I was in pain for awhile today
I was in pain all day yesterday
I will pray, yes I’ll get through
I will pray, that’s what I do
Sun is shining, that is good
When it shines I can smile
Stops the hurt, least it should
In my mind, just for awhile
Keep on going, get to days end
Don’t complain, not to any friend
Silent on face, screams in my head
Soon night is here, I slip into bed
So good, so soft, thank you God
Author Eileen Clark
Image:https://brainzaps.wordpress.com/depression-historical-perspective/
It was a cold wet and very dreary mid October day,
Noticing my granddaughters mood was kinda gray.
Many thoughts, ideas went rushing through my mind, Surely there must be something useful that I can find.
There it was on my dining room table in a ceramic bowl,
Two kinds of green apples a bit ripened but not too old.
Quickly itemizing in my head all the ingredients I'll need, I realized that I had them all and surely would succeed.
At first my granddaughter did not seem very excited,
So I threw some flour at her and she became delighted.
Next was to see who could cut the longest unbroke peel,
Her eyes lit up and a big smile, how good it made me feel.
The following fall I bought McIntosh and Golden Delicious,
A gift for my granddaughter that was totally nutritious. I am eager to explain my heartfelt desire and ambition,
How wonderful it will be to make this our October tradition.
So my dear granddaughter I will not deny,
You will forever be the apple of my eye.
Author Eileen Clark 2022
Image:google.com
The doors swing in the wind, the hinges are loose,
Window’s and siding have taken much abuse.
~*~
The fork, rope and pulleys lifted hay to the mow,
A task that always brought sweat to the brow.
But those good days are gone forever it seems,
That old barn now stands with sagging beams.
~*~
It is now home to pigeons, rats and mice,
The interior is tattered and doesn’t look very nice.
Old, abandoned barns have become a trend,
Just down the road and around the bend.
Tim
Tim, I have no idea where this poem came from or where I found it. It is a beautiful poem so Tim out their that wrote this poem and can prove it please contact me .
In the old days, barns were built long, wide and relatively low. Hay mows were kept low since the hay had to be pitched into them by a man on a wagon. The older of the two barns on the farm where I grew up was built around 1840, and was supported by two hay mows, one on either side of a center driveway. Each mow was built of logs in a large square, very much like a log cabin, except the spaces between the logs weren’t chinked. On the side toward the center of the barn floor, logs were cut out to provide opening, which allowed hay to be thrown into (or out of) the mow. These three openings were one above the other and each was about three feet high and six feet long. The lowest was probably about four feet above the barn floor, while the highest was no more than 14. These mows were filled by a man pitching the hay into one of the openings and one or two others moving it back – hot, hard work. Read More~
A clothesline was a news forecast, to neighbors passing by. There were no secrets you could keep, when clothes were hung to dry. It also was a friendly link, for neighbors always knew, If company had stopped on by, to spend a night or two.
For then you’d see the fancy sheets and towels upon the line; You’d see the company tablecloths, with intricate design. The line announced a baby’s birth, to folks who lived inside, As brand new infant clothes, were hung so carefully with pride.
The ages of the children, could so readily be known By watching how the sizes changed, you’d know how much they’d grown. It also told when illness struck, as extra sheets were hung; Then nightclothes, and a bathrobe too, haphazardly were strung.
It also said “Gone on vacation now”, when lines hung limp and bare. It told “We’re back!” when full lines sagged, with not an inch to spare. New folks in town were scorned upon, if washing was dingy grey, As neighbors carefully raised their brows, and looked disgustedly away.
But clotheslines now are of the past, for dryers make work much less, Now what goes on inside a home, is anybody’s guess. I really miss that way of life; it was a friendly sign, When neighbors knew each other best, by what was hanging on the line.
Hickory, dickory, dock. The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, The mouse ran down, Hickory, dickory, dock.
Hickory Dickory Dock” or “Hickety Dickety Dock” is a traditional English nursery rhyme. It was first recorded as “Hickere, Dickere Dock” in “Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song Book” and published in London in 1744. Later, another version was published in “Mother Goose’s Melody” in 1765 titled “Dickery, Dickery Dock”. At its origin, the nursery rhyme was probably a counting-down song
Welcome, welcome, little stranger, Fear no harm, and fear no danger; We are glad to see you here, For you sing, “Sweet Spring is near.”
Now the white snow melts away; Now the flowers blossom gay: Come, dear bird, and build your nest, For we love our robin best.
Poem by Louisa May Alcott
Louisa May Alcott was one of four daughters born to Bronson and May Alcott. Louisa worked from an early age to help with expenses. She worked as a governess, a seamstress, a laundress, and a nurse but, at heart, she was always a writer. Her first book was published at the age of 23. Louisa’s best known work is Little Women, which has never been out of print since it was first published in 1868; it has been translated into more than fifty languages.
Beautiful Painting by Susan Bourdet’s Garden Delights- Robins
I don’t like my wheelchair every day,
I don’t like my wheelchair in any way.
Every morning when I get up I pray,
God all thoughts positive may they stay.
I struggle and strive with my daily tasks,
My family and friends sincerely will ask.
How do you manage to keep up at this pace,
Handling frustrations with honor and grace.
I don’t like my wheelchair, yes I did say,
I long to take walks and go out and play.
But you do need to hear this, I really insist,
Without my wheelchair I could not exist !
Author Eileen Clark 2012
The big old gray owl, how wise he can be,
Hiding from hunters that will never see.
Sitting in plain sight on a branch of a tree,
Blending with the bark will keep him free.
When night slips in and the darkness takes hold,
You can be sure that slick owl will get very bold.
The depth of his sound reaches beneath every root,
Filling chilled air with that mysterious familiar hoot.
Other then his big round eyes of a bright yellow,
The quick turning of his head, what a smart fellow.
Many claims are made that the owl is very wise,
There can be no doubt for look at that disguise.
Author Eileen Clark 2022
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