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Our riverside canoe trip,
Started at first light,
We packed sandwiches and drinks,
And launched into the current's might.
The river carried us along,
Past sycamores so old,
The turtles sunned on logs,
As our canoe quietly polled.
We paddled until evening came,
Then made camp on the sand,
Riverside canoe trip memories,
Are treasures I hold close in hand.
Southern gothic porch swing sways,
As thunder rolls outside,
The Spanish moss hangs heavy,
In the humidity tide.
The pitcher of sweet tea grows warm,
The cicadas drone their sound,
Magnolia blossoms perfume,
Wraps the whole porch around.
We're safe here in the twilight,
As lightning bugs appear,
Southern gothic porch evenings,
Are what I hold dear.
Pioneer woman on the prairie,
With children in tow,
The covered wagon waits outside,
For the journey she'll know.
She milked the cow each morning,
And churned the butter too,
Gardened and canned vegetables,
For the winter's coming due.
She raised them all by herself,
When frontiers were wild,
The pioneer woman standing,
Was the pioneer household's child.
Great plains dust blew so fierce,
In the Dirty Thirties before,
The topsoil turned to dust storm clouds,
That buried farms to the core.
The farm implements abandoned,
Stood like sculptures in waste,
The families packed everything,
On Route sixty-six in haste.
The dust bowl was a tragedy,
Of wind and drought combined,
Great plains dust carried away,
The futures of many kinds.
Cowboy campfire tales unfold,
Beneath the stars so bright,
The wranglers share their stories,
Of roundups and cattle drives.
The fire crackles and pops,
The coffee pot bubbles near,
The horses stand saddled nearby,
While the night sounds fill my ear.
These cowboy campfire tales,
Will live in memory,
Of nights spent under the stars,
And cowboy's reverie.
The Cedar Rapids rush by,
With whitewater roaring loud,
The kayakers test their skills,
In this rushing crowd.
The limestone cliffs rise high,
Above the water's edge,
The caverns carved by geology,
Stand carved from the sediment wedge.
I float the Cedar Rapids,
My raft bouncing through,
The rapids thrill and chill me,
In the river's spray so blue.
Mountain cabin retreat,
Is where I go to breathe,
The Aspen trees surround,
With their leaves that shake.
No WiFi or cell signal,
Just the wind through pine,
The deer walk past at dusk,
As stars begin to shine.
I read by kerosene lamp,
And chop wood for the fire,
Mountain cabin retreat days,
Are what I desire.
The old gospel river flows wide,
Its waters deep and wide,
I wade into the stream,
Where my soul learns to glide.
The current carries me downstream,
Past the shoreline trees,
The old gospel river runs deep,
And calms my every worry.
I baptized in this river,
When I was twelve years old,
The old gospel river runs past,
My spiritual home.
Vermont maple syrup season,
Comes when winter thaws,
The sap buckets hang on trees,
With metal pails because.
The sugarhouse steams so sweet,
As the evaporator works,
The amber syrup trickles out,
Its flavor never shirks.
We pour it over pancakes tall,
With butter melting slow,
Vermont maple syrup morning,
Is the best way to go.
Prairie dog town is bustling,
With yips that echo near,
Their colonies spread underground,
Where burrows protect their fear.
The black-tailed prairie dogs,
Stand upright on hind legs,
To watch for hawks and coyotes,
While tending their eggs.
I drive across the prairie,
Their towns dotting the plain,
Prairie dog town is teeming,
With life in the maintained.
Ozark folk festival time,
Is when the mountain folk gather near,
With fiddles, banjos, and guitars,
And old songs that they share.
The square dance callers shout,
Dosido and promenade,
The callers and musicians,
Are the best in the trade.
Ozark folk festival brings,
Traditions to life again,
The heritage of the hills,
Revived by local men.
The Gulf Coast shrimper heads out,
Before the sun does rise,
The nets are cast into the waters,
Where the brown pelicans dive.
The deckhand throws the bait,
To bring the catch in fresh,
The shrimp boats battle the waves,
For a living in the cascade.
The Gulf Coast shrimper's life,
Is one of salt and spray,
We're grateful for the catch,
At the end of each day.
Hush puppy dreams of better days,
When I was still a child,
When the world was simple,
And the future seemed worthwhile.
I dream of hush puppies frying,
In cast iron pots,
The smell of corn fritters,
Is what really counts.
Those southern cooking memories,
Are hush puppy dreams come true,
Of dinners with the family,
And corn cakes with sugar too.
Red River valley girl,
With hair the color of wheat,
She dances at the hoe down,
With lightning in her feet.
I've loved her since the summer,
When we were both sixteen,
She drove a pickup truck,
And wore denim.
Now years have passed us by,
But my heart still ache for,
Red River valley girl,
Of all the memories in store.
Sailing on Lake Erie,
When the sun sets so grand,
The water turns to copper,
And the islands appear.
The breeze fills our sails so,
As we tack and jibe with glee,
The fresh water splashes,
On a lake that is blue and free.
Lake Erie can be fickle,
With squalls that bring a fright,
But sailing on Lake Erie,
Is pure summer delight.
Appalachian morning fog,
Sits heavy in the hollers,
The rooster crows on somebody's porch,
While the wood smoke smell hovers.
The coon hounds bay in distance,
Their prey has been treed,
The hunters gather in the kitchen,
For coffee and deeds.
Appalachian morning is,
Where the world moves slow,
Where neighbors help each other,
And nobody's alone.
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.