Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

From the 50s and 60s to today . . .



Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Parent Pioneers

Every month, Karen urges her fellow bloggers to participate in a writing challenge, based on a theme. The rules are simple. 
1. Poetry. 2. Write it.
The results are both beautiful and diverse.
This month's theme is RENEW.
For me, the word always brings back thoughts of the ranch. In the spring.
So, this month, I'm going to use a poem written, not by me, but by my mother.
Discovered by me in one of her journals only a couple of years ago, over a decade after her death.
I know this is stretching Karen's rules, but I do hope she'll forgive me . . .

Pioneer Stock


Fresh, clear air from East to West
And room to come and go,
To watch the prairie grasses wave,
And feel the cool winds blow.

To hear the Whisper through the trees,
And watch the morning light,
The little prairie creatures stir,
The ducks and geese take flight.

To see the lazy shadows play
Across the hills at dawn,
And watch the golden sun rays touch
A mother and her fawn.

To look out o’er the rolling hills,
As far as the eye can see.
And not a thing to mar the view,
Not road, nor fence, nor tree.

And far across the plains we see
At the edge of the prairie.
A ridge of snow-capped mountains rise
In Splendid majesty.

When winter sheds his frosty coat,
And north winds cease to blow,
We see the fragile prairie flowers
Peek through the melting snow.

When all the lights of the Milky Way
Play eternal melodies,
A million winking stars above
Join the Heavenly Symphony.

And, stealing ‘cross the rolling land,
A whispering, gentle breeze,
A haunting, trembling Rhapsody,
Stirs leaves in all the trees.

When the moon begins to float,
Across the balmy night,
Caressing all the troubled world,
With it’s glorious, heavenly light.

We see the prairie antelope
Crest the hill at night,
A silhouette against the sky,
As he pauses in his flight.

As the frogs croak out a lullaby,
And all the Prairie sleeps,
A purple Shadow treads the Trail
Where the Wiley Coyote creeps.

The tattoo of the horses’ feet,
As the stage coach rolls along,
The sweat and grime and clouds of dust,
The crack of the whip at dawn.

And bounding o’er a craggy ridge,
The mocking laugh of Raiders,
We hear the loaded wagons roll,
With cursing Whiskey traders.

When a fevered child cries out,
There is no way to go,
To drive the faithful horses through
The shocking drifts of snow.

Sit anxiously throughout the night,
Clutched ln fear and dread.
No way to call a Doctor, or
Take the infant in the sled.

To rise with the sun and milk the cow,
And tend the hungry teams,
To pause a bit and watch the flocks
Fly on to other streams.

To eat a slice of thick, dark bread,
Rich butter and some jam,
Bowls of steaming porridge, and,
A slice of home-cured ham.

Hitch the team up to the plow,
And with the help of God,
Glean a frugal living from
The brown unwilling Sod.

Through Silver Willow, Sage, and, Brush,
We hear the prairie call,
The pioneers of this land are there,
Their silent footsteps fall.

We share so much with those who’ve passed
Their hope, their faith, their tears,
The courage to rise again and again,
Our parent pioneers.

See what the others have done with the theme . . .
Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Renew
Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: Renew
Sarah of Not That Sarah Michelle: Rebirth

12 comments:

  1. You come by your writing talent honestly it would appear. Your mom had a moving way with words.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. She truly did. And this was tucked away in an old journal. What other treasures could I find?

      Delete
  2. I echo Delores - the acorn didn't fall far from that tree. This is a lovely, thoughtful poem. Your mother was multi-talented!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. That old acorn fell right on my head. Now I have something to continue to aspire to! :)

      Delete
  3. This makes me feel like I was out on the prairie again. Very descriptive.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Now I see where you got your talent. Your mother's words are beautiful.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you, River! Hard to believe she had just tucked this away . . .

      Delete
  5. Misty eyes.
    As others have said before me, you learned from a wordsmith. And took those lessons to heart.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you, EC! Some day, I'm going to be just like my mom! :)

      Delete
  6. You could publish her poem to share with all

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks, Veryl! She would be so pleased!

      Delete

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