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
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
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
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
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| just a free download pic, because... why not? |
Starting Again… Again
This morning I awoke
Slowly,
Not before the rays of sun
Lit up the horizon.
Oh no!
I’m late!
How could I have slept right through that alarm?
I stop.
Pause.
Pray.
Restart my day….
Breathing in the light,
The cool air,
The fog clinging to the trees.
I murmur a quick “thank you”
To the powers that be
For the life
so freely given to me.
On my drive
I reflect
On the life I live today.
So many new chances,
So many things to do,
New ways to love animals,
And even people too.
Once upon a time
I started a lonely journey
Broken hearted
Beat down
And scared.
I had to rebuild:
My life,
My things,
My confidence.
Learning curves…
Sharp,
Squiggly,
Treacherous at times.
Then springtime came
New birth
Regrowth
Tender shoots of new life.
The sun came up,
Golden rays…
Flooding my life again.
Old habits
Creep back in
Isolation,
My old friend,
Comes to my mind again.
The voices get louder,
Stronger,
Meaner.
I fall from grace.
Avoiding
The life that
I once built,
that now has
become a lie.
Hopelessness
Envelopes me
Again.
I reach out,
Make a call
Go to a certain place,
Feel that hope…
A tiny seed,
Sprouting in my soul.
The sun comes up
The dew on the grass
Greets me anew.
Starting over…
4-16-26
-Carrie Horn
The thrill of early spring grows green and lush
Birds sing their songs,
New growth bursts forth in its full glory,
Signs of life are everywhere.
Robin’s voices trill through the air
Filling the silence with song
Sweet choirs take wing.
Birds sing their songs.
My heart has been tilled
Old, dead ideas plowed under.
New, fresh ideas are planted and nurtured.
Soon pushing new stems
Through the fresh soil.
New growth bursts forth in its full glory.
I dread the thought of mowing
That lush green grass,
Holding hideouts for rabbits, mice and more.
Signs of life are everywhere.
-Carrie Horn
4-15-26
Today's prompt is to write a haiku about taxes and tax day! Yikes. I had big plans for my Kansas return but apparently so did the state. They found a debt for me to pay. 😢
State Tax Return
Kansas tax return
You were supposed to save me.
Instead you are gone.
-Carrie Horn
Today I cannot follow the prompt. Today my heart is heavy, sinking, drowning. I must give credence to the emotion. And let my soul surrender to grief.
Succumbing to the Grief
Some kinds of soul searching produce
grief before healing,
hurt before happiness,
reflection before surrender.
As I bob and tread
and desperately try to keep my head
above the engulfing current
I realize that the grief
is overwhelming,
all consuming.
I cannot be saved
until I surrender.
I have to face the pain,
feel it,
drown in it.
So it will wash away.
I allow myself to be engulfed,
the feelings
flooding my entire being,
enveloping all that is reality.
Going down,
no longer bobbing,
no longer fighting,
succumbing to the completeness of it all.
Grief....
a vital part of my personhood.
Surrender feels like death,
like failure,
like there's never again to be hope.
Only in surrender
do I find peace,
and quiet strength.
The desire to go on.
the resolve that takes.
the strength is breathes.
-Carrie Horn
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| borrowed a free-to-download image from the internet |
Today's prompt is quite a lot like other recent prompts. But I'm going with the random: in my head things that I tend to love daily.
Everyday Loves
I love kitty kisses.
Not just any kitties,
but my loves,
Turtle and Fluffy.
My child bestowed the name Turtle
upon my pretty kitty,
because we had high hopes
she would be a tortoise shell.
Fluffy got her name because,
as a small, abandoned kitten,
her fur fluffed straight out.
Just stood straight out,
FLUFFY.
So I started calling her the fluffy one.
It morphed into her name.
And now, well,
Fluffsy-wuffsy,
ain't so fluffsy anymore.
But she knows her name,
so Fluffy it is.
But I digress. I was just planning to freefall
and write about all those loves,
not just those two crazy bottle babies
that still call me Mom.
I love...
rain in Spring
and ducks splashing in puddles.
I love Duke the dog,
who might also we called
Gargantuan.
He's kind of rotten,
not enough training,
and a little too much puppy.
But I love his derpy goofy self.
I love...
how my very own Ed Sheeran,
the cat,
who thinks his name is Eddie,
and loves me in his possessive yet aloof kind of way.
I love...
how my kiddos
count me on their friends list.
and even act like I'm a best friend,
trusting me with their
fears, triumphs, failures, needs,
all of it.
This is my favorite love.
It tells me I've grown,
changed,
become trustworthy.
I love....
Jesus.
Because he loved me first.
I don't love Christians.
Enough said.
I love...
Spring
and all the new life it brings:
kittens, chicks, goat kids....
vegetables, flowers, houseplants.
I love tiedye.
The process,
the outcome.
The thing I call
"the magic of tiedye,"
which is really just the mystery of...
I can think it will look like this,
but I won't really know
until it's rinsed and unfurled and revealed.
