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R - V ... Kansas Poems
Alphabetically sectioned by poem title Select Below to View Another Group: |
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Remembrance
by Duane L. Herrmann It's just a label: "Farm Fresh Cider" a simple common title, The local near, just down the road: "Douglas, Co." (Kansas). Now soiled and aged and torn, just a bit of paper, But for the name, the family name: "M. (Mathias) Gantz." My grandmother's grandfather and his apple orchard, My family, one hundred years ago, was here as I am now. Whispers Shouting Glory, c 1989, Duane L. Herrmann -- Buffalo Press, Topeka Read More Poems by ► Duane Herrmann (PDF) Rabbit Babies
By R. Ossiya Look, how flagrant--how unrestrained the weeds and other wild things that grow in my front yard! From all around, my land draws rabbit babies-- its clover, buffalo grass, bindweeds, wild onions, and dandelion greens all tossed together in one big salad surprise. There is something vaguely unfriendly-- faintly dangerous, even-- lurking in alien lawns of fescue and Bermuda grass, and all the rabbit babies know it. That is why they hop on past my neighbors' yards on their merry way to mine. |
Remnants
by Rachel Johnson An arrowhead, a grinding stone, a Chip from a discarded jar, leather Strips of a papoose lay strewn about the Back pasture behind the farmhouse not far, Leaves the curious without doubt of Who traveled and survived Before. Grasses blanket the trail once worn Ragged where dogs yet eaten then Horses pulled poles laden with household Wares and treasures and bounty to Summer rendezvous along the river Cottonwood and elm shaded for trade and Talk. The Smokey first washed then settled on Deer and duck and down covered geese Track scratches, beaver and weisel paw Prints, and a hundred foot stomps left by Moccasin from generations of drifters Seeking camaraderie, company and Contest. Now hoof paths pounded hard by black Heifers heavy with unborn calves Finger their way past the dry creek Bed to moss covered stock tanks, Trailed dry cow chips splattered about Parallel tire lines of an old pickup Truck. |
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Ride with the Top Down
by Wilma Weant Dague Think how impossible it is to love Kansas. No ocean, no mountains. This summer, no significant rain for weeks. We take a ride in your MGB convertible on a blazing day. Here on the right-- stunted corn, brown with tassels sprouting shoulder high. On the left, a crop of soybeans barely measurable in height. Above the blue astounds. Puff ball clouds drift across the sky. Five miles out and five miles back -- after all the kids are home alone--though the neighbors are awake and the kids know 911. Dust flies up in the gravel-topped turnaround, clings to the new wax. We pause for a minute on the concrete bridge to ponder a brown stream that trudges along. So this is Kansas. A few people even call it big sky country. Back at the four-way, three white vehicles approach from each of the other directions. A pick-up and two non-descript sedans. And there we are, a slice of ripe red tomato against the tan and white-grained earth. |
Rising Hope
by Karl Detrich Blackbirds have gathered to feast in the fields. Rising in a wave from the concealing grain the great flock wheels as if of one mind before settling to perfectly-spaced perches on power lines above. What secret signal, what inner trumpet calls them from their business to their rest, calls them to rise as we will one day rise, on a thousand little wings? Redbuds
by Greg Hack Redbuds in the wild Grasses copper, straw and green Spring’s Flint Hills glory |
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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. |
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Summer Night
for William Stafford by Steven Hind On the road tonight with that shovel of stars overhead, Milky Blur I christen it, Bill, I thought of you, traveling the dark with the trucks and the skunks. Near Abilene a pale stain passed under my lights, apostrophe from some deer meeting fate in a confusion of headlights, and your poem whispered its steady purr over another recent killing. At two, past all disasters that did not happen tonight, I squat in a bath of breezes under my cottonwood. This to say: thousands of leaves believe in summer tonight, saying, Be true. You are. Adios. Read More Poems by ► Steven Hind (PDF) |
The Sod House Green
by William J. Karnowski attached to the wind is the west wing of the sod house green while planting in the spring I used to say oh look momma the sun is rising as the moon is going down then look poppa stop behind the plow that cloud looks like momma and like the summer rains she has gone again just the growing remains everything I love smells like Kansas sod grown up now still behind the plow I kiss the earth as she rolls over dark damp and steaming dinner bell ringing for the water lost seagulls Read More Poems by ► Willam Karnowski (PDF) |
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Seasonal Dichromatic
by Ellen Drake The winter wind is piercing cold; The sky, ice blue; the grass is gold, Brittle, dry and covered with dust. Tumbleweeds leap with every gust. In turquoise framed, the sun gleams gold; The harrier circles, swift and bold. The meadowlarks' clear warbles ring; The wind sings in the grass in spring. Beneath blue skies the bright gold wheat Is burnished in the sun's fierce heat, Fanned by the bellows of the wind That sears the earth at summer's end. Yellow-gold the trees' leaves turn; Against the azure sky they burn Like golden flames until one day The autumn wind tears them away. The grass, blue-green as mountain spruce, Is rooted deeply in the loose, Rich sod. Sunflowers' heads of gold Nod to tales the wind has told. In eons past, an inland sea Left golden shells as legacy. Heaped wind-worn monuments, they stand Beneath blue skies, o'er level land. Blue and gold, gold and blue - A level line divides the two. Horizon-halved, the austere scene Is vast and stark, severe, serene. And winter, summer, spring and fall The sweet, wild wind sweeps over all, Now fierce, now mild; it howls or sings Or whispers secret prairie things. ...ooo000ooo... |
Semi- Precious
