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The Farm

 

 

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While driving a back road the other day
came across an old farm in sad decay.
I pulled off to the side to view the site.
Wonder how this farm fell into this plight.

Searching I pictured sites; from long ago.
The farmhouse was blanketed by the snow.
Smoke curled from the chimney by night and day.
Kids ignored the cold while busy at play.

Looked once again and saw Spring drawing nigh.
As play was replaced by chores by and by.
All hands were required to work the farm.
With each generation; farm life lost charm.

With summer came work from daylight to dark
and seldom a chance for a play-day lark.
A dip in the creek; seemed a rare treasure.
Life on a farm left small time for pleasure.

With Fall’s arrival came new work to do.
There’s meat and tators; to mention a few.
Cords of dry wood to stack neatly in rows.
Then stock the larder and fill the silos.

Winter comes to offer a brief repose.
Dad works on the books and Mama she sews.
Kids all enjoy; what seems a holiday.
Climbing the hill to ride down on a sleigh.

Each passing year the desire has waned.
“Jobs are in town,” all the children explained.
Venturing off they all leave one by one,
parents pass on and the farm; it is done.

Farm life’s been replaced by sad memories,
I thought as I sat there beneath the trees.
A life style forgotten and left behind.
One trip pass that farm brought this all to mind.

c.d.m. 2010

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Old Minnie’s Farm

 

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This is the saga of ‘Old Minnie’s’ farm,
the tale and estate are both humble.
Old clapboard cottage in dire need of paint,
and a barn roof ready to buckle.
“““““
The farm was the home of many a beast;
and while each had a story to tell.
Worn out Minnie had no time for fables;
for she saw to each tiresome detail.
“““““`
The fields bore more thistle than timothy,
fertilizer is hard to disperse.
Yet without it the hayfield’s lie barren.
Near as barren as Old Minnie’s purse.
““““““
An ancient grey mare labored with Minnie,
to harvest what weeds they could gather.
Tansy by name; worked from morning to-night,
she too was in no mood for chatter.
““““““
Bertha the milk-cow produced every year.
Farmer Wesselhoeft loaned out his bull.
With boney old frame, and nearly bald hide,
she’d no time to gab with her mouth full.
““““““`
The old sow Drucilla bore young each year,
and kept meat on poor Minnie’s table.
She’d shed a tear as her young disappeared,
slept at night in old Tansy’s stable.
“““““““
The hens had each other for company,
there were far too many to mention.
When Minnie came gathering ‘offerings’,
they’d all cluck as they stood at attention.
“““““““
Poor as the church mice and yet they survived,
at end of the day they had plenty.
For each had a place and each had a part,
working together as family.

 

c.d.m. 10/2012

 

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A Gentle Voice

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If you would just once reach out
to touch me tenderly
the change of heart between us
would know no boundaries.

A womans heart will respond
much like a moth to light
it’s not in gifts and flowers
but love the flame ignites.

A whisper softly spoken
brings down the strongest wall
a females heart will open
like a spring parasol.

Much like a willow draping
across a peaceful lake
a gentle voice will reach her
and your wife’s love awake.

cheryl davis miller 9/26/17

 

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Sweet West Virginia Boy

 

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There high upon the wind-swept hill
beneath a warm spring sky,
We promised there on top the rocks
our love would never die.

With God alone to witness us
we made our vows that day,
we had no need of others to
hear what we had to say.

We swore to one another that
our love was all we’d need
to overcome life’s trials and
in all things to succeed.

“Time In A Bottle”, was our song
the essence of our heart.
There on the hills we never dreamed
that one day we would part.

I walked away sorry to say
much to my sad regret.
Now forty-two years later love,
I still cannot forget.

Your passing is the only cause
that I have not returned,
to my sweet West Virginia boy
for whom I’ve always yearned.

cheryl davis miller 5/1/17

for Stanley

 

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Purple Haze

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Another life has passed today
lost in a purple haze.
Tears flow from family and friends
all due to a drug craze.

Haze of the craze; a moments ease
from some of life’s turmoil.
but for relief the cost has been
a life of crime and toil.

A fair exchange, I ask of you
for moments of relief?
A life cut short with disregard
by purple haze, a thief.

There is no beauty in that life
no glamour can be found.
Heart sick souls that seek relief in
a purple haze are drowned.

Angels are weeping in heaven
for that which might have been;
if purple haze had never won
the war called heroine.

cheryl davis miller 11/28/16

9/17/16       11/28/16

 

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A Swan Song

 

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Why is it you would want to hear
the music of my death cry?
You of all people have to know
that sound means, I will soon die.

Yet you taunt me on and on to
come sing you a lullaby.
The only question in my heart
is but to ask you why. Why?

You’ve known my weakness and my strength;
faults and all you’d not decry.
Yet now you bury your knife deep
I sing to you my goodbye..
cheryl davis miller 10/18/16

picture courtesy of ; Terri Jeans Photography,  Nelsonville Ohio

 

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The Middle

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Right out here in ‘the middle’ of
this wonderful country.
There is a whole lot of people
that think a lot like me.

Like; we think we ought to matter
and even have some say,
concerning what goes on here in
the good old USA.

Were the ones that pay the taxes
and provide charities.
Backbone of the nation pays
the politicians fees.

Yet were the last ones considered
or even to be heard
In fact we are never mentioned
unless we’re being slurred.

They like to call us backwards or
suggest we are in-bred,
to mock our God and weapons then
say we have been misled.

They truly are high-minded those
that dwell beside the sea.
Discounting all the middle land
that’s you and it is me!

Now Hillary accuses us
ev’ry kind of ‘ism’.
They are walling off the middle
accusing us of schism.

Wake up out there in ‘middle land’
and let your voice be heard.
Before it’s just East coast and West
the middle just a byword.

Cheryl Davis Miller 9/10/16

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