1/27/2015

Ode to Uncle Ellis

Tall are the pines,
They sway to summer winds,
Storms surely are brewing out on the gulf,
Thou, these oxen still have to carry,
Drive them to the tram,
Carried to the Sabine, to mill,
Pulling the cypress that has fallen,
Sawn by two half bred men,
Suriving off the land,
The only thing to do.




 T'is but the evening of the day,
Make it back to the farm, to stay,
Put the oxen in the yard,
Till tomorows new day,

Coming thru the pines,
Smell of the foods arises,
Mae Whitman kitchen pleases,
These are the joy of this life.


 Sky is starting to cloud up,
Rain is starting to fall,
Chances it will stay,
But to be about the comfort,
Of home fires, comfort of life,
Here in the Sabine Piney.. ©
( just learned that childhood friend, Jimmy O'Rear passed days ago )
James O'Rear (jimmy) 1943 ~ Jan 2015


Tall were the pines, on late summers breeze,
the would stand and sway,
as we played neath, these giants,
with teepees of fallen branches,
our fortress from fear, as we raced,
with our native, and Scotch-Irish blood,
down paths lined with Echinaeas and Crowfoot Violets,
thru the Dogwood Trees, we raced faster than
our piney ponies, for our lives did prevail.


We shimmed up tall pines,
there on the grounds of our school, Hyatt,
refusing to descend from our perches,
after recess, for we were in our towers,
rapture from the views that were our domain,
and upon Hickory trees we ascended,
early fall, chasing squirrels so we could gather,
these nuggets we cherished.


Persimmon trees, their harvest held in our hands,
savor their wild moist to our palate,
while there on the ground,
were the piney girls we knew,
and of course, Linda Jane Clark,
would make pucker faces as we threw,
her treasure to her, from our loft in the tree.
Her face mimicked displeasure of a green persimmon,
for we knew these golden drops were pleasure,
her lips were to send notice, that she wanted a kiss.


In Summers trot lines strung,
over Duetts Eddy water,
putting the boats into water at Canady Landing,
hours before daylight,
just ahead of LLoyd Smith, to beat him at his game,
for at Dreen Lake, Big Circle Lake held our lines,
bringing in Gasper goo, catfish and perch,
our nets and quills were filled,
from the waters we lived.


We were the ones,
who traveled upon horses,
those piney pones, that ran wild,
caught, bridled and saddled,
then our final ride at sunset,
down Old River Road, back home,
We watched the sun as it dipped,
below the tops of the pine tree tops,
as day has ended, reaching all eventually,
sleep, forever sleep...©


dances with gators publishing, starks la
"aka' cajunbob poet lariate
d'rev roscoe beauregard