Stored in a Barn

Stored in the Barn

A Comment Poem

By

The Cunning Poets Society

Jim Schmotzer, Kelly Langner Sauer, Erin Kilmer, Val, Lorrie Ransom, Kathleen Overby, Maureen Doallas, Russell Holloway, Larry E., Krist Fornshell, Susan Etole, Glynn Young, Monica Sharman, Linda Schontos, Bradley J. Moore, Laura Boggess, Melo, A. Jay Adler, Fishing Guy, Marcus Goodyear and Nancy Rosback.

Edited by Nancy Rosback

Morning light
 filtering through
 rough 
cockeyed 
slats

I guess at what was 
knowing

I fall short of reality


Another’s dream, labor of love

Voices hammering memory,

Splinters
,

Nails 
into strong shelter.

After all these years


Rough and splintered, empty and useless


Is this all there is of me?

The devastation of time


And splendor of the past


Reveals an opportunity today.

Against my cheek


Batik
 and quantum
 glassy

Veil
 of wonder shrunken,

Dry, broken beauty


The warmth of living


Held in the
 pores of her
 wooden walls

So wide the slant
 of light still


Reflecting and
 illuminating,


Urging me
 to cast my eyes


Up beyond 
the surface


Of my worn 
decaying shell.


I rest in shadow,

Sun inviting, 
waiting.


Someone see me
 venture in;


Unbury my treasures.


I am yet standing
 still.

My hand reaches out


And touches a smooth forehead


Of someone unseen

Standing in shadows between broken patterns of light
,

My feet disturb ancient dust, sending it swirling


Through the stilted sunbeams shimmering through broken slats,


Twirling through my memory the summers on this farm.


And forming within the air long forgotten faded faces,


That when I reach dissolve again in dust and past.

Dark and deep


Memories sleep.


Times long ago:

Frosty mornings
,

Cattle breath,

Clouds,


Grandpa’s mud caked boots
,

Frosting of ice on an old tin roof,

Hauling up hay bales to store for the Winter,

Sweet smells of Fall harvest
,

Muscles aching, mind content.

Bustle of city life now
,

Missing the farm.

Memories don’t rust nor dry rot.

Lumber and slumber
,

Time has its way
.

Hit the hay

Weathered, broken,

Leaning 
on
 another’s arms
 hoping
 for
 more time

There was a barn raising, once;

Horses and cows 
snorted and 
jostled, once;


Hay was baled and lifted, once;


I lay on the floor
 to fix the oil
 leak on the 
John Deere, once;

The we-regret-to
-inform-you
-telegram came to
 me there, once;


I lay dying while
 they stored my
 coffin there, once.

Slat-filter is what I need 
to let through only the pure
 light,

The oldness and pain strained
 away by sieve of wood
 still standing.

Beams of light revealing
 pieces of the past,


Days when all was prosperous
 and we filled the air with laughter.

Slanted,


Leaning,

Waiting and weathered,


This beaten brown
 chicken wired life
;

This Broken down 
body of
 boards,


Planks, subject to
 the elements’
decay.


But
 beautiful 
rest.

Yet-
sun-bleached
 beauty 
tells story
 of 
my heart


Sated with 
life
 holding in
 memories


Laughing in
 the wind.

Hold up 
this old skirt
 one last
 time


And twirl
 in grasses 
swaying at 
my hem

I am
 ready
 to die
 now.

Touched 
lives unseen

Sheltering
 still
,

Shedding skin
,

Tunneling
,

Scuffling.


Fluffing feathers.

Turning
 to sun
 and moon
 murmuring
 softly


Burrowing
 beneath 
each other 
and earth,


Crumbled leaves,
 scattered remains,


Remnants
 transfigured
 another life
.

Sheltering
 still
.

Woven together
 grass


Feather


Paper

Thread
 and fur 
tucked 
between
 mud.

Clinging
 heart singing 
beneath eaves.


Helplessly
 open mouths
 and eyes 
not yet 
seeing


Wait in line,


Lean,


Slope
,

Skew 
to the pitch of a truth I tell.

I once stood strong 
against the wind.


I did not quake
n or did I bend

And now the end 
is drawing near


I face it now
 seeing no fear.

Dust in the air and under
 my boots

Must contain the life
 that passed through their stock.


This space plows my faith
 and memory into neat rows

Waiting for someone to sow.

January 21-22, 2010