Sunday, August 28, 2011

Nothing But A Name


                                                   Her name was Ida Bee
                                                   a lonely orphan girl
                                                   needing someone to care
                                                   in a lonely, forsaken world

                                                   With nothing but a name
                                                    to call her own
                                                    she had always longed
                                                    for the comforts of a home

                                                    Someone to play with
                                                    or a mom and dad
                                                    her heart laid heavy
                                                    for things she never had

              
                                                    That awful foster home
                                                    she'd lived as a child
                                                    the scars a constant reminder
                                                    the beatings weren't mild

                                                    She'd ate from the garbage
                                                    slept on the ground
                                                    in her young twelve years
                                                    she'd never heard a sound

                                                    She wanted to go to school
                                                    learn more than her name
                                                    play with other children
                                                    and every childhood game



                                                    Why was she so different
                                                     she didn't quite understand
                                                     Ida Bee, Ida Bee
                                                     she wrote in the sand

                                                    Her tears kept falling
                                                    desperation continued to grow
                                                    then she saw an old lady
                                                    in her garden with a hoe
                
                                                    Just a happy old lady
                                                    with plenty of love to give
                                                    a heart of pure gold
                                                    and a home to live



                                                  She happily pitched in
                                                  and together they grew
                                                  the most beautiful garden
                                                  this world ever knew

                                                 Susie Swanson
   
                                                   

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Just A Country Girl


                                             I've walked down country roads
                                             and through winding trails
                                             built a playhouse in the woods
                                             and became tough as nails

                                            Ate fresh vegetables from a garden
                                            as fast as they could grow
                                            canned food in mason jars
                                            enough to last the winter snow

                                            Oh the patience of wash day
                                            became the whole day at the most
                                            clotheslines were hung a plenty
                                            and even on the fence posts

                            
                                             Picked blackberries in the summer
                                             jelly and jam making began
                                             the itching was so unpopular
                                             when the chiggers settled in

                                             Pieced quilt scraps together
                                             and learned from the very best
                                             patched holes in the knees of britches
                                             was the worst job, I do confess

                                             Milking time with the cow
                                             was an experience by far
                                             but that good homemade buttermilk
                                             was the best from the churn jar


                                   
                                            Carried in the night's wood
                                            and buckets of water from the spring
                                            being raised in a big family
                                            water and wood was a popular thing

                                           Playing hop scotch in the yard
                                           after the yard was swept clean
                                           never did have any grass
                                           no need for a mowing machine

                                           Counting stars and laying in a field
                                           on a country moon light night
                                           or watching the clouds form
                                           every imaginery shape in sight


                                       Talking country is my way
                                       and I may stand apart
                                       but I'm proud of my country roots
                                       and my big country heart

                                      I'm just a country girl
                                      that's all I've ever known
                                      cut from a country pattern
                                      born, bred and grown

                                     Susie Swanson

This is my very first poem that I posted and where Countrysidepoet got it's start. Hope you enjoy... Blessings, Susie

     

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

A Dahlia Memory



                                                    It speaks to my heart
                                                    this beauty that I see
                                                    a very special lady
                                                    and a dahlia memory

                                                    A garden so grand
                                                    pretty dahlias in a row
                                                    she planted them there
                                                    her favorite one to grow

                                                    A vision of spring time
                                                    so enchanted and divine
                                                    she and her dahlias
                                                    were a showcase design
                               


                                                 In the summer they stood
                                                 so patient, proud and tall
                                                 waiting for a bouquet
                                                 a lovely gesture of fall

                                                 A centerpiece on my table
                                                 I can smell them still
                                                 the fragrant blossoms linger
                                                 in the air so real

                                                 This beautiful dahlia memory
                                                 of my mother I dwell
                                                 in heaven there are dahlias
                                                 and she's doing quite well

                                                Susie Swanson
           
             

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Land Of Plenty



                                         The road to victory is never won
                                          to the hungry and homeless there is none

                                         The land of plenty where wealth once grew
                                          is now barren and wealth is few

                                          A kneeling father is on his knees
                                          praying for a way to answer the pleas

                                          Of a hungry child that can't understand
                                          what it once had is not at hand

                                          A place to call home is a daily prayer
                                          a constant struggle and quite hard to bare

                                          So many lives torn and falling apart
                                          feeling misplaced with no where to start

                                          In the land of plenty where prosperity grows
                                          should be plentiful, it's not what they chose

                                          A fighting soldier dies each day
                                          for a better tomorrow and freedom's way

                                          His sacrifice in vain should never be
                                          let plenty prevail and win the victory

                                          Susie Swanson

Sunday, August 7, 2011

My Vietnam Veteran


                                           I see him standing there
                                           so very large and tall
                                           my Vietnam veteran
                                           beside the Vietnam wall

                                           A wall so very long
                                           with names placed upon
                                           an astonishing sight to see
                                           just trying to be strong

                                           I slowly shed a tear
                                           as I gaze upon his face
                                           and for all the heroes there
                                           placed with dignity and grace
                                         
                                           War carried them away
                                            to that faraway land
                                            war returned their names
                                            only memories left to stand

                                            Being one of the honorable few
                                            his tears are shed inside
                                            for all of his fallen comrades
                                            that fought so hard and died

                                            The scars of war's wounds
                                             he secretly locks away
                                             and together hand and hand
                                             we walk another day

                                            Susie Swanson
                                      
                                          

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Forty Foggy Mornings



                                            I counted forty foggy mornings in August
                                            an old lady once said
                                            I wondered how can this be
                                            as I scratched my head

                                            Thirty one days in August
                                            is all I've ever known
                                            unless the calendar has changed
                                            and the months have grown

                                            I worked so very hard
                                            to try and figure it all in
                                            but the forty foggy mornings
                                            I didn't know where to begin

                                            And then I thought to myself
                                            and I came up with a good try
                                            when summer's heat lingers on
                                            there's forty hot days in July

                                            In January's snowy weather
                                            there's at least forty flakes
                                            that lies on the ground constantly
                                            forty days for goodness sakes

                                            How could I forget March
                                            with so many windy days
                                            the wind probably blows forty
                                            I just don't count the days

                                            No that can't be right
                                            so I said to myself
                                            when thirty one days are gone
                                            in a month there's none left

                                            So I'll just keep on waiting
                                            August is around the bend
                                            if there's forty foggy mornings
                                            when will September begin

                                            Susie Swanson

I'm a little late getting this one posted. To tell you the truth, I forgot about writing it until I ran across it in my untidy mess that I call files. I wrote it sometime last fall after August had come and gone.
 
This is suppose to be a true story folks. My mother told us kids years ago, there was this old lady that said she counted forty foggy mornings in August. I ask Mom , what did she reply and she said " nothing, I didn't want to hurt her feelings by telling her she was wrong or make her mad". Apparently the old lady was easy to fly off the handle as my mom used to put it.
I've thought about this little story a lot over the years and it just came to me one day to try and write something about it. I know it's not the best in the world and I probably could have done better, but I hope someone gets a laugh out of it like I did and still do.. Blessings, Susie