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The rodeo comes to town this week,
The bulls and broncos buck,
The cowboys in their chaps so tight,
Try their luck.
The crowd roars loud for cowboy rides,
On beasts that twist and jump,
Rodeo days are exciting,
At the arena we gather and pump.
Sweet magnolia blooms so white,
Perfume fills the southern air,
Her charm is like the moonlight,
That makes the night so fair.
I found her beneath the shade,
Of branches low and green,
Sweet magnolia's gentle shade,
Is the sweetest I have seen.
The steel rail stretches cross the land,
The iron horse's way,
The railroad workers laid these tracks,
To connect both coast and bay.
The steam engine's whistle blows,
Its smoke stacks belching soot,
A steel rail song of industry,
Put America on the route.
The lighthouse keeper's wife waits long,
For his return from the tower,
She tends the garden by the cliff,
Through every storm-powered hour.
The signal lamp burns through the fog,
He tends it through the night,
Lighthouse keeper's wife holds down,
Until the morning light.
The country churchyard on the hill,
Has headstones worn by time,
The names we cannot read no more,
Mark souls once so sublime.
The chapel bell no longer rings,
The building now unused,
A country churchyard on the hill,
Is memory's excuse.
The frontier doctor rode his horse,
To cabins in the wild,
His saddlebag held hope and care,
For pioneer fathers with child.
The leeches and the laudanum,
Were medicine of the day,
A frontier doctor on the range,
Was rarely paid in pay.
The mountain standard time moves slow,
Where altitude thins the air,
We rise with the sun and eat at dusk,
Our bodies still adjusting there.
The altitude affects your pace,
Each breath comes harder here,
Mountain standard time is nature's clock,
That runs different near.
Our prairie homestead stands alone,
A hundred miles from town,
The windmill turns through day and night,
Its steel blades going round.
The buffalo grass grows so sparse,
The tumbleweeds roll by,
A prairie homestead on the plain,
Is where we live and die.
The copper river salmon run,
Is the summer's prized catch,
The Native fishermen wait with nets,
To bring the silver batch.
The sockeye swim upstream so strong,
Against the current fast,
Copper river salmon harvest,
Is a tradition passed.
The banjo strums aSouthern tune,
Of tall tales told so true,
The storytellers bend the truth,
But that's what storytellers do.
The front porch is the gathering spot,
Where gossip and lies mix,
With banjos and lies we pass the time,
Beneath the weather vane's fix.
Gulf coast summer heat so thick,
The humidity hangs dense,
The cicadas sing their static songs,
While magnolias incense.
The beach towns pack with tourists crowds,
The shrimp boats line the docks,
A gulf coast summer season brings,
More humidity than clocks.
The lighthouse's light sweeps dark shores,
Where rocks lurk near the bay,
Its beam turns steady through the fog,
To guide the ships away.
The keeper climbs the winding stairs,
To tend the lamp each night,
Lighthouse's light that never sleeps,
Is the mariner's beacon bright.
The dawn chorus starts before the sun,
With warblers leading song,
The cardinal, sparrow, blackbird join,
Their melodies among.
The symphony begins so soft,
Then crescendos to the sky,
A dawn chorus that greets the day,
Is music from on high.
The chickadee says chick-a-dee-dee,
Its call so cute and small,
It flits among the pine branches,
At feeders in the fall.
The black-capped chickadee is brave,
It fears no winter's stay,
Chickadee's call in snow and ice,
Sings through each winter day.
The neighbors come to raise the barn,
With hammers ringing strong,
The beams are fitted, pegs hammered tight,
To build the whole along.
The potluck lunch is spread outside,
With pies and fried chicken near,
Barn raising day is community,
That's why neighbors volunteer.
The old trunk in the attic holds,
Letters tied with string,
The photographs in sepia tones,
Of those who used to sing.
The diary of grandmother's youth,
Its pages brown and frail,
An old trunk's secrets keep the past,
That time has made to fail.
A spoonful of honey from the hive,
Is sweeter than the rest,
The bees worked hard all summer long,
To fill each golden comb best.
The honey jar sits on the shelf,
With wax seal cracked and old,
A spoonful of honey reminds us,
Of summer's warmth and cold.
The midnight crossing of the bay,
The navigation lights guide,
The sailor's watch is long and cold,
With ocean swells as tide.
The stars are out in numberless count,
Above the dark expanse,
A midnight crossing under stars,
Is the sailor's evening dance.
The Catawba wine is sweet and gold,
From vineyards on the hill,
The tasting room is open late,
For wine lovers' fill.
The wine press squeezes the grape,
Till juice flows into vats,
Catawba wine from local grapes,
Is the vinicultural fact.
The poplars grove stands tall and white,
Where lovers meet at dusk,
Their leaves tremble in slightest breeze,
Like whispers in the hush.
The aspen quakes at wind's touch,
Its branches reaching high,
A poplars grove is nature's hall,
Where spirits float nearby.