by Stella Robbins That winter we spent in a cabin on a lake in the middle of the prairie sits in my soul like an uncut gem, reflecting but a hint of all that’s within: the colors we found in each other, words pried open and explored, nights as deep as time; the sentinel song of geese, the mantra of coyotes stoned on stars, snow falling on snow. I remember how ice would groan, winds would roam in herds and old cottonwoods keel over--- unpolished memories I haven’t moved in years, gathering dust and ozone, and moonlight. Spring Ritual
by R.D. McManes gazing over the plains, a sequence of charred fields wave after wave, each appears to pause before the next one disappears gray whiffs of grass smoke begin again, meandering, tendrils lost between orange flashes of light beneath a Kansas sky. Read More Poems by ► R.D. McManes (PDF) |
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Sounds of Lawrence
by Tom Mach Voices are ghosts too, still here to haunt us. Quantrill’s order to burn the Eldridge are embedded in stone and a boy’s scream from a flying bullet may be hidden in a Watkins Museum rifle. Frazier Hall holds the words Of Susan Anthony’s speech While the applause for Jane Addams and her talk at the Bowersock Theater are now buried somewhere in the mortar of Liberty Hall. The Pinckney School playground holds the frustrated tears of a youngster named Langston Hughes and somewhere in the soil of a Lawrence cemetery are more voices, past and future… some who have spoken and some who have yet to speak. Originally published in the Lawrence Journal-World |
Sons and Daughters of Kansas
by Martha Adams Meek © Kansas skies are smiling, Fields nod with amber grain; It's the golden days of harvest, Now autumn's here again. The rains of spring have come and gone, They brought a blessing sweet; For birds are singing, flowers bloom, And calves run and leap. The river rises with the flood And flows on to the sea; These all sing a song of love That fills the heart of me. The dear flint hills of Kansas Are home sweet home to me; There's no other place on God's green earth That we would rather be. For we are sons of Kansas, We love beyond compare; The streams and hills of Kansas, And her daughters sweet and fair. |
September 24th, Overland Park, KS
by Shawn Pavey
Outside my office tower
a couple times a day,
I stand under the sky in the world
and smoke.
Today, the air is cool
as leaves on trees adjust
to the newly arrived season.
Maples redden,
cottonwoods gild,
dressed splendid
for a short trip on wind
and then, to rest
on grass and dirt.
Cigarette smoke rises on breeze,
leaves slip to the air and fall
as soft light, autumn stained,
warms my shirt before I ascend
to climate control,
a cluttered desk,
computer, cold coffee,
and telephone.
by Shawn Pavey
Outside my office tower
a couple times a day,
I stand under the sky in the world
and smoke.
Today, the air is cool
as leaves on trees adjust
to the newly arrived season.
Maples redden,
cottonwoods gild,
dressed splendid
for a short trip on wind
and then, to rest
on grass and dirt.
Cigarette smoke rises on breeze,
leaves slip to the air and fall
as soft light, autumn stained,
warms my shirt before I ascend
to climate control,
a cluttered desk,
computer, cold coffee,
and telephone.
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To The Prairie and To God
by Harold L. Gray I shall go unto the prairie I shall go there unto God, For the mind is want with luxuries And the prairies sweet with sod. I’ll not mingle with the fairies, But turn unto my God. I’ll go unto the prairie from the moaning sea, O’er a path so planned with care --- O’er that path of stone I see To the road of sunshine fair, To the prairie yet to be --- To the prairie and to God. (c. Oct. 18, 1938) Originally appears in the book , To the Prairie and to God... poetry written by Harold L. Gray (d. 1997) between 1936 - 1941, a collection discovered and compiled by his son, Kevin Gray, 2007. |
Today
by Chantel C. Guidry Today I adore the wild Kansas wind-- the same one I complain of all winter-- more fierce than the ice or the snow all alone, it strengthens the cold and pierces layers of cloth, to chill my tender frail skin. But today-- today on the prairie in the heart of the heat of the most intense days of summer, I’m glad for the wind, the coolness of breeze that rushes my room and makes blanket on bed a light and pink dancing dervish |
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There’re more rocks in the ground
by Zachary Scott Lawrence There’re more rocks in the ground than on the road here and that one lone pine only grew after all the houses were gone nothin’ll grow here really anymore though I saw a disused garden tomatoes everywhere and no-one around to enjoy them Previously Published in the anthology: Keepers of the Pen |
Tall-grass Prairie Hospitality
by Dan “Coach Nac” Naccarato Daily voyages seldom carry us beyond frontiers of our familiar farm Sometimes we venture curious glimpses of beckoning green from perches guarded by rails of rhythm and ritual We spy glorious burgeoning pastures behind barbed wire and yonder gravel roads perceptible but blurred by dusty gray clouds of self-doubt and insecurity Shall we scale property lines to picnic or heed vigilant voices in our heads - spurious rumormongers whispering criticisms and concocting scandals Arriving at enchanted terraces Kansas souls could welcome us and affirm - We knew you would come Where have you been and What took you so long? |
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Under Kansas
by William Sheldon prairie are roots that can reach down twelve feet—our own Sargasso Sea holding chipped flint, pot sherds, sharks’ teeth, and the one thing that can save us. Read More Poems by ► William Sheldon (PDF) |
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Vacant Lot - Colony, KS
by Max Yoho Hollyhocks grew here, fibrous and pungent. Jonquils, pushy as teenagers, rushed up through the snow. Here! The yellow rosebush. Grandma called it “Nebuchadnezzar.” Here was the garden, where her gold wedding band slipped from her slender finger and was planted among peas or radishes. Here, I secretly watched, each spring, for the first green shoots of a Wedding Band Bush. Alone now, at the yellow rosebush, I say our magic words: “Your old slippers, my old shoes, Nebuchadnezzar, the King of the Jews.” --from Felicia, These Fish Are Delicious, © 2004 Max Yoho |
