a poem in my pocket

Out-dated landmark peeling red paint, 

the wooden corn crib burned down late 

on monday morn after holding ripe ears of 

harvested gold, countless kernels of many

hard-working years. Could say it was arson

by the farmer and his son who poured on 

gas until the flaming roof fell in at last and the

surrounding snow dissolved into nostalgic tears.

This stockman understands his cattle well;

he knows each bovine personality.

If list’ning to the farmer’s show and tell,

you just might learn which traits he thinks are key.

It’s easy to see why he prized that cow;

her gentleness was evident to all.

She would not kick or ever cause a row;

when calving, she walked calmly to the stall.

That morning lay this black cow in the dust;

for farmer’s eyes a sadness to behold.

He kneels beside the vet, whose words he trust.

No more fine, healthy calves from her be sold.

All creatures are destined to die at last.

We grieve, yet grateful, for a life well passed.

Did the tourism bureau

neglect to mention

that in our fair state

expect to experience

four distinct seasons:

freezer burn,

flood ‘n mud,

swelter belt,

dust or bust  ?!

His presence enters the womb,

A babe invades the stable;

The answer questions the teachers,

A carpenter turns the table.

A light shines for the blind,

His life raises the dead;

The bread eats with sinners,

The shepherd’s lambs are fed.

The judge stands condemned,

An only son suffers alone;

Our lover embraces the cross,

The creator lies cold behind stone.

Lord, your power destroys death;

Your blood’s stain washes sin.

You must break into our world

When we will not let you in!