Poem: Workin' Dog

Feathers, intent on a squirrel, because the cows, cats and swallows were not available. 

Workin' Dog

Sticks she won't fetch, won't even blink.

Gives you that stare that only a 

workin' dog can.

Them balls better have a big ol

bull on the end of 'em or

she won't even twitch an ear.

A cattle dog can be, at times,

worth her weight in gold.

A true workin' dog.

They say a Border Collie can learn

over ten thousand words,

all I know for sure is she is picky.

"Walk em up" those play jus fine.

"Gettim to the gate" does well too.

Fetch, or play - a blank look. No way!

She knows the words alright, from

dirty dog to no poop to get'em

even when they are out of sight.

She's focussed, maybe a little too.

If it ain't cows she's chasing a few

barn swallows or cat's will do.

She's a lovely gal, all red and white,

with flavorful splashes of green manure

to 'scent' up your room at night.

My Feather gal is pretty bright,

but like a laser beam she's tight

to the point with no vary in sight.

There's dogs more loyal, true,

There's even some smarter 

(altho' I'm not saying who)

There's dogs who can do tricks

an some who can do math and such

but no one can run em down like her.

No other tail flying, tongue lolling,

narrowed down at the eyes intent

can match my gal a working.

Sleeping by the door she's rank,

that's horse and calf poop today

like a perfumer she blends the scent

An my poor nose suffers but my

feet are getting soft and my walks short

cause she's like a remote control dog.

You can stand on the deck, jus'

point and shout, she knows what to do

an you can sit back really easy.

She has a look she gives, an it ain't nice,

but it says, so loud and clear, in your face,

"what are you stupid? I don't play...

"I'm a workin' dog an I got no time for this

puppy frolickin and such. Give me a tailed end

and one with horns and we'll getti'm good!'

(Dedicated to my best cattle dog who came from rescue and my worst poop roller Feathers)

Copyright 2011 Shanyn Silinski 

Poem: Grey World

Prompt from Magpie Tales.

Like a bright poppy on a grey battle field.
Like a flash of color over the sandy shore.
The umbrella floated down a grey brick road.

The city washed the color from me.
Born of wild flowers and blue skies,
it pulled me into shades of stone and rain.

Watching the umbrella float on by,
I started to catch myself smiling.
I even laughed and splashed a puddle!

This grey city with one bright spot,
has taken too many of my colors.
I'm going back to the prairies.

Bright red barns, white ducks, green
oat fields swaying next to purple flax
and blooming acres of sunflowers.

It took a bright red umbrella to break
the gloom and deliver my heart
back to where I belong - in the country!

I longed to take her with me, but I knew
her bright red would fade in the sunshine
and be lost in the waves of country color.

Better that she stay and share her red,
with the people of that grey city
on grey rainy days on grey streets.

I wont' forget her though, after all
she did with her bright red light me up
and get me on my way back home.

2011 Shanyn Silinski Copyright

Poem: Last Chances

Putting off the call, waiting.

Wanting not to be first.

Thinking there was time,

not knowing this was

the last chance.

Not playing, not now, busy.

Work piled up and much to do.

Watching play out a window

not thinkinig this was

the last chance.

Going to bed so angry, so mad

Making up so far away and

yet certain there was time

so unaware this was

the last chance.

Last chance to reach out.

Last chance to play.

Last chance to say, "I'm sorry"

Last chances scented by faded flowers.

Last chances gilded by flown wings.

Last chances washed in faint laughter.

Last chances.

copyright 2011 Shanyn Silinski

Poem: Remember the Ride

Prompt from Magpie Tales

DeSoto, Chevrolet, Austin, Plymouth or Lincoln.
Who can remember that now?
Brother, boyfriend, father or friend.
Long gone from memory now.
Siblings, friends, lovers or strangers.
Lost from memory, saved on film.

The tires were hot, in the Missouri sun.
Paint gleaming, a boy's pride and joy.
Engine rumbling, pulsing, tired of waiting.

Three smiling faces at the camera,
two reflections in the paint face them.
Photographer, and lover laughing.

A wild bunch of five, ready to run.
Dirt red roads stretching before them.
Flat runs, tight turns and rolling hills.

Gas, clutch, brake. Steer. Laugh.
Girlish screams, soft and high.
Nervous laughter behind the wheel.

Heavy springs float them along,
dust blows behind down the road
behind them like a rooster tail.

No one remembers their names.
Their faces captured for that moment
on film, a print lost to their families.

No one remembers the day or time,
if there was a destination in mind.
All they remember is the ride.

copyright 2011 Shanyn Silinski

Poem: Surrounded

Ten hummingbirds at one feeder.

Swarming, knowing the storm

is coming and 

could sweep

them away.

Blue skies meekly giving way.

Storm clouds brewing and rolling

they come and

I feel them

blowing.

Dogs bark, fuss and howl at the change.

Sensing the lightning and thunder

that they cannot chase away

they hide, afraid

of what they

do not

know.

I watch from the back door north faced.

Flinching from the strikes and yet

hearing no thunder yet

and that feeling

of being

surrounded

crushes

 me.

The storm rides on cold northern air.

Bringing what brews within

to leave us with rain,

hail or worse?

Or pass

us by

again.

This storm is me, today, how I feel.

Surrounded by storms and in my

little pocket of calm

I feel the pressure

mounting against

you and me

to change

again.

I want to run into the darkness, waving

and screaming. Like a fool with a 

lantern trying to signal that

fabled runaway train.

Knowing it is

too late but

still we

have to

try.

Lights flicker, the power wavers weakly.

Even the grid seems struck by it

and less bright for the might

that these clouds can

shear down, and

hammer us

under with

power.

I waver too, feeling alone here.

