Ignored by Horses

For Tonia and Deb who love their horses so :)

Ignored by Horses
As I turn the wheel

the car faces eastward.

I search for them,

but drenching sunlight

showers the windshield.

In an awkward attempt

to deflect sudden blindness,

I jerk the visor down.

Squinting, my vision is reclaimed,

and like a reflex,

I scan right to the meadow.

They are there.

Mist billows from the earth

like breath exhaled on a winter’s day.

The horses, immense and silent,

are ships gliding through the fog.

Edging closer,

they press the railings of their boundary.

Snorted vapor,

purged from huge nostrils,

curls and eddies upwards.

Thick tails of coarse hair

instinctively switch at flies not yet present.

I slow the car and watch them.

They stare, luminous eyes of liquid brown

observing, but ignoring my passage.

Instead, they gaze longingly

just beyond the fence’s edge

at a long row of coiled weathered haystacks

as if they were cinnamon buns

in a bakery window.

And so we begin

another misty morning

that will clear and harden

with the sun’s rising.

Me, toiling at my chosen labor,

they, nobly rambling the meadows

well aware of their regal grandeur,

and affording passerbys a glance

with haughty disregard.

Rose S. Williams

©Southernstoryteller

~1998/2010

Back in 1998 I worked as a nanny for a wealthy couple who lived out in the country. Every morning, on my way to work, I would ride past a field with beautiful horses who seemed to be oblivious to me...yet, I was mesmerized by them.
I finally wrote this poem about them...but unfortunately never got around to photographing them. These shots are from a ride in the country a couple of years ago, so there is no misty fog as the poem says, and...not the same horses, but they will do :)

Rose

Happy Earth Day~Dear Mother Earth

Dear Mother Earth,

Thank you for the constant source of inspiration in your beauty that surrounds me. I could go on for pages about the soothing powers of your oceans,

the magnificence of your mountains,
 


the beauty to be found in the sunrise...



and your oh-so-glorious sunsets.

I love you, Mother Earth, for allowing me to open myself to the possibilities of truly "seeing" and experiencing the natural world around me...

But most of all, today, I want to thank you for giving me the eyes, and the heart, and the soul, to see the small details of your handiwork.







 

Sometimes, in our busy modern lives, we rush headlong through our days with such haste, too busy to notice you...


Until you take matters into your own hands, and send us a gift to capture our attention.
 

 


I realize now you want me to see that in my hurry to get through the day, I might miss the loving care you put into tiny details of Life...
 

like the unassuming beauty of a fallen leaf
 
 



or the pastel coloring and delicate features of the lichen and moss.
 


So, this photo essay is in gratitude and reverence to the beauty to be found in Nature, on a small scale, if I take the time to look.

For I can see lessons in your all handiwork...even in the mushrooms, lichen, and other fungi-
 



what I see is that life continues, even when it seems that one part is gone...



and often what we leave behind "feeds" the hearts and souls of others.



To fully appreciate your subtle, small-scale beauty, I have to lean in close to you, Mother:



When I do, I see the multi-layered world upon worlds that you offer me.


It sometimes takes getting a little "dirty" as many of these photos can only be shot on hands and knees...and sometimes lying flat on my belly.
 

But, look at the rewards:

You are such a loving mother...you care for your children and offer us precious gifts in the small details of Life...

And all you ask, in return, is that we take the time...and that we make the time...to see it



Thank you, dear Mother Earth, for giving me a source of solace and inspiration in your intricate details.

For in your daedal handiwork, Dear Mother,
 


I see the strength of the oak forest,

And on close inspection, I see the rosin blood of the pines....

In the contrast of the tree's bark and spider's web...I see the gamut of Nature's gossamer loveliness and her stalwart strength.
 


Though sometimes your trees may have cracks and crevices...


or even holes drilled and pecked...
 

they are still strong enough to house your feathered, furry, and insect children.
 


I thank you for helping me see, not only the blooming flowers,

but also the tiny buds.




For in them, and in the sprouting ferns...

I see the promise of tomorrow.

Thank you for allowing me to see what some might call weeds...

 

and helping me understand they play an important role in the cycle of Life.



And thank you, especially, for the dew drops....


Those sparkling, translucent water diamonds that I find so breathtaking...



I think Gibran says it best:
For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.
Kahlil Gibran (1883 - 1931), The Prophet

I offer my thanks in words and photos here, and my love for being allowed to see your small details...
 


And Mother, I understand now...

You want us to realize we are all---every person, animal, plant, insect and bird,

no matter how small



are all part of a larger scheme of things...
 

And each of us, even the very small ones...contributes to this world in our own special ways.



Thank dear Mother Earth for showing me, through the beauty of Nature, even that the small details in Life are important.


With Love,
Rose
Happy Earth Day!

Rose Steedley Williams
©Southernstoryteller~2008
All photos are the property of Rose S. Williams and may not be reproduced without my consent.

