this little piglet’s bizzare, but
this little piglet’s not alone
this little piglet’s a food thief
this little piglet can run
this little piglet eats free string beans
all the day long
precious wild bunny
oaken fur, marshmallow fluff tail
scampering freely
down the path
green grass galore
along the edge
of the wide world’s wild woods
no fences
no borders
no clocks
no deadlines
no defenses
fear at every turn
in the wild,
precious bunny
Captured!
Captured!
She set out to capture a farm.
She jumped in the old Ford pickup
and stuck to the dirt roads
to cast a wide net
and haul home a truckload.
She drove in wonder
and discovered
morning dew
on a spider’s web
spun between the slats
of a wooden fence
on a hill,
the first rays
of daylight streaming through,
illuminating the
intricate Arachno-haven
steam rising
off the pond,
mama duck schooling her little ones
in the fine art of ripple-writing
on the unlined page
meadow fences
saddled firmly
on the backs
of freshly-mown
lush green rolling hills
cows
ambling across meadows
seeking greener grass
to feast out the day
fields
of haybales
spun in lumpy crumpets,
lying sideways
like warm glazed cinnamon buns
for hungry horses
a barn
hayloft door open
tractor bucket stretching upward
reaching strategically
spoonfeeding bundles of hay
to bale stackers
a much-loved-mutt farmdog
tagging along
on the heels
of his farmer
tail wagging on his way
to his purpose for the day
jumping into the bed of a truck
as the tailgate slams shut
pigs
slurping delicious slops
from their trough
pondering all the shady places
to seize the day
once the sun rises high
a communion of horses, cows, and goats
blessing their breakfast buffet
of oaty-alfalfa hay,
each in their own prayerful way
a roiling rooster!
proclaiming the gospel!
like a street preacher!
from a pulpit stump!
neck and scorn straining skyward!
all hellfire and brimstone!
on the perils of laziness!
honeybees
swarming their hive boxes
nestled in the wood clearing
buzzing up their secret recipe
to sweeten and heal
sunflowers
still droopy sleepers
as the sun creeps upstairs
to tickle their chins
and bring worshipping smiles
to this colorful choir
of breezy sway-dancers
wildflowers
spilling over the crest of a hill
tumbling and scattering downward
Mother Nature’s splatter-painting
countryside graffiti
a lone tire swing
hanging from an oak branch
inviting barefoot toes
to hop in and fly high
to hold on tight
to touch the sky
a hub of donkeys
plotting and scheming
by the broken fence
like old men huddled
in the local coffeeshop
bristling and braying
over town politics
a farmhouse
windows open
curtains billowing out
like arms eagerly welcoming passing folks
to come in for a
buttered bacon-egg biscuit breakfast
and then she realized.
You don’t capture a farm.
…….a farm captures you!
Work and Peace
What is destiny on a farm
on a farm full of life
full of vegetables and herbs,
of chickens and goats,
of pigs and dogs,
of people who
rise with the roosters and
leap into life
to mow fields
to mend fences
to tend gardens
to milk goats
to bake bread
to make soap
to feed flocks
to heave hay to herds
to clean coops
and call it a day
and sip iced tea with fresh mint sprigs
on the back porch swing
and give thanks for the beauty of it all
and shower to cool down sweat-drenched bodies
and rinse the day’s dirt down the drain
and bring in the wind-dried sheets that smell
fresh like sunshine and breeze
that bring clean, deep sleep
to people who say blessings over farm-to-table meals,
who work hard
who drive slowly
who live intentionally
as one with the land
at peace within?
Destiny IS the farm!
Moving Mountains
Think chicken coop cleaning
and a giant red poly shovel
with a flashy red jumbo bow
comes to mind,
the one you bought
when you were shopping
from our Christmas Lists
(that you start asking for
every October),
unsteady on your feet,
right before you fell out of bed,
prompting an MRI
and sweeping you into surgery
that revealed a
and sweeping you into surgery
that revealed a
Stage 4 Glioblastoma
that stopped the world-
a red shovel that can
clean coops,
spread fertilizer,
break ground.
If only it could
move this mountain.
The Legend of the Three Pigs
A little bit sideways is all you gotta be to end up here.
In the spring of 1971, three farmhands were
clearing a path for cattle fencing
when they heard the warning grunts and squeals
and turned to see three sets of tusks charging.
They dropped their tools
and ran for their truck.
Two made it, but one tripped on a stump
and fell flat, fearing the worst.
The two on the tailgate turned
and trembled in horror
as the wild boar closed in for the kill,
coming face to face with their comrade –
but at the last minute, the pigs zigzagged
and veered sideways like drunk moonshiners
wobbly-wheeling away from revenuers
approaching an unslashed still.
No one ever believed the story,
but folks always acted amazed when
the guy on the ground explained
what had saved his life.
“Them pigs was cross-eyed.”
The Johnson Funny Farm was born that day,
A place where impending doom is transformed into
the miracle of survival –
a joyful place of rescue for humans, animals, and plants –
a place where a farm sign with
three cross-eyed pigs
greets guests –
a place where even something as simple
as connecting to “wi-swi” remains
a tribute to three legendary wild swine
with the password #crosseyedpigs.
A little bit sideways is all you gotta be to end up here.
