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Harvest moon night in September,
The sky is orange bright,
The crops stand ready to be cut,
Beneath the lunar light.
The combine rumbles through the fields,
Its header spinning wide,
The corn and soybeans pour into,
The wagon bins inside.
The farmers work from dusk to dawn,
No rest for those who grow,
The harvest moon extends the day,
As daylight fades to low.
The pie and beans are brought to the field,
By daughter and by son,
A harvest lunch for workers field,
Until the job is done.
When al...
Autumn leaves falling all around,
In crimson, gold, and brown,
They spiral down like nature's confetti,
To cover the ground.
The children jump in leaf piles high,
Their laughter fills the air,
The rakes and bags await our work,
To clear the yard so fair.
The trees stand bare now skeletons,
Their branches reaching high,
They wait through winter's bitter cold,
To bloom again nearby.
I save a few of autumn leaves,
Between the book pages,
Keepsakes of seasons past and joys,
Like pressed flowers...
The old barn dance on Saturday,
Was the highlight of the week,
The fiddler played till midnight came,
And farmers came to seek.
The floor was rough-sawed oak boards,
That splintered socks and feet,
But no one cared as couples swung,
To the music's beat.
The caller sang out do-si-do,
And promenade so grand,
The swing and two-step filled the barn,
With joy across the land.
The ladies wore their cotton dresses,
The men in denim stiff,
A barn dance was the social event,
That brought the community...
Fisherman's prayer at dawn is said,
Before we leave the shore,
Please keep me safe from storm and wave,
And return me safely more.
The nets are mended, lines are set,
The anchor's lifted high,
The diesel engine rumbles loud,
As harbor fades from eye.
The ocean is both beautiful,
And cruel in same breath,
It takes and gives with equal force,
In life and also death.
When the catch is good and safe,
The mackerels in the hold,
I thank the Lord for bounty earned,
And stories to be told.
The fishe...
Sweet potato pie from grandmother's recipe,
Is the best I've ever tasted still,
With brown sugar and nutmeg on top,
That makes the kitchen fill.
The sweet potatoes from our garden,
Were roasted in their jackets,
Then mashed and beaten smooth as silk,
With eggs and butter packets.
The crust was flaky, buttered well,
Made by hand so fine,
Grandmother's pies were always perfect,
Every single time.
I make it now for Thanksgiving,
Just the way she taught,
A sweet potato pie today,
Is all the memor...
The old oak tree in the village square,
Has stood for hundred years or more,
Its branches spread like open arms,
To shade the weary and the poor.
The townfolk met beneath its limbs,
For news and gossip分享,
The gossip tree they called it then,
For stories fresh and old.
The children climbed its sturdy trunk,
The lovers carved their names,
The veterans marched beneath its boughs,
With glories won in games.
A lightning strike split its heartwood once,
But still it did survive,
The old oak tr...
The cemetery of ships lies here,
Where vessels come to die,
Their masts point skyward like tombstones,
As ocean currents pass by.
The iron bolts and rotting hulls,
Lie claimed by salt and tide,
These ships were grand in their day,
Now in Davy Jones they reside.
The pelicans perch on the masts,
Their sentinel watch to keep,
While crabs scuttle through the holds,
Where sailors once did sleep.
We walk among these ghost ships,
In waters calm and still,
The cemetery of ships reminds,
That nothing...
Grandmother's hands were rough and worn,
From a lifetime in the kitchen,
They kneaded bread and scrubbed clothes,
And mended anything that was missions.
Those hands taught me to quilt,
And quilt patterns in all designs,
They showed me how to thread a needle,
And other useful times.
The arthritis twisted them some,
But still they held so dear,
The memories of all the love,
They gave throughout the year.
Now when I quilt or bake bread,
I feel her presence near,
Grandmother's hands upon my own,
...
The canyon lands stretch vast and deep,
Where rivers carved their way,
Through millions of years of patient work,
In sandstone canyon walls today.
The hikers marvel at the colors,
Of red and orange band,
The slot canyons narrow passage,
Is where true beauty stands.
The cliff dwellings of ancient ones,
Are carved into the stone,
The ancestral people who lived here,
Called this canyon lands home.
The wind whispers through the corridors,
With secrets to unfold,
The canyon lands hold mysteries,
S...
The lighthouse keeper's daughter grew,
With ocean as her view,
She learned to row before she walked,
And swim before she flew.
She knew the stars by name at five,
And read the weather signs,
She helped her father tend the lamp,
When fog pressed on the shine.