I GIVE YOU MY HEART

I give you my heart

made of paper and ribbon

of glue, sequins and crayons,

all held together with childish love.

I made it all by myself

see how it sparkles,

look what I wrote inside

with my big red pencil

just for you.

I give you my heart

soft and tender

with the wonder of new love.

I've never felt this way before,

as if you could see it beating

right beneath my blouse

each time I see you.

It scares me so to feel this way,

please don't break it.

I give you my heart

and my hand in marriage

to have and to hold

till death do us part.

You are my soul mate,

my one true love.

I knew it from the start

from the way my heart fluttered

as the very thought of you.

I give you my heart

it rests there in your tiny hand.

I realize that from now on

a part of my heart

will always walk outside myself

with you, my child.

I know a love now

unlike any other,

and I feel blessed.

I give you my heart

for I need it no longer.

I am free now from this body,

free from the pains and troubles

of this earthly world.

Thank you, dear Spirit

for loaning me this heart

for without it I would never

have known the true meaning of Love.

Rose Steedley Williams

©Southernstoryteller~Feb. 2010

What Lies Beneath

What lies beneath our brain~

That gray matter of thought and reason

the inner sanctum of our humanness

where decisions are molded

and ideas born at random

where creativity hibernates

and aspirations hide
only coming out at night

to dance among our dreams?

What lies beneath our beating hearts

beneath the sheathed muscled epicenter

of emotion where love and lust reside,

sometimes in tandem,

sometimes askew...

this visceral place where

we ache with grief

and love with abandon

where despair is hidden

but hope arises?

What beauty lies within our soul~

it's butterfly wings flapping,

longing for enlightenment
but trapped by convention and society

that ephemeral being we are 

yet daily struggle to remember, 

the whys and hows

of where we came from

and how to find the key

to open the door to inner ourselves.

What lies beneath our outward façade?

The one we show the world even as

it cages our true heart’s desire

doing what is “expected”

rather than what we want.
What lies beneath it all
waiting to be discovered,
recognized, remembered,
and embraced.

That is the true reason we are here...
to unearth what lies beneath.

Rose S. Williams©Southernstoryteller-2013

A Moon Memory

So the Boyz and I went for our nightly walk a little while ago, and the growing moon beamed down on us like a doting parent. I felt bathed in it's loving silvery gold patina, as was the world around us.
 The moon has no favorites when it's growing, it's generosity of light spills onto everything on the Earth below without judgement. Shadows form from its brightness, and my youngest small dog loomed large on the sidewalk ahead of me, puffed up in size by the moon's glow.

  I love these night time walks, and though I often complain, quite bitterly, about the changing of the time that brings with it early darkness...I have to admit the night walks are my favorite time of the day.  

 Across the road from our street is a wooded area, a veritable oasis in the middle of this small city, where trees grow unharmed, and tiny wild animals and bird find homes. Sometimes, like tonight, I can hear the hushed chattering of nervous birds settling down for an evening's rest, or in the summer the single croak of a bullfrog on the pond's edge. I treasure this oasis, it will never be destroyed for I learned a few years ago to belongs to the small neighborhood it sits beside. Some of the neighbors, in their wisdom, recognized the value of its beauty and the safe haven it offers those furry and winged residents, and deeded this small area to the Audobon Society. I like that I can walk here at night on the sidewalk and have some small sanctuary of nature so close to my front door. It reminds me of home.

 On our way back, as I looked up at the once large moon, now high above me and small as a button I am reminded how I used to love to stare up at this same moon as a child. This mythical, magical satellite rotating around us has been a focal point of so many humans for centuries. The legends created around its waxing and waning has been told over thousands of years to wide-eyed children who gazed solemnly at it in awe. 

 I can remember doing the same, taking an old bedspread to throw across the hood of my daddy's work truck and lay back to stare at it and the stars around it. On the nearly full moon the backdrop of  sky is a muted royal blue canvas, and the stars twinkling are like silver glitter that has been scatterred upon it. On occasion I was lucky enough to see a shooting star, tossing my childish wishes upon it to fly through the sky and collide with the Earth in some distant place. No light pollution to drown out the stars or the moon, not there in Council, just the inky jet blue night with a moon as bright the headlight of the trains that passed by regularly. 

 Walking just now brought back these memories and my Muse whispered in my ear on the way home...go write it down. Go put these memories into words that will be here for you later, or for your friends or family. They too have gazed upon a brightly lit moon and had these same experiences. 

Put it down for them as well, record this common bond of human experience for anyone who reads it might be able to say: "Oh, I've done that too!" Perhaps for them  it might evoke some wonderful memory as well, still there in their brain but long buried in the hustle-bustle life we lead in the 21st century.

 So here it is, and if you read it tonight, or in the next couple of nights...go outside, leave your television for a while, and gaze up at that gorgeous moon. 

 I promise, it will be smiling down on you, white gold light that will remind you of the child you once were.

