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A Sure Thing [Haiku]

 

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Indubitably
Not one iota of doubt
None more sure than I

c.d,m,  2017

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Posted by on November 30, 2018 in Haiku, humor, Uncategorized

 

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The Farm

 

 

window picture

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Farm life’s been replaced by sad memories,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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KATE’S LAW

sheeple

I had a dream like
Martin Luther King.
Where I lived in a
sovereign nation.

My children could play
in the streets each day,
without fear from an
alien gunman.

But the people slept
as base henchmen crept,
into office’s
meant for our leaders.

Blind sheep awaken
retake our nation,
cause right now we’re just
tax paying breeders.

It ought not to be
that our citizenry,
has little to do
for our protection.

That criminals walk
since the dead can’t talk,
and lawyers practice
racist deflection.

c.d.m.12/1/17

 

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The Bucket

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When the bucket is empty
and the well has run dry
which way shall we all turn and
to Whom shall we then cry?

Denying the evidence
of the Creator’s hand
we’ve bartered and borrowed we
refuse to understand.

That every good thing must
some day come to an end
We can try to ignore it
as we try to pretend.

That this life will just go on
and that nothing will change
that there’s always tomorrow
and death we’ll shortchange.

Then life’s bucket is empty
and our well has run dry
if we call out to Jesus
He will always reply.

 

cdm 10/13/17

 

 

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A Gentle Voice

window picture

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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Blackheart McCain

eagles

Listen to the tale of ‘Blackheart McCain’
who danced on the graves of Vietnam’s slain.
Never believed tho they called him Songbird
a suffering captives the tale I’d heard.

Spent my whole life thinking him a great man,
served US with honor during Vietnam.
Voted for him I’m ashamed now to say,
he’s shown his ‘black heart’ to US all today.

Guess it has all been for money and fame
this lifetime pursuit of Blackheart McCain.
It tells on his face, tho he shows no shame,
he’s serves but himself this Blackheart McCain.

Cheryl Davis Miller 9/ 22/17

 
 

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