My poem, boyhood of prairie life
Prairie Boy
Born on the prairie
in an upstairs bedroom
Sod busters came there
early eighteen hundreds
Seven miles from town
share cropper mom and dad
One twenty acres
Eastern Nebraska hills
Too small for a horse
he rode his bike to school
First girl friend was there
Storm cellar clandestine
Changed schools for high school
rode horse grades nine ten
He helped on the farm
and milked cows year around
Last two years in town
he earned a scholarship
End of prairie life
Jimmy had made big town
_ _ _
- Poem Copyright, Jimmiehov 2019, All Rights Reserved
- I'm linked with Marian in the Imaginary Garden at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2019/10/prairie-in-sky.html?m=1
- This what came to mind after reading my environment growing up as glorified in the link above. My growing up years in a Nutshell Poem. I could elaborate on any verse but no need to boar you more.
- I won't rewrite or change as I am in the middle of on-line completion of my continuing education for my annual Texas State Bar licences renewal.
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posted by Jim @ 10/14/2019 08:03:00 PM
8 comments
8 Comments:
The thirst to get away but hopefully to return visit with a good job later.
What a great history - i hope the city brought as many good things as the prairie
Clandestine in the storm cellar, that's a charming image :)
But you made big town! And now your continuing education for the bar! Who'da thunk it way back when?
This took me back to stories my grandma told me of living in the days before people had cars. She rode her horse into town and where she lived, she could see ruts in the ground made by covered wagons. Wow.
Storm cellars sounds great. I can understand that, the rest is something that is so far from my own growing up
Well I like your spin on prairie life ... my growing up was pretty much prairie too. Then the big cities.
and that "country" side of our nature never truly leaves us. And that is a good thing!
You can leave the country but the country never leaves you... I often yearn for open fields and wild blue sky.
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