Rose S. Williams-Southernstoryteller©2013
January 25th, 2013

Christmas Tree..OOOHHH Christmas Tree

           
There's nothing that gets us in the mood for Christmas like getting a tree to decorate. Most of us have fond recollections of such an excursion. I have a memory of a time when I was young, and my mother and aunt decided to take my cousin Tony and me into the forest to find a tree. The excursion had an unexpected turn of events that none of us would soon forget.

If my momma had her way, we wouldn't have gone into the woods for our Christmas tree that year. She would have preferred having one of those flashy aluminum trees which were all the rage in the early 60's. Their silvery shine, alluringly illuminated by strategically placed spotlights in the window of Kressie's Department store, had caught her eye on our last visit to Waycross. She hinted how beautiful one would look in our house, to which my father snorted, "Why would I want to pay for a fake Christmas tree when we can go out in the woods and cut a real one!"

Momma had been after Daddy to cut us a tree, but he was busy with work and often didn't get in until after dark. Ever resourceful and more than a little miffed about not getting what she wanted, she took matters into her own hands. She called Aunt Lenora and suggested that the two of them, with Tony and me in tow, should go cut their own tree. Who said they had to wait on a man to cut down a tree and bring it in? Yes sir, even way back then, in 1963, my mother was a feminist!

We left our house early that Saturday morning in our little Ford Falcon. We drove only about fifteen minutes to reach our intended destination, an old farm place where a hundred years earlier hardy pioneer settlers had roughed it in this swampy, formidable part of southern Georgia. As a testament to their fortitude, part of the old fat lighter house was still standing. All around it, where there was once a vegetable garden and a barn, were many cedar trees of various shapes and sizes.

We trekked to the front of the house, Momma carrying the ax. Aunt Lenora had a ball of twine to wind around the limbs and tie the trees to the car. Momma and I wandered to the left of the house while Aunt Lenora and Tony took off to the right. The grownups called back and forth to one another when a likely prospect was sighted for inspection by the whole group. Although we were only six and four, Tony and I were given an equal vote in selecting the trees. After about thirty minutes, both households were satisfied that the perfect selections had been made.

The process of cutting the two trees was done in an efficient and practical manner; my mother and aunt both were used to gathering firewood since they were children. The first tree was felled, dragged to the car, and tied securely on top. We all headed back to finish and hurry home to hot chocolate and brownies.

We returned to the second tree, Tony and I playing tag, while Momma and Aunt Lenora discussed how far to trim branches and where to begin cutting.

It was Tony who first saw the wild boar that bolted into the clearing beyond where we were standing. Our boisterous game suddenly stopped because Tony was no longer running away from me. Instead, when he looked back over his shoulders to check on my progress, he froze in his tracks. His mouth became a perfect oval, his eyes widened, and a look of terror enveloped him. He mutely mouthed a warning. At first, I thought he was just trying to play a trick on me. Then I turned to look in the direction of his shaking, outstretched finger.

Immediately, I understood his look of fear. An enormous wild hog stood less than ten yards from us. The beast's sides, covered with muddy black and rust-colored fur, heaved with exertion. Protruding from his slobbering mouth were two razor-edged tusks. He seemed frozen too, and then he smacked his teeth together in a warning chomp. He snorted and charged in two short steps toward us. To us, it seemed as if his black, beady eyes were sizing us, trying to decide which one to eat first. We both began to scream shrilly, frightening the animal and ourselves.


Momma, who had been holding the ax, dropped it and began to run. Aunt Lenora followed closely on her heels. They continued screaming as they ran. The problem was, they weren't running to Tony and me, but instead were racing away in the opposite direction toward the road where the car was parked!

Tony and I stopped screaming. We were stunned. We couldn't believe we were being abandoned. As we watched helplessly our mothers disappeared around the bend in the road.

I remember looking over at Tony. His bottom lip was quivering like mine. We rushed together and hugged tightly. We tried bravely to reassure each other that everything would be all right. I began to pray that our daddies would come and save us.

By this time the boar had disappeared, probably frightened half to death by all the commotion and screaming. We were relieved when we glanced and found him gone. Our mothers, upon reaching the car and realizing they had left their only children to the mercy of a wild animal, rushed back to the tender scene of two young cousins trying to comfort each another.

We were gathered into their trembling arms and hugged to near unconsciousness before being released. Both mommas emphasized how it would be better if we didn't tell anyone about seeing that mean, nasty old hog, and what would we say to a trip to town for a dollar's worth of penny candy for both of us from Leviton's store.

Under our Christmas tree that year I reaped the bounty of my mother's guilt and perhaps, unintended bribery. That was the first Christmas I remember getting everything I asked Santa for, even that Barbie doll house that Momma had told me not to count on getting because Santa might run out of them before he got to our house.

You can bet one thing though--we had a beautiful six foot silver aluminum tree the very next year, and Momma and I both thought it was the prettiest Christmas tree in the whole wide world!

Rose Steedley Williams©2002