New month, new day, new you

​I freely admit my heartbroken-ness over the poetry challenge ending. I was prepared not to like it. I had an expectation that it would be an intimate group of writers who wouldn’t easily accept this strange one. The surprise was so pleasant. It was an intimate group. But so accepting and inclusional. So intimate in the best way. 

Where will I share my writing? My soul? Opinions? And who will comment and encourage me? I’m seriously asking. Because it’s so edifying. Ego boosting. 

Yesterday was Poetry Friday. Who knew there was such a thing?

Well I know now. So prepare yourself. 

Today has declared itself to be a day full of randomness. Randomosity. Not singularly themed. 

We’re at a suicide awareness and prevention walk. So my mind is overwhelmed with heaviness. Or is it my heart? I’m overwhelmed. There’s a lot of joy here among people. But there’s a heaviness as well. 

Talking with family about end of life plans. Like funerals. How I asked kids to play some certain songs at my funeral when I die. Will they remember? I don’t know about “they….” (The mysterious they), but Carolyn will remember. It would surprise me if she didn’t. But I won’t know. I won’t be here. When I say what I want I either begin or end with…. But a funeral or memorial  is really about you, the living, not me, the dead. So you do what you want! Oh…. If you’re curious, I did NOT request AC/DC, but I did request Amazing Grace. And there’s a Rod Stewart song Called Forever Young.  Not the Bob Dylan song. Oh…. I forgot this one: Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd. 

Oh, back to suicide prevention. I’m not suicidal today, but I do choose gratitude every day. Especially for the little things, like how we saw a little family of geese— the goose, the gander and 3 goslings. I saw some beautiful flowers this morning and they brought me joy. Im confident I’m growing old. I have started being reminded of something from my youth by nearly every mundane daily experience. The flowers remind me of my childhood and the peony bushes in our yard and when I was fairly small, we had beautiful irises in our back yard. 

Today I thank my god for joy. Joy in every small moment. Not every moment I live. But there are many glimmers every day. For this I’m grateful.

These were some of the lovely irises we saw today.

Ode to this Gathering of Poets

 April draws to a close

and the last period, exclamation point, ellipsis, question mark 

has been finalized. 

The last little glimpses of my soul

have been exposed. 

This is the end, 

the jumping off place, 

the place where it all starts to change. 

I'll write my little verses,

with no one to admire my work. 

I'll still think I'm so talented.

I will pine for readers,

yearning for responses. 

I'll miss the validation, the comraderie....

my new found friends. 

-Carrie Horn

4-30-26

Music Describes my Life

​“Welcome to the show

Step inside 

Step inside”

This starts playing in my head 

as I think about my life.

I think about

The chaos that described 

2020; Covid.

This feels a little bit (lot)

The same.

I feel the mire

Pulling me down 

I can’t breathe. 

Someone laughingly says 

“My life is sh*t show!” 

And I say….

“Mine too. Mine too.”

I hear the carnival music

And smell the carnival foods 

As the familiar theme

Plays in my head.

But this is real life. 

And as I feel myself go under

Another anthem rings through my head

“Save my life I’m going down for the last time….”

-Carrie Horn

4-29-26

Poetry writing

​I’m sad now

Thinking of how the days of poems

Are coming to a close. 

Do I have to stop writing poems daily?

I guess not. 

But the thrill of checking for a response

Or two

Will be gone. 

What’s that? You’re hungry?

But of course you are. 

How much time before kids come back?

Can I write and eat. Both?

Oh gosh….

I dunno. 

10 more minutes Care

You can do this. 

But I need to review plans. 

Oh yeah 

Where are those plans?

Wait. 

You’re not done. 

Are you done? With the writing?

The poems? The distractions? 

Writings not the distraction….

Lesson plans. 

That’s the distraction.

Really? 

I need another coffee.

Maybe I should check the lounge. 

I still have 7 minutes. 

-Carrie Horn

4/27/26

The Song on the Breeze...

 First things first. I'm cheating just a smidge on this post. It's Sunday. My day to be home. Not to take a drive. Here is where my serenity lies. 

So I'm on my porch in my ole rocking chair, watching and listening. To the rustling of the trees as the wind gently sways their branches. The goats are bleating because that's what goats do. and birds are calling. The roosters are crowing and the ducks are pleading with me to set them free. The air is damp and chilly. As it can be this time or year. It stirs wonder and awakens my soul. I take a sip of my Sunday coffee, blissfully strong and a little bit bitter, with just a hint of something softer. Sunday coffee tastes better than Monday coffee. Relaxed and blissful. The wheat in the field still green but tall and starting to head. It dances in the breeze, majestic and choreographed. It creates its own rustling sound, the music of my forefathers with their Turkey Red Hard Winter wheat. Hardy and resilient. Just like the souls of the mennonites who brought it Kansas. It is my family's heritage, softly moving in the breeze to the rhythm of the wind, the motions of the dance, captivating and awe-inspiring. I hear the birds creating their own songs and mixing their harmonies. The peace and stillness laced with life and song. The barnswallows are back. Swooping and careening and singing and sailing. They are forging their future and finding their nests. Who will inherit the nests of the past, who will relentlessly attempt to build on my porch, only to have their hard work torn down again and again? 