Art that mimics life.
I think my life will turn out like this,
but I won't know until it is later unfurled.
I love that.
-Carrie Horn
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| One of my favorite people ever... |
 |
| Another favorite human |
 |
| Turtle |
 |
| Fluffy |
 |
| The magic of tiedye. |
 |
| He is probably larger than appears. Duke. |
I love lazy days, which only materialize,
when I create them, and set them free.
I love how the rules change
each time I engage in "my day off..."
Maybe I drink coffee and blog all day,
and maybe I do load after load of laundry.
Maybe I get dressed; maybe I don't.
I love sugar candy, in an obsessive kind of way,
consuming the entire bag,
box, or other container. Who doesn't have a
hidden pleasure, one they don't easily confess?
I love Springtime, and new life, and babies.
Baby kittens, baby chicks, new to this earth goat kids.
Wobbly feet, fluffy feathers, fuzzy furr.... babies.
I love a greasy burger,
with all the trimmings.
Cheese dripping off the sides,
grilled onion and jalapenos,
piled high in the gooey delight of
American cheese. Not cheese product.
Some days I inlude the trimmings less essential:
lettuce and tomato and pickles.
Who am I kidding? Pickles are essential.
Even on a jalapeno burger.
I love my children,
born of my womb,
or not so much so.
Some of them raised me,
all of them teach me,
how to be a human, full of grace
and forgiveness,
not so black and white as I once was.
I love the grey areas,
because few things are ever black and white
and I take issue with those who say they are.
I want to lay down an example here, but my mind
is suddenly on vacation.
I love lazy days,
when people don't judge me,
don't see me, don't know me.
I love lazy days,
they make the productive days so much more
significant.
-Carrie Horn
Dear Farm that I love,
Your an oasis in the desert
of my life.
Your greenery and growth
are a blessing and a curse.
Requiring time invested
going round and round
on the magical machinery
that shortens the growth
of grass and weeds and the dreaded
pig weed.
Every day I chase the chickens
and count the eggs
and watch those little raptors
race for the cat food.
Elvis the Rooster
calling his girls
when he find something tasty.
Goats that bombard me
planning their escape
while I slip in and out of the pen.
Cats, cats.... everywhere cats.
Much as I love them
they are a lot.
A lot of crying, purring and such.
A lot of grey stripes and tails and
toes.
Everywhere a cat.
These are the things I love most.
Thank you dear farm
for bringing me solace,
tranquility,
disguised in the form of chaos,
and satisfaction
that comes from chasing the critters
big and small
dawn to dusk and beyond.
Your simplicity
and complexity
both intrigue and inspire me.
Thank you for the life your give me.
-Carrie Horn
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| I love our rainbow, though we are trying to add to our diversity of color. |
Today's format challenge is "In Poetry We Say" as a response to some cliche` saying in English. A few examples she threw out there for us to try were: "Such is Life," "It Is What It Is," "That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles," or "Let Bygones Be Bygones..."
I'm gonna try "Through Thick and Thin..."
I Will Be Here For You
In English we say,
Through thick and thin,
but in Poetry we say,
trudging through the
muck and mire
I am here.
Where the veil is thin
and death is well-versed,
I will be here.
When life is bulging at the seams
and friendship is
neglected
I am still here.
-Carrie Horn
Forgiveness.
One little word.
Looms large.
Never small,
knowing that forgiveness
is not a word at all!
An act,
action,
gesture,
event.
Forgiveness requires
my heart to be humble,
and my contrition
to be complete.
It is seldom a feeling,
but an ongoing
purge.
Of hatred of old,
and resentments brand new,
that smolder and grow
and make life
a messy goo.
I purge and I render
my feelings
all better,
different, brand new.
But soon those old voices,
aches, and heartbrokenness
will build again.
I'll talk to God and tell him my plight
and how I forgive
and that I've set things a'right.
But I know that the work
is never done.
Forgiveness is a verb,
an action,
a battle won.
-Carrie Horn
Heavy
like a box that has weights in it,
or bags of chicken scratch and feed,
I carry this feeling with me.
It's been here all week.
I will call it grief.
Grief for a new friend,
I feel guilty that it hurts,
because I didn't know her well.
Grief,
and relief,
for a family that I only know
in a small town way.
Guilt that I'm grateful
that it's not me
facing their walk,
their pain
their shame.
Stigma...
I wish it weren't a word.
But especially in small town,
rural Kansas,
it's definitely a word.
There is no shame,
but I feel it just the same,
when I face the crisis
of supporting a child
that society doesn't understand.
or embrace.
Heavy.
My heart is heavy
like a cold steel beam
facing the loss.
As if it weren't enough...
I remember
a man on a cross
dying slowly,
painfully,
because I am a selfish sinner.
Heavy.
The weight of the gift
is heavy.
My heart,
dragging these feelings
is heavy.
I will lay it down today
so tomorrow I can remember
the joy
of my salvation.
Knowing that
these things, feelings, baggage,
are still
heavy.
-Carrie Horn
