My Dreams

Have you ever tried to write poetry? I have, but not recently. I started when Wally G. and I were opening our hearts to a long held dream, the country life. Going through boxes of old papers, notebooks, and photographs Robin and I are getting caught up in memorabilia. When I came across a notebook of poems I wrote at this stage of life, about 1974-75, I read to her this poem I’d written then. 

“Mom, you have to put this in one of your blogs!”  But I protested. “These poems were never meant for publication. They’re kid stuff. Sing-songy. Poets scoff at that sort of thing.” Still, she insisted, so here it comes:

My Dreams

My dreams are made of simple things

like baking bread and plain gold rings.

Of country views from farmhouse doors,

Of fresh new morns and farmyard chores.

Chickens pecking in the yard,

doughnuts sizzling in hot lard.

Coffee brewing on the stove,

smiling faces filled with love.

Vine-clad porches, summer days,

berries brightening, bird-songs’ praise.

Old Bessie mooing in the sun,

children swinging, having fun.

Oh, I could go on for hours

listing joys like smelling flowers.

Featherbeds and snow-soaked mittens,

pony rides and cuddly kittens,

baby lambs who romp and bleat,

hay-filled barns and lilacs sweet.

Seasons coming, seasons going, 

holidays with warm hearts glowing

sharing, caring, singing songs,

attic snooping, dinner gongs.

Finding eggs in hidden places,

playing games, peeking faces.

Story books ‘neath shady trees,

hammocks, naps and buzzing bees.

Hitching up old Ned and Queenie,

bamboo poles and meadows dreamy.

Screen doors banging, pickle making,

cellars dank, and babies waking,

Grandma’s aprons, long and wide,

raindrops when you’re safe inside.

Wood stoves on a winter’s day,

tables set, friends come to stay.

Full lunch boxes, lessons, books,

hikes through woods, secret nooks.

Yes, this may all be plain old hat,

but my dreams are made of things like that.