Sunday Vibes

Today is the day

the coffee tastes best,

    strong and black,

    hot and steamy.

    Only a small hint of bitterness... 

I pause to wonder, 

is there a deeper metaphor here, 

the depths of my soul,

finally learning to give warmth,

still holding a hint of bitterness?

What do I hear on the breeze, 

and see in the air? 

Are they gulls of some kind? 

They crash my party 

With both majesty and mayhem

stirring up chaos 

and grandeur.

Mixing their melody with the harmony

of a killdeer or two

calling out,

the song of a songbird too.

What is that warble? 

A robin? A whipperwill? 

A call of a pheasant joins in the song

all playing on top of rhythm 

provided by the wind.

Barnswallow swooping, 

gracefully,

in tandem,

like an olympic champ.

They careen and they call

and look perfectly in sync

with the world of my farm.

Wind on the trees, 

wind in the wheat,

in my too tall grass that cries to be mowed.

Theres a chill in the air

carried across the breeze

calling beware

a reminder that Springtime in Kansas

can mean chaotic weather.

My slice of heaven

time with my creator

sporting a safety yellow hoodie

my favorite one of all time.

My coffee cooling quickly,

reminding me of Dad

(because he, like God, is everywhere)

and his magical ability to

 not only drink lukewarm coffee

but still enjoy it thoroughly.

Not a skill I've yet acquired. 

I'll refresh my cup and ponder some more. 

The sound of roosters

calling to... who? 

I'm not sure. 

Maybe their hens, 

maybe to me,

maybe to prove

their voice is strong.

The wheat acoss the road

waves to me

beckons me

invites me to play. 

And old piece of farm equipment 

planted in the field 

like a prop for a photo shoot.

I'll oblige you there.

I sip my black coffee

and ponder my Sunday. 

Not shaping up as I'd planned,

mother nature herself,

the sudden, spontaneous, changer of plans.

I now hear the chime that makes me smile

my windchimes I love, mix with

a new voice on the wind.

I'm not sure who, but adding its melody

to the background music. 

The band's all here,

the instruments are vocalizing,

harmonizing as

a kitty comes trotting

across the yard

her prize in her mouth...

and the circle of life

keeps going round

to the harmonious sounds.

I sit in my rocker and rock to the rhythm

and sip my bliss and 

gather new songs 

and give thanks. 

to my creator. 

-Carrie Horn

4-26-26

I’ll take your word and I’ll raise the stakes

​What was that word?

Woke?

Is that some kind of joke?

I’ll take your word and I’ll raise the stakes

Because your word is a perfect descriptor 

Not an insult's as intended. 

Passion. Passionate. 

That’s what I call it. 

And to the “Christian” right I say,

I read the book, 

The words in red, 

The ones that explain

WWJD to me. 

I love people. 

Some are poor. 

Some are addicts. 

Some people I love 

Have different spiritual beliefs than me.

Some are black and 

Some are brown. 

Some are Asian 

And don’t speak much English.

Some came here to escape…

Violence.

Terror.

Warfare.

Drug kingpins.

I can’t understand,

America

Where is your freedom?

Compassion? 

I was always taught

About a great melting pot.

Liberty and justice for all,

Let’s be honest 

The definition of all

Is really, really small.

What about the homeless,

The poor, 

The immigrant, 

The African American

Living and working in our midst.

America

I’m enraged.

And I’m embarrassed.

How can we talk about people

In such labels. 

How can we continue 

To pat ourselves on the back

In the midst of-

Injustice

Immorality

Thievery 

and more.

I’m ready to fight,

With all my might,

For what is right.

So call me woke 

Or whatever 

floats your right wing boat.

I know God 

And I know my neighbor.

Love them both.

Can you REALLY say the same?

It’s not a joke.

It’s not a game.

Say their name.

-Carrie Horn

4-25-26

 

 

Something Lost is Found

 Something lost 

is found again.

This is the theme 

of my life. 

Lose it,

Gain it anew. 

Sometimes I find it again

buy visiting the old magnanimous chain department store

and purchasing a new one

a better one, 

one I pay hard earned money for. 

I'll find the old one

as soon as my purchase is complete. 

If it is a high dollar purchase, 

I will find the lost one

only once the warranty expires on the new one.

Every day I lose my keys,

my glasses, my phone. 

I cannot just run to (discount department store)

and replace those. 

I find myself playing 

who-can-find-my....

more times than I can count. 

Some losses cannot be found.

Losing my dad,

a loss that is still pain-stakingly new,

after a mere 6 years. 

That's right. years. 

What I am finally starting to gain anew

is a heart full of gratitude

for the memories,

the love, 

the things that my folks did right.

I'll never find my dad again

(well, I plan to see him in the afterlife),

but his love is here 

everyday,

I just have to find it. 

-Carrie Horn

4-24-26

My little Punky in this picture is now almost 22!