It is coming, I can feel 

the pressure bearing

down heavy

upon this

place.

Rest won't come, not with worry there.

Peace won't come, not with

that storm in here and

that storm out there

and me in the

middle

alone.

Again.

Or still?

2011 Copyright Shanyn Silinski

Poem: Painted Memories

Prompt from Magpie Tales

Painted Memories

On the 'to do list' cleaning up,
especially that old mess of painting things.

Dried up rollers, crusted brushes, empty cans,
colors layered upon each other, dried hard.

Reaching for the box I find them calling to me.
Pulling me back to them, reaching back to stories.

Painted memories. The blue from a boy's room.
His first color choice to make it his own 'big boy' room.

The green from our bedroom, willow leaf green.
Perfectly calm, and feeding the passion in us.

Ranchwood, a warm brown grey like driftwood,
paired with cedar when you made the bathroom a spa.

Arroyo red, rich and vibrant, pulling us together in blood,
The color of brick, blood, and of together fighting to love.

Cafe capp, lightest coffee colored just for me the java girl.
Strong coffee with lots of cream, and sugar too.f

The colors of our first home together, as a family.
The dried paints on those rollers and brushes are memories.

Me doing trim with no tape, mistress of the fine brush.
You, zooming and slopping with the rollers. Messy man!

Wiping up paint spots, hand prints on t-shirts, laughing aloud.
Looking back we see each painted wall as much more.

They hold the memories of love, borderline hate, passion and fears.
Baby cries and wet dog splats, calves leaning on them wet.

Each wall holds a part of us, painted in and painted over.
Fresh coats to brighten the scarred spots, scratches and dings.

A truck crash here from the hotwheels race gone awry.
Scratches here from a poorly thrown frisbee on a rainy day.

Here a stain from being 'painted' with sunscreen in baby hands.
There oily frame, shaped like your back strong and leaning hard.

I carefully put the box of dried up rollers and crusted brushes back.
They'll be the last things I take when we move from here.

This, our first home as a family, painted in memories.
This, our unexpected blessing of life, love and laughter.

You'll ask if I cleaned up that box, and I'll laugh.
I'll say, "No" and you'll sigh, "Why?" and we'll make more...memories.

Copyright 2011 Shanyn Silinski

Poem: Threat or Promise

"Red sky at night..."

Waves of dark clouds

rolling across the

sweeping prairie sky.

"...sailors delight..."

I sail down a rain dark

highway, tail lights

blinking red behind me.

"Red sky in morning..."

Rain drops pounding,

sky soaring reds, and

yellows, purple and blue.

"...sailors a warning..."

The night swallows them,

the last painted shades

of an August sunset.

copyright 2011 Shanyn Silinski

Jasmine Blooms

Summer Evening, Edward Hopper, 1947
Poetry Prompt Magpie Tales

Jasmine blooms scenting the night air.
A father's cologne on a grown up son.
Cooling night air filled with quiet sounds.
Buzz of ciadias, tumbling of moths.
Mosquitoes persistent hunting whine.

Front porch brightly light,
No shadows, no secrets.
Him leaning in, her leaning back.
Their silence broken by breathing.

The ball game rumbles faintly
on Father's new radio set.
Mother leans back, seeking
one glimpse around the corner.

"He's a nice boy" she comments.
"She's my baby girl." he responds.
They smile at each other, knowing
that it wasn't that long ago for them.

Hands brush each other, hotly.
A time when waiting was worth it.
The price to pay for true love.
One day they'll be inside too.

Watching young love bloom bright,
under the summer porch lights.
Remembering their budding to bloom.
The scent of jasmine and his cologne.

Copyright 2011 Shanyn Silinski

Summer Evening, Edward Hopper, 1947

Poem: Lightning Lady

Like a goddess she rides the winds, 

gathering clouds to her like a gown.

Richly, damply, highly charged with energy.

Cloaked in towering cummulousnimbus,

she seems lovely at a distance. 

Spinning she gathers more and more to her.

She pulls them in, energy fighting for freedom.

Trapping the lightning, the effort shouts in thunder.

So tall now the winds move around her,

she creates her own breezes below.

Danger comes, lurking in the lovely.

Danger comes, seething through.

Birds flee, dogs cower, cats hide.

Danger comes, flashing a warning.

Danger comes, rumbling a promise.

Like a goddess she blots the blue sky dark,

shadowing the ground under her gowns.

Leaves bend up for the blessing of rain.

Flowers bow their heads for the benediction.

She seems gentle as the rain begins.

Under the gowns the lighting seethes,

it roams in ropy light seeking release.

Dancing on the thunder it waits

for the skirts to part, for it to fly free!

Lighting finds its way to earth again.

Danger comes, out of a clear blue sky.

Danger comes, from a fluffy sweet cloud.

People stand tall, and stare.  Unaware?

Danger comes, a fisted hand of energy.

Danger comes, delivered in a smokey charge.

Like a goddess she leaves a terrible wake,

destruction, blessing, beauty and death.

Land soaking up rain, animals bent low,

trees, houses and more torn up and tossed away.

She delivers her gifts with no favor or reason.

Under her gowns dances the deadly light,

seeking to find with one finger a place to send

the total combined love and rage of a storm.

I would face her, arms spread wide, ready to embrace.

I would let it fall around me and know at last.

Danger comes, and like her I can strike.

Danger comes, and like her I am deadly.

Some step back, some cringe away, others flinch.

Danger comes, and like her I just am.

Danger comes, and it is in us - deadly,  living and alive.

Copyright, 2011 Shanyn Silinski
Shared on Gooseberry: http://gooseberrygoespoetic.blogspot.com/2011/10/poetry-picnic-week-10-nature-forest.html