Squash, beans, corn, tomatoes,
ready for the gatherin’;
summer’s bounty ripe in the fields
Full moon of October
turns night into day
Creator’s gift to help us reap the goodness
Under the light of the big fat moon;
working in the fields, gathering in the crops,
the harvesters seem more ghostly than real
Throwing the hay bales on the wagon,
digging the taters from the ground,
pulling the last ear of corn off the stalk
Put up the jars of beans on the shelf,
store the taters and apples in the cellar,
hang the gourds in the rafters to dry
A chill’s in the air, first frost’s comin’ soon;
finishing up the harvest—barn’s burstin’ at the seams
under the glow of the Harvest moon
Chuck Connors, October 3, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Gateway to the West
On animal trails, aboriginal footpaths and settler traces;
men, women and children moved across the continent
Struggling through the narrow cracks in the cliffs;
twisting, winding, ever moving upwards into the clouds
Settlers trudging up from the lowlands;
into the gaps they came,
into the gaps and mountain passes,
through the open places in the Great Blue Wall
Animals and men toiling together up from the piedmont,
choking on dust, slipping on clay
Leaving the old life behind, looking forwards,
ever westward towards the setting sun
Families moving with packhorses,
sometimes a rickety old wagon
Moving a few miles each day,
making camp before dark
By the wayside, piles of possessions
folks just couldn’t carry anymore
Pass a battered dresser, an old shadow cut of grandma;
family keepsakes—left behind
Rising before light; fry some side meat, boil some coffee;
hitch up the team, move a few more miles
Each day a little closer, just a little closer
to that Eden somewhere far to the West
All those people, moving westward;
settling a continent, building a country
Would I have the courage
to do the same—today?
Chuck Connors, September 20, 2009
men, women and children moved across the continent
Struggling through the narrow cracks in the cliffs;
twisting, winding, ever moving upwards into the clouds
Settlers trudging up from the lowlands;
into the gaps they came,
into the gaps and mountain passes,
through the open places in the Great Blue Wall
Animals and men toiling together up from the piedmont,
choking on dust, slipping on clay
Leaving the old life behind, looking forwards,
ever westward towards the setting sun
Families moving with packhorses,
sometimes a rickety old wagon
Moving a few miles each day,
making camp before dark
By the wayside, piles of possessions
folks just couldn’t carry anymore
Pass a battered dresser, an old shadow cut of grandma;
family keepsakes—left behind
Rising before light; fry some side meat, boil some coffee;
hitch up the team, move a few more miles
Each day a little closer, just a little closer
to that Eden somewhere far to the West
All those people, moving westward;
settling a continent, building a country
Would I have the courage
to do the same—today?
Chuck Connors, September 20, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Tree Frogs
Tiny tree frog, tiny tree frog,
Though there’s millions like you;
You’re unique and individual,
One of a very few
Chirping tree frogs, chirping tree frogs,
The roar of your voices drowns all;
I see you among the leaves,
Covering the tree bark in the fall
Little tree frogs, little tree frogs,
Going chirp, chirp, on a branch;
Your voices tell me summer’s almost over,
Time to get ready for winter’s chance
Dying tree frogs, dying tree frogs,
You’re lives are almost done;
Will I see you next year?
How will I know you’re the one?
Chuck Connors, September 26, 2009
Though there’s millions like you;
You’re unique and individual,
One of a very few
Chirping tree frogs, chirping tree frogs,
The roar of your voices drowns all;
I see you among the leaves,
Covering the tree bark in the fall
Little tree frogs, little tree frogs,
Going chirp, chirp, on a branch;
Your voices tell me summer’s almost over,
Time to get ready for winter’s chance
Dying tree frogs, dying tree frogs,
You’re lives are almost done;
Will I see you next year?
How will I know you’re the one?
Chuck Connors, September 26, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
'Coons Across the Creek
Late at night the ‘coons would come from across the creek
to noisily eat at our dog’s bowl.
The mama ‘coon would bring her kits,
stepping so lightly on the dry stones in the creek.
One-by-one each would quickly leap
from dry stone to dry stone until all were safely across.
They would cross the old country road in front of our property,
carefully looking both ways for errant farm hands coming back from town after an evening of drinking in the town’s one saloon.
Parading up the hill single file, like wild Indians on the warpath; the ‘coons came to the back of our house to eat their supper from Butterball’s bowl. Squabbling noisily amongst themselves to see who would get the last tidbits the ‘coons would lick the bowl clean.
Until the moon rose in the east casting ghost-like shadows across the world,
when the ‘coons would file one-by-one disappearing across the creek.
Chuck Conners, September 19, 2009
to noisily eat at our dog’s bowl.
The mama ‘coon would bring her kits,
stepping so lightly on the dry stones in the creek.
One-by-one each would quickly leap
from dry stone to dry stone until all were safely across.
They would cross the old country road in front of our property,
carefully looking both ways for errant farm hands coming back from town after an evening of drinking in the town’s one saloon.
Parading up the hill single file, like wild Indians on the warpath; the ‘coons came to the back of our house to eat their supper from Butterball’s bowl. Squabbling noisily amongst themselves to see who would get the last tidbits the ‘coons would lick the bowl clean.
Until the moon rose in the east casting ghost-like shadows across the world,
when the ‘coons would file one-by-one disappearing across the creek.
Chuck Conners, September 19, 2009
Playing with the Cows
When I was a kid everybody said cattle were about the dumbest animals around.
Uncle Homer said “you can’t drive cattle from one 20 acre field to another
without some of ‘em trying to go through the fence instead of the gate!”