In a Summer Farmhouse Sink
the scrap container coffee can awaits
its daily commute to compost, brimming with
strawberry hulls
cucumber peels
bell pepper seeds
tomato top-slices
buttered peach bread crumbs
slathered with local honey
coffee grounds
spent egg shells
olive, mint green, tinted blue, brown
celery leaves
carrot tops
severed pulpy peach pits
boiled egg crumbles
bacon bits
mayonnaise globs
floor-dropped chicken chunks
that survived the dogs
cantaloupe rinds
potato shavings
fleshy peach skins
squeezed lemon remnants
sunflower stems
scissored chives
withered blueberries
nothing wasted
all ripe with promise and sustaining purpose
Today’s writing inspiration comes from Kimberly Johnson, Ed.D. She is a literacy coach and media specialist in a public school in rural Georgia. She enjoys writing as a guest blogger for www.writerswhocare.com and counts down the days between monthly 5-Day Writing Challenges. She is the author of Father, Forgive Me: Confessions of a Southern Baptist Preacher’s Kid. Follow her on Twitter at @kimjohnson66.
Inspiration
In The Right Words at the Right Time by Marlo Thomas, celebrities and famous personalities share their stories about how prophetic words delivered at pivotal moments helped shape the course of their future. For example, Shaquille O’Neal’s mother’s guiding words to him were, “Later doesn’t always come to everybody.”
Process
Consider the people whose words were your guiding lights in direction and decision making. How did they help you make an important decision or to see things from a more clarifying perspective?
Challenge: Raise a Glass to the Literary Avant-Garde by writing a “Right Words at the Right Time” verse. Embolden your right words at the right time.
Kim’s Poem
The Greatest Gift
Saturday, December 22, 1984
the letter arrived
dated
Wednesday, December 19, 1984
from 13-year-old
Tolliver,
whose world was as dark
as his skin.
“Hi, Kimberly,
This is your friend,
Tolliver.”
Tolliver
from Camp Leo for the Blind,
where I’d been a counselor that summer.
Tolliver
who lived in the inner-city
with a disabled mother
and a recently deceased father
and 4 sighted brothers and sisters.
Tolliver
who had tucked a one dollar bill
inside the letter, wishing me
a Merry Christmas
as I read his gut-punching news
through blinding tears,
Christmas tree lights twinkling
across the room,
the merriment of music losing.
“What do I do with this?” I asked Dad,
a minister
with all the right answers
in 1984.
“Let me think,” he said,
taking the envelope.
Sunday, December 23, 1984
from the Pulpit:
Sermon – The Greatest Gifts of Christmas,
closing story
“Hi, Kimberly,
This is your friend
Tolliver,”
Dad read,
sharing snippets
of passages to
eyes filling with tears,
sniffles echoing.
He turned to me
with his answer:
“You keep it.
It’s the greatest gift you’ve
ever gotten
because it came
from deep within the heart
of the giver
when it was
all
he had to give.”
Today’s writing inspiration comes from Kimberly Johnson, Ed.D. She is a literacy coach and media specialist in a public school in rural Georgia. She enjoys writing as a guest blogger for www.writerswhocare.com and counts down the days between monthly 5-Day Writing Challenges. She is the author of Father, Forgive Me: Confessions of a Southern Baptist Preacher’s Kid. Follow her on Twitter at @kimjohnson66.
Inspiration
As writer/reporter Tom Ryan, author of Following Atticus and Will’s Red Coat, was losing his dear friend Vicki Pearson to cancer, he read aloud to her from her bedside the 32nd stanza of Whitman’s “Song of Myself” from Leaves of Grass:
I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
So they show their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession.
Full text of poem available here: https://whitmanarchive.org/published/LG/1891/poems/27
Ryan’s life has been one of turning from the distractions of daily life to things that silently resonate deep within the soul – things that matter more. He uses a poem by Whitman that, in many ways, foreshadows Ryan’s own turn from a heavily populated society to one of quiet solitude with his dog.
Process
Raise a Glass to the Literary Avant-Garde by writing a “Turn From” verse, using Whitman’s line starters to create your own poem, or scroll through the linked poem and find another passage to use as line starter motivation today.
From what or where or whom do you turn?
Toward what or where or whom do you turn?
What would happen if you turned toward something new or away from something you’ve always known?
Perhaps you can imagine a future perspective or imagine the turns taken by a fictional character or superhero.
Kim’s Poem
I think I could turn and Manhattan-dwell
I’d stand and watch folks buy! and sell!
They do not gather their own eggs
They do not stop for one who begs
They do not nap on front porch swings
Not one picks the crops rain brings
Not one serves biscuits with gravy
Not one offers sweet tea! Crazy!
So they swiftly move from place to place
They meet deadlines at break-neck pace
I wonder if I’d miss life on this farm
Did I jump the gun on greener-grass charm?
Inspiration
Jason Reynolds, recently named the National Ambassador of Young People’s Literature, captures the way he felt about news of a death in Long Way Down in his verse “The Way I Felt.”
Process
Raise a Glass to the Literary Avant-Garde by writing your own version of “The Way I Felt.” The “ul” feature in the comment box will help you indent if you wish.
If you are feeling nostalgic, keep the past tense and direct address.
If you are feeling connected to the present, move to present tense.
The “I” need not be you, but could invite another perspective in human form or an abstract concept like Love, Joy, Grief, Regret.
Kim’s Poem
The Way I
felt when your
tail thumped three
times was heartbroken.
I never had
a dog as
loyal as you.
I stood on
the front porch
waiting for you
to look up
but you were
too weak to
lift your head.
Three tail thumps.
And I understood.
It was time.
“Just this side
of Heaven is
a place called…
Rain…bow…bridge”
*Quoted lines are attributed to Paul C. Dahm from the original “Rainbow Bridge Poem.”
Common Threads 