Her mother taught her how to bake,
And tend the garden plot,
The isolation made her strong,
And ready for what she's got.
Now she tends the lighthouse lamp,
On her father's retirement day,
A lighthouse keeper's daughter stands,
To guide s...
Old gospel salvation through the cross,
Is what keeps me going every day,
Through trials and tribulations,
And worries that come my way.
The church choir sings with feeling,
The organ plays so strong,
The spirit moves among the pews,
As voices raise the song.
I found my peace in Jesus Christ,
When I was lost and alone,
He gave me hope and purpose,
And a place to call my home.
The old gospel salvation message,
Is one of love and grace,
I'm grateful for the second chance,
And the journey that I...
The Spoon River flows along,
The edge of my hometown,
We learned to swim in its murky waters,
And fished for catfish down.
The bridge that crossed at Main Street,
Was where we dared to jump,
Into the muddy current below,
Without a pump or plump.
The townsfolk say the river's haunted,
By those who drowned in play,
Their spirits wade the shallows now,
And fish both night and day.
But I don't fear the Spoon River Shore,
Or any ghosts that roam,
I'm proud to call this place my home,
Along this r...
The desert mirage appears ahead,
A shimmering lake so fair,
We drive toward it endlessly,
But it vanishes in air.
The heat waves bend the horizon,
To fool the traveler's eye,
The alkali flats reflect the sky,
In patterns that defy.
The jackrabbits dart across the road,
The roadrunners chase their prey,
The desert flora and fauna,
Have found their own way.
The cactus stores its water well,
The tortoise digs its den,
The desert mirage is illusion,
But beauty is very real then.
We slow down at the covered bridge,
The wooden planks so old,
Our headlights illuminate the dark,
As stories briefly told.
The creek runs shallow underneath,
Its banks grown up with reed,
The water shines like silver thread,
In this historic deed.
They built these bridges years ago,
With timber hewn so fine,
To span the creeks and rivers,
Across this land of mine.
We cross with reverence and care,
Lest the old wood break,
The old covered bridge crossing,
Is a piece of history we make.
Magnolia summer fills the air,
With perfume sweet and thick,
The blossoms white as wedding gowns,
Dress every limb and stick.
The porch swings sway in breeze so soft,
The bees drone lazy by,
The fireflies begin their show,
As sun descends the sky.
We sit and watch the light fade slow,
On another summer day,
These magnolia summers hold,
The love that won't away.
When autumn comes the blooms will fall,
Like snow on southern ground,
But summer memories live on,
In magnolias all around.
The old gospel journey is long and hard,
With mountains to climb,
Through the valleys low and shadows dark,
When troubles are high on my mind.
But the old gospel gives me strength,
To carry on each day,
The promise that I'm never alone,
Is what keeps the doubt at bay.
The choir sings of Jordan's waters,
And dry bones coming alive,
The amen sounds in the church,
Are threads that bind the survive.
I walk this old gospel journey,
With faith as my only guide,
The destination is glory land,
Where ...
Farmers market morning sun,
Glows over stalls so bright,
With tomatoes red and squash so yellow,
And berries purple quite.
The vendors set up before dawn,
Their canopies all in rows,
With honey, bread, and flowers fresh,
And cheese the local cows.
I buy my produce every Saturday,
From farmers I call by name,
Farmers market morning is,
Where community claims its fame.
The wild mustang herd roams free,
Across the Nevada plain,
Their manes flow long and tangled,
And hooves thunder again.
The mustangs have survived centuries,
Of hunting and capture near,
The Bureau of Land Management,
Tries year by year to manage.
They represent freedom so wild,
That settlers couldn't tame,
The wild mustang herd roaming,
Is America's western claim.
The chrysanthemum festival blooms,
In autumn's crisp cool air,
With mums in orange, red, and gold,
That blossom everywhere.
The Japanese tradition here,
Brought flowers from their home,
The mums stand tall in garden pots,
Along the streets of Rome.
The festival features teas,
And songs that celebrate,
The chrysanthemum festival in fall,
Is a tradition truly great.
Old gospel morning light streams through,
The stained glass windows bright,
Transforming the church interior,
Into a heavenly sight.
The choir robes hang in the back,
The bulletins stacked so neat,
The ushers greet with handshakes warm,
And locate your seat.
Old gospel morning light,
Is what fills my soul with hope,
When Sunday school begins at nine,
I climb the stairs to slope.