But I knew it wasn’t true because my friends the calves and me would play games during the summer in the field behind the barn.
Each summer’s morning when the dew was still damp upon the grass I’d take the sweet feed for the half-grown heifers and steers up to where they were pastured. I’d call the calves with a song—a song of playfulness, until all of them came near.
One-by-one and two-by-two the big calves would prance up to me. Sometimes it would seem as if they were almost smiling, happy to see me; and frisky, kicking their heels this way and that.
After all were fed it was playtime and I’d tag one and say, “you’re it” while the rest of us scampered in all directions. The chosen calf would chase each one of us until the whole field was a free-for-all of flying hooves and swinging tails. When we were tired we’d all pile up under the shade of a big old oak tree and pant for breath while my friends switched lazily at flies with their tails.
Too quickly, autumn came and I had to go back to school. It was the year that I was nine and was in fourth grade. But each afternoon when I came home the games of hide-in-go-seek and chase-the-tail were renewed with my friends the calves.
One day I came home to an empty field. I ran desperately looking everywhere. My father came to me and said, “son we had to sell the calves to make the mortgage on the farm.” I was distraught for days.
From that time onwards I never played with the new calves because I knew someday they’d be sold too.
Chuck Connors, September 19, 2009
Uncle Homer said “you can’t drive cattle from one 20 acre field to another
without some of ‘em trying to go through the fence instead of the gate!”
But I knew it wasn’t true because my friends the calves and me would play games during the summer in the field behind the barn.
Each summer’s morning when the dew was still damp upon the grass I’d take the sweet feed for the half-grown heifers and steers up to where they were pastured. I’d call the calves with a song—a song of playfulness, until all of them came near.
One-by-one and two-by-two the big calves would prance up to me. Sometimes it would seem as if they were almost smiling, happy to see me; and frisky, kicking their heels this way and that.
After all were fed it was playtime and I’d tag one and say, “you’re it” while the rest of us scampered in all directions. The chosen calf would chase each one of us until the whole field was a free-for-all of flying hooves and swinging tails. When we were tired we’d all pile up under the shade of a big old oak tree and pant for breath while my friends switched lazily at flies with their tails.
Too quickly, autumn came and I had to go back to school. It was the year that I was nine and was in fourth grade. But each afternoon when I came home the games of hide-in-go-seek and chase-the-tail were renewed with my friends the calves.
One day I came home to an empty field. I ran desperately looking everywhere. My father came to me and said, “son we had to sell the calves to make the mortgage on the farm.” I was distraught for days.
From that time onwards I never played with the new calves because I knew someday they’d be sold too.
Chuck Connors, September 19, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Little Foxes
Dreary, foggy, rainy days;
days when most people
want to stay inside and read and sleep
While little birds hide in the bushes,
feathers wet and dripping, looking dejected;
peeping forlornly, fearful of predators
The land covered with a diffuse, mellow light;
neither day or night, it seems to go on forever,
twilight from early morning until black night
One late summer’s day I took a walk in the rain
Listening to the raindrops pattering on the leaves;
like an army of magical munchkins marching rowdily across the sky
Climbing a mountain, the cold rain wetted me to the skin;
the shards of wetness trickled like icy fingers running down my back
Topping a rise I saw two little foxes cavorting, dancing with each other
One moved right, the other moved left, their eyes intent on each other;
both standing shakily on their hind legs,
like small children taking their first uncertain steps
Chuck Connors, September 16, 2009
days when most people
want to stay inside and read and sleep
While little birds hide in the bushes,
feathers wet and dripping, looking dejected;
peeping forlornly, fearful of predators
The land covered with a diffuse, mellow light;
neither day or night, it seems to go on forever,
twilight from early morning until black night
One late summer’s day I took a walk in the rain
Listening to the raindrops pattering on the leaves;
like an army of magical munchkins marching rowdily across the sky
Climbing a mountain, the cold rain wetted me to the skin;
the shards of wetness trickled like icy fingers running down my back
Topping a rise I saw two little foxes cavorting, dancing with each other
One moved right, the other moved left, their eyes intent on each other;
both standing shakily on their hind legs,
like small children taking their first uncertain steps
Chuck Connors, September 16, 2009
Land of Puzzling Tales
What about relations between men and women?
Why is it that we fuss and fight (or worse)?
Do you think it was different in the beginning
when we were running around in fig leaves?
Could it be we’re opposite sides of the same coin;
Human and definitely not perfect also?
Or are we really from different planets;
women from Venus and men from Mars?
We live in a time caught between good and evil,
a strange place seemingly neither here or there.
One day its scream and shout; the next, kiss me darling;
sounds bipolar to me—pretty crazy yeah.
I only know we share a common goal:
the continuation of the human race.
One day we’ll travel out to the planets,
to the stars and maybe beyond.
When that day comes I know one thing won’t have changed.
Men and Women will still live in the land of puzzling tales...
9
Chuck Connors, September 14, 2009
Why is it that we fuss and fight (or worse)?
Do you think it was different in the beginning
when we were running around in fig leaves?
Could it be we’re opposite sides of the same coin;
Human and definitely not perfect also?
Or are we really from different planets;
women from Venus and men from Mars?
We live in a time caught between good and evil,
a strange place seemingly neither here or there.
One day its scream and shout; the next, kiss me darling;
sounds bipolar to me—pretty crazy yeah.
I only know we share a common goal:
the continuation of the human race.
One day we’ll travel out to the planets,
to the stars and maybe beyond.
When that day comes I know one thing won’t have changed.
Men and Women will still live in the land of puzzling tales...
9
Chuck Connors, September 14, 2009
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