Tag Archives: pastoral

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Prairie wind

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The wind makes its own decisions. Like any farmer on generations of loess, those decisions are very similar from year-to-year, but always they adapt to the current conditions. Occasionally it loses its temper, and scatters sod and silo, board and batten. Force of nature becomes force majeure. But it soon regains its composure, and goes back to moving soil from farm to farm to shed to house and vibrating in the gutters and corrugated.

The wind makes its own decisions. On those faces that etch the prairie with plow and hoe, the wind carves the same lines that it does in the unprotected earth at the edge of the field. Wind and sun burn indistinguishably except for the pattern they make. Wind, horizontal, sun vertical. Face, head. Draw the tear, dry the tear.

The wind makes its own decisions. It is always coming and leaving at the same time. It has travelled hundreds of miles with no interference, bending the wheat and slashing the corn. It is never static, never staying. Its direction is not predictable, but it can always be felt. It stalls and waits in lee or copse, or behind the house or in the barn, and then it’s cool and its movement feels like a caress, instead of a slap.

The wind makes its own decisions, and I have made mine. Now that wind sings of a place I am from. The sound is only in my ear as a whisper, and the daily grit in my eyes cleared many tears ago. But it calls to me, at night. I can taste the fields behind my home, and hear the weeds rustle over 5 generations of my family’s graves. But it is not the wind that drove me away. The wind and I are friends. It found me and sang me to sleep. It invited me to climb high into the elms to feel its gentleness rock me back and forth. It brought me flowers, and the smell of huge silos of corn and the cotton candy of the county fair.

The wind makes its own decisions, and it has made me its companion, and I left with it. Prevailing from the west, my only choice was to head east, so that some of that grit and fragrance and bluster came from home, though now it mixes with sea and maple and ice and hemlock.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

The Field Tender

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It is not the field you thought you’d tend.
The soil is hard to read,
and the harvest, hard to measure.
You’ve seen so many gardens end,
Leaving you in your need,
With only you left to treasure.

But this is the field that’s yours, today,
and constantly, it blooms.
With hearts you gently till.
You bring your trowel and you stay,
Until deeper soil subsumes
The weeds with loving skill.

You are an extraordinary gardener,
With a soul that finds its way
To that which needs you most.
You and the field become a partner,
In the sunlight of summer day
Or the dark eve of winter frost.

And from that love, we grow,
lift above the earth and spread
Our leaves, full and alive.
And this is a field you didn’t know,
Flowers for joy, grains for bread,
Where those who love you thrive.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Autumn woods, a meditation

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I took a hike up in the woods, to name the trees and plants.
The falling leaves, the autumn chill and golden sun entranced.
I traced a path, through brush and vine, along the mountain’s edge
The sumac and the maple trees cast red hues on the ledge.
Again, today, I’m ambling deep among the trees and stream.
The colors here are gentle soft, like memory of a dream.
I sit upon a fallen tree and taste the mossy scent,
And watch the light that dances on the golden leaves’ descent.
Every time I get a chance, I’ll do this walk again,
And share time with the breezy chorus of nature’s perfect Zen.
The feel of autumn’s cooling air, and earthy mists descending,
The scent of leaves and needles make a special magic, lending
A feeling of great comfort as the woods wind down with me.
They love enough to share my mood, in soft camaraderie.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Crocus

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The second crocus from the right
appeared with morning splendor, bright.
Its flower, a purple filigree
On pale blue petals three and three.

It rose from winter’s faint remains
And pierced the meadow’s snowy stains.
I saw the field aglow with light
Of gold and lavender and white.

And darkness from the evening letting
Starlight from Orion’s setting
Glitter off each iridescence
Marking winter’s obsolescence.

How proud it was to be so clear
So sure that it outshone its peer
It looked around and saw its glow,
Was casting color on the snow.

But then its pride was interrupted,
A sea of other flowers erupted,
Making it just one of dozens
A sibling in a pack of cousins.

Within a week, I wasn’t sure
Which ones I’d seen the day before.
But I know that it caught my sight,
The second crocus on the right.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Commute with Clouds

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As I drove toward the work I do
I came upon a stunning view
The valley’s clouds cast morning light,
On rows of dragons taking flight
From darkness just around the hill,
Where waves of magic horses spill.
They flowed and bent with thermals, stormed.
Until a new tableau was formed.
And mythic creatures gathered there,
All dancing in the solar glare.
The Sun, which lit this universe,
Then bade that vap’rous crowd disperse
And as I drove into that field,
the last of misty phantoms yield.
I’ll pass this way each day, and then,
The scene will charm my heart, again.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

The weathered tree

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The weathered tree has seen the light of half a century’s Springs.
With warming breeze, or icy winds its wide canopy sings.

Summer brought a blessed growth of branch and leaf and core.
The trunk forged strong, the roots bore deep, the branches grew to soar.

And after many seasons, plain, the hopeful sylvan flowered.
And on the forest’s to needled bed the fragrant petals showered

Many thought the flowers brash, the fragrance overbloomed
Perhaps, it seemed, the tree had not been well and truly pruned.

The joy those days bequeathed to it, a height it had not known,
Was drawn into and scattered round with seed that it had sown.

But seasons change and Autumn’s cold reality intruded,
And every branch of its bright cloak, summarily denuded.

Then, with Winter’s sharp descent, the mirthless dark takes hold.
This taller mast, once bathed in light, is battered by the cold.

But even then, in bitter snow, when branches bend and hew,
The hope still holds a sacred place, that Summer springs anew.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Wooded walk

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Barefoot on the wooded trail, two almost strangers ambled.
The thoughts escaped their daily rail, the conversation rambled.
The dappled sun on forest floor alit the gentle pair.
Each unforced topic begging more, new ideas yet to share.
A bed of moss as soft as air
They sat upon the ground
And circumnavigating there,
A joyous, barking hound.
And as is true of all grand days
there had to come an end
The strangers long had parted ways,
They said goodbye as friends.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek, Thomas

Super Moon

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“Turn it down,” I shouted as I banged upon the sky.
“Can’t you see, I can not sleep, but really need to try?”

The moon’s enchanting laughter rained on downy forest bed.
I felt the weight of morning’s chores, an ice floe in my head.

She said, “tonight’s my special night, you can’t deny me this.
It’s many years before His plan returns me to such bliss.”

I peeked through curtained window pane, and out into the yard,
I figured just a little glance, it wouldn’t be that hard.

And then she called, “it’s early yet, I want to dance with you.”
The summer meadow whispered back in ivory, silver dew.

I looked upon the fairy field and could not stay my course.
I had to breathe the evening light and court its graceful source.

The night went long, we drank the scent of blossoms and of earth.
The gentle breeze made music sweet and we sang with joy and mirth.

The final dance with that sweet court, light feet upon the moss.
I felt the call of garish day, this magic, soon, my loss.

For with the waking to the sun, to ordinary day,
I barely, still, could hear her song, “tonight, come out and play.”

—-
Tonight she calls to dance again, but now I must say “no”.
The late night kept my day off keel and the hours ticked by slow.
So now, tonight, I climb to bed and wish that wraith adieu.
The moment passed, the glitter lost, the ghost of one I knew.