rancherwriterpoet

Poetry, musings, reflections, life

Archive for the month “August, 2013”

Budding Geniuses

I awoke this morning with thoughts of writing something worthy of a Pulitzer Prize. Perhaps a Nobel Prize for Literature would be acceptable. Maybe I could become the 2013 Poet Laureate for the Library of Congress. I can dream can I not?

Some of my heroes in the writing profession are Mark Twain, (alias, Samuel Clemons or vice-versa) and Edgar Allen Poe. William Shakespeare is always at the top of any writers list. And for the sake of equality, Jane Austen was a great writer, as well. Almost 200 years have gone by since her death, yet Her “Pride and Prejudice” remains among the top literary works of all time. Should you like mysteries, then, look no farther than Agatha Christie. As for poetry, Robert Burns also tops that list.

The list of these famous writers reaches to infinity, and I cannot take the space or time to include each and everyone. Even if I compiled my own list, I would have trouble with the top ten. But, oh to be included in that list! Seriously? Not going to happen! However, just to be mentioned in the same breath would be delightful.

As for creativity, artists, composers and musicians rank just as high as the writers do, in a different vein, of course. However, there is only one “Mona Lisa” by Da Vinci or one “Fifth Symphony” by Beethoven, or one “Jailhouse Rock” by Elvis Presley. With the advent of social media, the internet, the electronic age, there is immense competition from literary and artistic individuals to be included with those great creative geniuses of long ago.Truth is, most of us never reach that pinnacle. However, that should not prevent us from reaching.

I have been to art galleries with famous works of art mounted on their walls; museums that display literary works of the aforementioned writers and others, studios with platinum records adorning their wall and nothing compares with these works of creativity.

That is, unless you count the drawings or the poems on the refrigerator door. I have yet to see anything that tops the drawings or poetry displayed on that world famous refrigerator door. How could such a comparison be made with a drawing of a 5-year-old child who brings their work of art to Mom who then immediately affixes it to the door with a magnet. That, my friends, is thrilling to both the Mom and the child. Should you have an occasion to visit the home of such a “collection”, be prepared to witness pride at its best. Many a child has had their work displayed in the most prominent spot in this gallery.

I think there should be a museum dedicated to the drawings and writings of children who have had their works displayed on the refrigerator door. I am sure if you parents out there would search your boxes stored in the garage, you would discover plenty of material for such a museum.

At the very least, you could retrieve it and restore it to its rightful place next to the appliance technician’s phone number or with the grocery list  so prominently attached to the refrigerator door. Perhaps the delightful “poetry” or exquisite “painting” will awe you once again.

If you are in the envious position of being the “curator” of a modern day Michelangelo or the brilliance of a Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, take your job very seriously. You are the stepping-stone to the next generation of artists and writers. These will be the Pulitzer Prize winners, the Nobel Prize recipients, and the Poet Laureates of the Library of Congress.

The next time you are exposed to this sort of thing, be awed in the presence of a budding genius. So what, it you thought it was an elephant and discovered it really is a rhinoceros. And don’t be surprised if your child says to you, “Mom, it’s upside down”. So what if there are misspelled words in the “world’s greatest poem”, this isn’t a spelling bee. Above all, encourage them in their accomplishments.
Now go read a book and have a good day.

Under the Bois ‘D Arc Tree

ImageI cannot believe I haven’t posted anything since May. Time really has a way of disappearing quickly. Of course, when a person reaches my age, it disappears much more rapidly than for the youngster awaiting his/her 16th birthday and the coveted driver’s license. The times are certainly different from when I was a teenager.

I notice, too, that the summers seem to get longer and hotter, at least here in North Texas. In the pasture across the road from my house, nothing seems to be growing but weeds. I know the rancher takes care of his pasture, treats it for weed control, grasshoppers, etc., however, not much changes from day to day. The grasses wither and the bugs continue to fly/hop. I am beginning to wonder about this “global-warming” thing.

There is one lone tree directly across from my front door. It seems to thrive in this heat and lack of rain. It is a horse apple tree, also known as a Bois ‘D Arc tree. Still another alias is an “Osage Orange” tree. This name comes from the Osage Indians who used the tree to make their bows. The fruit, if you can call it that, is a round green sphere with nubs, about the size of a grapefruit, or large apple. It isn’t good for much, inedible, even the livestock avoid the green globes. Horses have been known to consume these but have also died from lodging in their throat. Some folks have used it to prevent cockroaches, fleas and spiders. I have not tested it for the specific usage they claim, although I want to try it in the dog kennels. Who knows, maybe I cannot get a leg up on the fleas. I heard that Martha Stewart used them in decoration, once. I did not see the episode. Rather sorry I missed it.
The most obvious benefit I see is the livestock use the tree for shade. I suppose cattle are not as dumb as one would think. Anyway, I think this poem might sum it up. Maybe you think so, maybe not. Have a safe and cool day.

Under the Bois ‘D Arc Tree

The fields yonder way are
rapidly becoming a crusty brown.
Summer had arrived with a passion,
thrusting its way onto nature’s stage.
A surreptitious beginning,
now rising at a blistering pace
to an igneous desert atmosphere!

The stately Bois D’ Arc drops
its pale green orbs in acceleration,
as if attracted by a magnetic field.
They fall indiscriminately
to the withered ground below,
where they will quickly succumb
to Summer’s sultry heat.

An eager drove browses the field
Seeking forage on which to feed,
yet finding no crisp morsel of green.
Numerous cattle egrets follow
shamelessly in their tracks
feasting on countless grasshoppers
disturbed by the herd.

The cattle seek shelter beneath the tree
in the torrid noonday sun.
Yet their bodies generate a crescendo
Of warming proportions.
Stragglers stand knee-deep
in the middle of the pond
in a valiant effort of cooling down.

I see creatures of nature, adjusting,
Seeking respite from an unadulterated
zealous heat, a stifling oppressive heat,
Occasionally flicking a tail,
Swatting at those pesky ubiquitous flies
and I stand in the comfort of a cool inside,
Looking out the front window.

© Pete Robertson

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