Archive for Sunday, June 13, 2010

Poet’s Showcase: ‘Farmstead’

June 13, 2010


The house had shrunk
And was in disrepair.
Wood rots in time as does the mind
Of a child too long kept from
Love and home.

The distance, that once took
small, sunburned limbs
more steps to cross the yard, from
house to red barn, to chicken coop, the granary and beyond, now shortened.

All the way to the secret
wheatfields she’d run,
where tears were sobbed,
swallowed in huge gulps,
the fields always thirsty.

Still, the sun remained
the same. A meadowlark
perched on a splintered
post singing all was well
in it’s world and the one beyond.

The tadpole grew its legs,
coyotes howled at the moon,
Cows chewed their
cud in wide-eyed
boredom and innocence.

Nature rocked and cooed
to its young, held it close
in watchful arms as if
no evil had been let in,
no damage had been done.

— Ronda Miller lives in Lawrence.

Send Poet’s Showcase submissions to


Steve Bunch 7 years, 10 months ago

Halt! Drop that pen, back away from the paper, and no one gets hurt.

Ronda Miller 7 years, 10 months ago

Hi, Alf. Nice to see you, I think, out and about this wonderfully tstormy day. With red pen I presume? :)

schula 7 years, 10 months ago

Ronda -- another great a poem. You have such a way with words. I can picture the in my mind the farm and the child taking all the steps between the building. Looking forward to reading more of your poetry.

Frederic Gutknecht IV 7 years, 10 months ago

Back at the old homestead where isolation bred the love of place and community we watch a screaming light now box our ears and individuality as it pays for a far more desolate isolation.

Ronda Miller 7 years, 10 months ago

Thanks, Shula. Hopefully there will be more to read. We have many fine poets in our area.

JJ, very nice. Did you grow up on a farm? It gives us a special connection with nature and the land - lucky me for having that experience.

Frederic Gutknecht IV 7 years, 10 months ago

I grew up in the sloppy lowlands of southern Louisiana (New Orleans)...walked that sloppy ground and found what little beauty I still hold dear. The spills and politics of that swamp and our own slough still spell horror in my mind...yet I know we are hold our place...our words...and time in the great muddy rivers that we wash in and ford.

Commenting has been disabled for this item.