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!

A "First Words" poem titled Kansas Wind.

 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

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

The call of the wild

​I love evening chores. At least twice a week, maybe more, you’ll hear me grumble and say, “I hate _________” fill in the blank: goats (most often), dogs, cats, ducks, chickens, roosters, etc. But really, I love choring. 

The evening wears on, 

Times runs thin,

And twilight rules the moment. 

As the sun disappears 

And evening stretches to night 

I see them silhouetted 

in the treetops. 

Then I hear the Huh-hooooo huh-hooooooo! 

As one calls to the other. 

Then there is a Hooo-hoooo 

Of a response. 

And I know they both are there.

I rejoice about it,

Then I take a pause 

And think

“Where are the kittens?” 

“Where’s Maddie?”

I say to them-

“Pick on critters that aren’t pets!”

And I call out “huh-hoo huh-hoo!”

They call back and assure me

They’ll pursue an easy meal

No matter its status. 

I remind them that Maddie

Is not Kevlar protected.

No raptor will easily carry her off. 

No amount of huh-hoooing 

will make her vulnerable this time. 

Their calls are thrilling

And always just a little chilling. 

-Carrie Horn

4-21-26

Crazy Squirrel Train of Thoughts

 Today I'm overrun with so many thoughts. I can't seem to narrow them into one poem. I woke up to an angry tangle of muscle and joints and nerves. Chaos, it seems, in my body. Aches and pains and realism. Yesterday we worked our asses off. Well, one of us did, but me, I didn't have one to begin with. I got that from my Dad. He used to talk about no-ass-atall. That's me. Anyway.... we cleaned the back room. Guess what? Those pine chips in the brooders... dust. They create LOTS of dust. Sometimes it was hard to see because the dust was so thick when we cleaned, moved, re-arranged, and swept. 

I'm rereading this and thinking about the randomosity of it. the adhd-ness of it all. and i think... that's my life. So much changing from one thing to another in the middle of the first thing because in my mind if I do thing number two it will make thing number one easier to finish. Or because I need a break, a mental pitstop, if you will. or because I have adhd brain. 

I'm so grateful that my kiddo is learning to go with the flow. Because I am just a random mess a lot of the time. Well, random anyway. and mess anyway. Okay, yes, a random mess. 

I find myself drifting a lot. And remembering. I must be getting old. All the stories in my brain. Many (most?) have to do with my Dad and funny moments, randomly dropped into ordinary tasks. Sometimes not so funny, but always pleasant. Because my dad just wasn't mean. He was never a hard task-master or a mean parental unit. He always, always, always erred on the side of love.

No, that's not totally true. But in regard to parenting, it is. But when I'm being honest with myself I know that he also bought into that whole, "love the sinner, hate the sin..." thing. I guess it really made me mad when he labeled people as "the sin." I love so-and-so and he/she/they are always welcome here, but the (significant other) is not. Is this how you love the sinner? 

But I recently told my cousin, once they die, they are elevated to sainthood. Nothing they ever did is to be held against them. It's complicated for me. Because there are some things about my dad that I'm not okay with, and for sure society calls a sin. But he's gone and those things are swept under the rug. I remember my dad as love. He loved. a lot. and though there are times and ways he didn't, he was a good example of love. 

Where am I going with this? To be honest, I'm not sure. I think it's just an emotional dump and the brain and heart. Because the wheels are turning too fast. There's just so much in there, going round and round and looking for a stopping place. 

I'm grateful today that it is certain thoughts and thought patterns that need to get off at the next stop. I'm grateful that don't win today. Today I don't wish to exit the ride. That's progress. That's peace. I'm so very grateful for this. 

And now, here's a little random poem. Born of chaos and randomosity.

Random City

I woke today with chaos 

in my brain and 

my body as well.

Aches and pains and regrets

doggedly pester my body.

my arms, my hands and wrists;

my back, my legs, my joints. 

Please dear God, 

give me some relief.

I woke today with randomness

running amuck in my brain.

No discipline

it drives me wild with 

thoughts, emotions memories.

I lament that fact that I have Noassatall.

And then I giggle as this is 

from my dad. 

He also suffered from

this disease.

Ha. not a disease at all. 

Right?

Just a flat backside, 

where other people 

have an ass to work 

and overwork.

I never have to worry if I say

I worked my ass off.

If you want proof, 

just look.

It ain't there. 

And again I laugh 

but now I also shrug

because where did that come from?

That is the chaos of my life.

my brain doing as it will.

interupting the working part

to interject the random part.

I must confess

it's never boring in here.

-Carrie Horn

4-19-26

Free Verse poetry, my life travels in a circle

Today I did not follow a prompt. I just went with the flow of my heartbeat. Yesterday I just skimmed the prompt and this might have fit in there better. But I didn't get to write yesterday, life had other plans.  Today I wrote about the cycles we find ourselves in and how they go around and around again. 

Life Travels in Circles

Did you ever notice... 

life travels in circles?

Circles of hope,

circles of grief

circles of cycles

That go round again

and again.

Did you ever notice... 

seasons always change

and when they come around again,

nothing is quite the same?

In another season,

I buried my emotions deep,

but as the Springtime evolves

I find my thoughts 

take root

shoot up,

find light, 

reaching for the sun.

My thoughts once buried

are exposed again.

They are new

and green.

New shoots of thoughts

taking hold deep down,

yet showing off new growth 

in sunlight's splendor. 

Tender and delicate

they need tended, 

pruned, 

maintained. 

They grow stronger in the sun

than they ever did in the grey.

Thankful for the rain

that feeds these little shoots

and causes them to stand strong,

because summer's on it's way.

Now established and strong,

my thoughts will have to stand

in times of drought and sun.

Sometimes wilting, 

in the face

of summer's heated sorrow. 

My life is like a garden,

renewing itself in Spring.

To face the heat, 

the dying off,

the burial of wintertime.

The cycle goes around again.

I wonder if you noticed...

how life travels in circles?

-Carrie Horn

4-18-26

just a free download pic, because... why not?