 

 

Snowfall

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Across shallows and brooks

the snow falls driftlessly down

laying thickly over pines and rooftops in town.

Winter softens into spring

but today her cold gaze

diligently waters the ground, a frozen blanket lays.

A perk for bulbs who will hobble forth

quench the thirst of trees and the new growth

the bitter cold will not wane

Oh, why couldn’t Mother Earth just send rain?

Happy Birthday to the Farmer of My Dreams

There was a man who stole my heart

for awhile we were rarely apart.

He can easily milk goats

on the kittens he dotes

can catch a chicken in the road

chase sheep as the rooster crowed

chopped the wood and moved the hay

“Well have it again!” he likes to say.

Cuddled into his arms is Maryjane

after she is done jumping on him!

Playful and very young at heart

yet contemplative when the lights are dim

a loving father, grandfather, sweet husband too

a lot of things all in one,

but most all, he’s lots of fun!

Happy Birthday, Doug!  Thanks for coming along for the ride.  I hope you get everything you wish for!

The Gratitude Journal and Poem a Day

 

Can an anti-depressant and anti-anxiety cure be found in a journal?  $280 to apply for an apartment.  Run down trailers for rent for $1500.  The 10,000 people coming to Colorado every month for tech jobs and weed are making us Coloradoans struggle to live here.  It is easy to get overwhelmed and stressed about the next step.  Is it in another state?  Is it here?  Is a miracle around the corner?  Is…whoo!  No wonder I have been taking so much of my herbal anti-anxiety that we make in our charming shop!

I decided to start a gratitude journal.  So cliché, I thought.  What am I going to write?  I don’t have much to be grateful for.  The first few were the basics, my husband, my kids, my coffee.  But now they delve deeper.  The feel of my kitten’s fur against my cheek in the morning.  Maryjane saying, “I love you, Grammie.”  The deer outside the door.  The customers that trust me to help their family with their health.  So much to be thankful for.  I find that I am less anxious in the mornings.  I am even…happy.  The dawn seems brighter.  The coffee tastes better.

I also gave myself a challenge to write a poem every morning.  The beginning ones were sad and simple.  One paragraph, sometimes no rhyming at all.  Now they are elaborate stories or sweet inspirations.

I encourage you to purchase a beautiful journal.  Gratitude. Poetry.  Memories.  Trust me, you will be glad you did.

The Powwow

The drum beat sounded

of heartbeat and womb

the dancers took their place

Their colors swayed in grace

and pride

Their feathers told stories

as their leathered feet

rose and fell softly on Mother Earth’s breast

Singing in tones unheard

in other cultures

whirled the sound into reverie

Every drum beat my heart

every step my ancestors’ lives

every note a page in history.

 

 

 

Christmas Dreaming

 

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As winter snow danced lightly down, the moon still held her luminous crown

and watched as each child in town went to sleep softly in the night.

Dreams of Santa filled their minds as they looked at moon’s generous light

and so wondered if they would see his reindeer cross her face in flight.

Warm with hot chocolate, jammies on, their stockings hung above the fires

their eyes grew heavy as they watched the tree with her glimmering wires.

Old Bing Crosby did croon, the sounds of the season on down through the hall

but sleigh bells were the most beautiful sound of all.

When they awake they will see who’s been here

Santa Claus and his eight glorious reindeer.

Merry Christmas!

 

 

 

To Thine Own Self Be True (a recognition of oneself when starting over)

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I am Yeopim Indian and Cherokee proud, and Scottish and English and Irish loud, along with Dutch and Black French and possibly more.  And from them all my genetic disposition lays.  In my hair, in my eyes, in my innate knowledge and intuition, in my sense of adventure and in my search for home do I find glimpses of all those that came before.  All my ancestors, all in me.  But I alone have my spirit.  My true self.  That has been here before.

And in mindful analysis and decompression of the physical frame as each day becomes a bit more mundane the layers of thought and peers wash aside as the essence of being comes forth in glints of light.

“Why do you fear being wealthy?”  “Why do you believe you do not deserve riches?” I am asked.

Struck, I wonder, is this true?  Should I be rich in homes with heightened ceilings and possessions galore?  Is that what my life’s work is for?  I would like to have enough-though that maybe less than many, more than some.  Seeds to grow into food for mind and strength and chickens here and there.  A rambling adobe with rooms for art and friends, for laughter, for cooking, for light, and memory.

Enough to visit new places at whim, for inspiration and to meet people and culture new.  But to watch a sunset from my own porch swing would be as sweet a riches as I could dream.

Sommelier?  I cannot drink more than one glass of wine!  Food industry?  I can’t stay up past nine!  A city plot, cement gardens, and lack of birds, no deer around, no late owl heard?

