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
“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
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
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
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 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
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| My little Punky in this picture is now almost 22! |
Searching the internet I cannot find my two favorite poems by Langston Hughes. I did finally find them, but they're imbedded into another poem? I am not sure. And I think the title of the one I love most is: Little Dreams, but it could be Slum Dreams. I can't find it as a stand alone. I wonder now where my book of his poems ended up. It's not a thin little book at all. I bet it's over 2" thick. Here is the one I was referring to. In my 50's now, this has had a place in my heart since I was lost teenager in high school.
The little dreams
Of springtime
That bud in sunny air
With no roots
To nourish them,
Since no stems
Are there-
Quite detached, naive,
So young,
On air alone
Slum dreams are hung.
-Langston Hughes
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| free to use or share image found online |
Here is my attempt at using the beginning line as a starter prompt. One word per line in order to encourage my mind.
Kansas Wind
The wind rushes through the grass and trees,
little critters float on the breeze,
dreams are swept away.
-Carrie Horn, 4-23-26
