Flint
Hills
by Elisabeth Birky
Sun-drenched palette
Rolling hills
Extend
Beyond a cloudless horizon
Like
a giant quilt.
An
artist’s motif
Colorful wildflowers
Nod
Waving gently to the baton
Of
the perpetual breeze.
Rich
and varied grasses
Of
every shade and hue
Beckon
As
with open palms
To
these majestic flint hills.
Old
Roads
by Bev Lethem Davis
We
packed a thermos full of coffee
for
the trip to Philly. Not THE Philly,
but
what Phillipsburg High graduates
now
call their hometown.We called
it
the Burg. Lately, when you eat
at
the Third Street Bakery, you can
get a
Phillipsburger. It's big,
it's
well-done and it's covered in goop
on a
huge bun of white flour meal. Not a lick
of
fiber in the thing. But it fills you up.
We
think we’ll try one on arrival.
On
the way to Philly, we drive the old roads,
the
two lanes. 281 out of Russell, home
of
former Senator and Presidential candidate,
Robert Dole. And through Plainville,
boyhood home of Jerry Moran. Both men are
Republicans. We aren’t. It’s Republican Country,
this
home state we share with them. This
doesn’t keep us from returning the wave
we
receive as we meet friendly
farmers in mud-covered pickups
traveling along the highway. The
wave
is of the first finger, barely lifted off
the
steering wheel. A sort of tip-your-hat
greeting along a lonesome road amidst
rolling Kansas plains dried
auburn under winter's sky.
My
husband calls our old Durango
the
lumber wagon as it lumbers
along
carrying supplies and paint
to
help my recently widowed sister
redo
her full-to-the-brim house
of
memory. Maybe it will help loosen
her
chain of pain and move her to more
comfortably remodel her very different life.
Losing Larry changed us all.
When
the redo is done,
my
husband and I will slide furniture back
against the walls, hammer in nails to hang
photos of old memories
but
leave room for new.
Afterwards, we'll take the interstate home,
slide
in the Prairie Rose Wranglers cd
to
cover our quiet thinking
so we
don't miss the Phillipsburger
we
didn't try, one-fingered waves,
two-lane roads, or our brother-in-law.
An
Expatriate Kansan Rides
the Train of Remembering
by Tom Reynolds
My
trip into the vanished past
is
prodded by springs in my seat,
cracked vinyl scraping an elbow,
and
thirst for water, not truth.
This
train ain’t bound for glory,
just
a slow sixty miles down country,
through thickets and shorn fields,
weaving on unsafe tracks.
Today’s train ain’t no showpiece,
just
an engine and three rusted cars,
soot
seeping through cracks,
till
I wonder what I was thinking
traveling into Kansas this way,
my
life there on that Oswego farm
surrounded by woods and trees,
the
slow trickle of a muddy creek,
crags
below the wooden bridge,
a black hawk circling the hedge,
the
farmhouse beyond the hill,
and
despite all, enduring love.
I
should have gone first class.
RICHES
By Greta Isaac
The
wheat field, green and low,
Is
tipped with ice. Sunshine
Lights each emerald row.
A
pheasant, slow and fine
Meets
the silvery green,
A
solemn, flashing king.
Behind him, his brown queen
Steps
high. The finches sing.
Five
shining pages trail
This
regal pheasant pair.
No
plane, no car, no sail,
Can
match the beauty there.
The
hunters did not find
Each
flying radiant thing.
I
catch the glory, bind
It
tight. The finches sing.
|
In Passing
by Lee Mick
Just East of
the Miltonvale turn off
Nestled
between a narrow strip of old highway 24
And the
smooth, gray ribbon of the new two-lane,
Lies a
little, well manicured patch
Of native
Kansas grass.
Positioned
one above the other,
Two small,
white gravestones.
Their
identical appearance
Suggesting a
past sharing of the two lives.
A oneness of…
Time?
Affiliation? Family?
I stopped
only once amongst my hurried passings,
To try and
answer the questions that overcome me
Each time the
two come into view.
But with the
darkening evening hour
The detail
that had worn soft upon the little, white, stone faces
Escaped the
straining of my tired eyes.
Eventually I
will set aside the time
To try
again... to discover
Truth behind
the stones.
Until then I
will be content
To smile
Upon the
mind’s manifestation…
Two small
prairie daughters
Of identical
blonde curls and white cotton dresses,
Who pause
their endless game of tag
To wave with
delight
As I pass by
In constant
self-serving haste
Home
by Karen Cerio
Flat lands,
oceans of wheat,
harvest
hands, fields all neat
friendly
folks, warm smiles,
country
jokes, at home style,
family fun,
4th of July,
summer sun,
stars in the sky,
county fair,
carnival lights,
first place
mare, dances at night,
drive-in
features, friends for life,
old teachers,
help in strife,
tornado
warnings, siren blasts,
Sunday
morning, faith that lasts,
skies of
blue, thunder clouds,
grass with
dew, funeral shrouds,
simple food,
gathering eggs,
city dudes,
bowed legs,
hand shake
deals, respect of man,
prayerful
kneels, God and land,
parents and
home, love and laughter,
thoughts
roam, forever after
to Kansas.
1987 kc
Originally Published in Life's Dusty Roads,
copyright 2012 by Karen Cerio, all rights reserved
Tate
Publishing & Enterprises, LLC
Purchase this book online at
Amazon.com or
Tate Publishing
KANSAS FLINT HILLS
by Russett Stubbs
Winters, dark
and lonely.
Springs,
burnt blacken grass.
Summers, lush
and green.
Falls, rust
and brass.
Horizons,
miniature mountains.
Sunrise,
Sunsets, bold storms.
Lovely, Kansas Flint Hills.
Wondrous,
yearly norm.
A Prairie Churchyard
by Mel
G.Hebert
It’s a
hot, summer day in the land of my birth.
here to
visit my parents resting ‘neath a cover of earth.
In a
lone Kansas churchyard dating back to the past,
when
the territory first settled in the hopes it would last.
It’s a
relic of history, built so long past gone,
near a
pioneer town flattened by a prairie cyclone.
Lines
of thin, fleecy clouds float idly by,
traveling ever so slowly ‘neath the pale blue sky.
A
merciless sun is bent on spreading its heat
o’er
the vast, waving fields of ripe, golden wheat.
Scanning the grave stones defining this plot,
I note
sadly the number has grown quite a lot.
Yonder!
There are the graves of my parents.
Nearby
my grandparents too.
There.
There. And there - kinfolks before them,
some
that I never knew.
Uncles,
aunts, cousins and more,
schoolmates and friends who I’ll see nevermore.
I
wander about. Skyward motion catches my eye,
as a
raucous crow caws noisily by.
Melancholy floods me and I wonder why
such
creatures live when so many folks die.
The
spell is broken. It‘s time to take leave.
I’ve
visited my people. It’s past time to grieve.
At the
gate, I look back with longing, each eye with a tear,
as a
soft, muffled sound of shuffling feet reaches my ear.
It’s
those generations before me marching on to their due,
and the
generations behind me taking their place in that queue.
Then a
hushed, whispering chorus says “Don’t weep. Be now of good cheer!
We’re
waiting - - and lovingly will greet you when your time is here!”
Night Skies
by Frances Enloe
Grandma would
tell us
her people
said Europe's
starry sky
doesn't
compare with
the night sky
of
Kansas.
In the deep
blue sky of
Evening or at
midnight's
Darkest, the
prairie
stars sparkle
like
Christmas
lights
glittering on
a trans-
parent
background.
All poetry on this page
Copyright
© by
their authors - 2009,
2011, 2012, 2013
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