Impossible.

Homesteader, homemaker, home dreamer am I.  Making a home under the Great Mystery’s sky.

My job is to raise grandchildren when so blessed to have them near.  To teach them herbs, and trees, and birds, and through the wind the Creator heard.  To show them things that schools do not know.

To help those that seek my help, in physical or spiritual need should they ask, to find the right herbs and prayers and songs.

Silence and nature are my friends as the early dawn and the night sky guide my days all year long.

Walking at Dawn

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The hummingbirds flit around my hair on their way to sweetened nectar

their ringing sounds of bells in the early morning air.

The dawn shines clear and hopeful

brushing pink in its palette spread across the landscape fair.

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I walk across heavy laden needles and cacti, up steep inclines of bindweed and pine cones, through underbrush that crunches beneath a canopy of sweet Ponderosas I stop to smell.  Their caramel bark dissipating in the midsummer morn.  Sweet clover brushes against me and the birds sing to the heavens in great song as a mother deer brings her new fawn along.

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I sit atop a large stone above the sleepy town, crossed legged and facing the sun.  The world is quiet above the trees as Tiger Swallows catch the light breeze.  “I have all you need,” Nature whispers to me, food and medicine and shelter and more, there is no fear and nothing to fret for.

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And he dusted off the old resume restored, looking in closet for nice clothes long past, away to the office he will tread and to the city which was our dread.  But, the new house will be found and in it memories and laughter sounds.  Gardens to plant in the front yard for fun, and bike rides to local eateries and movie runs.  A new life ahead, still quite unseen, unknown, but one that will be filled with joy and journeys yet unsewn.

Ebb and Flow of Farm Life

The ebb and flow, the life and death, the frequency changes and seasons all so crisply clear when one lives on a farm.

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The ducklings do not fail to bring smiles.  Frolicking in their playpen in a casserole dish turned pond.

The farm dog lays under freshly mounded soil by the empty bee hive.  Bumble passed away in the night.  The quiet house without his tick-tick-ticking and the sight of him this morning haunts me still.  Dumping the pile of dead bees in the compost.  A weight pulls my heart.  The dead chicken with suspicious slobber on her feathers.  Death is real and constant.

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The monastery of frogs chant from the pond beneath the full moon.  The baby red winged black birds chirp madly in the greenhouse.  The kittens play.  The seedlings stretch to the sky, the sun on their limbs.  The breeze brings on it blossoms from trees and the scent of dampened soil.  Elsa’s side grows.  Twelve more days until she kids.  Bundles of fluff, lambs who think they are dogs, greet me with kisses and lean against my legs.

Relationships start.  Unexpected, journeys change.  Paths bring second thoughts, perhaps regrets.  Marriages strengthen.  Friends offer embraces.  Words of wisdom and love over the telephone far away.

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The Creator waits for our prayers of thanksgiving as we busy ourselves with endless internal chatter.

Wading through and finding peace in the respectfulness of death, the joy of birth and spring, and my spirit shall join the frogs in their meditation of all that is.  Take a breath.

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Spring is here and the journey continues.

The Inspired Writer/Farmer’s Farmhouse (perhaps it’s time to do the dishes)

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This is an excusive look inside a farmhouse whose occupants have been busy with shows promoting their farm, fluffy farm animals, and writing books.  I warn you, these written images are not for the meek.

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There are cat boogies in my hair

the lamb just peed under the chair

the dining table is filled with business and such

the dishes in the sink are too scary to touch.

I have lost the dog, I must confess

He’s probably under all this mess

Scary spiders have moved into the cobwebs, you see

Something under the couch is lurking at me (oh wait, that’s a kitten)

Spring clean I must!

Scrub, and sweep, and certainly dust.

Been writing books, and my mind’s elsewhere with all this fluff

I hope to find my sanity under all this stuff!

Emily at Eighteen (Happy Birthday!)

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“Oh Emily, so sweet and true

Oh Emily, my love for you extends beyond a thousand miles

Will see us through a thousand trials

All I see and know to be right,

disappear from my sight,

as my adoration for you surrounds us like light.”

March 1997

a long time ago

1997

I think Maryjane looks a lot like her mother!

I think Maryjane looks a lot like her mother!

2015

Emily at Eighteen, a beautiful sight

sweet and kind, a joyous light

a stubborn streak, a knowing grin

a good friend to seek, a great passion within.

And now another from your womb

brings even more light to this room

And the world spins and I have won

with my girls life gets lots more fun.

 

I am honored to be the mother of one so dear

Emily, you grow more beautiful with each passing year.

 

Happy Birthday!

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