HEAVENLY SIGHT

                                                                  Heavenly Sight

It is in the silent power

Of the rising of the sun
And the chirping of morning song
Announcing a new day begun

It is the splash of yellow color
That lights the leaves of the trees
As limbs dance gently up and down
To the rhythm of the breeze

It is the cotton candy clouds
Turning dark and heavy with rain
And the roll of thunder and lightning
As a storm passes o'er the plain

It is the grand pallet of color
That paints awe across the west
As the sun recedes in the glory
Of a day that has come to rest

It is the sparkling canopy
Of stars that glitter in the night
The lonesome call of the whippoorwill
And the owl as it takes flight

It is all of these wondrous things
Around me morning, noon, and night
That soothes my soul when this I know
That it is God I have in sight

 K.L. Dennie 2019

We are Downstate Illinois

NOTE:
Illinois is widely seen throughout all news outlets as having the most corrupt state government in America. The backbreaking tax burdens, the massive out of control debt, the laws passed without majority approval of the people, the endless "player" payoffs, the far left leaning moves of the government, and the Chicago Machine's control over everything, are the reason Illinois has the greatest exodus of citizens fleeing this state in its history.
When many people think Illinois they think Chicago. Illinois is the longest state in the country next to California; almost 400 miles north to south. With Chicago in the far northeast and most all of the rest of the state south, well, the miles alone is not the only difference between this mega-metropolis and Illinois  "downstate" people. Here's a poem to express it.

We Are Downstate Illinois

We're skyscrapers, and fly papers.
We're college grads, and blue collar dads.
We dine high, and we pan fry.
We're school teachers, and country preachers,
We're bank tellers, and corner office dwellers.
We're town squares and millionaires.
We're Cardinals, Cubs, and Irish pubs.
We're cattle, horses, and college night courses.
We're rolling rivers, and chicken livers.
We're Prada purses, and dedicated Nurses.
We're opera lovers, and Den Mothers.
We're miles of corn, and the Manor Born.
We're up-all-nighters, and firefighters.
We're egg poachers, and sports team coaches.
We're Jaguars, and Mason jars.
We're Lincoln Library and Kampsville Ferry.
We're Think Tanks, and "Country Boy" Hanks.
We're born free and love liberty.
We're policy insiders and law abiders.
We're college punters and deer hunters.
We're Bible readers, and civic leaders.
We're MD's and EMTs, Vets, and referees.
We're an open mind and color blind.
We're lakes and streams, and farm machines.
We're high tax haters, and restaurant waiters.
We're veterans, and proud daughters and sons.
We're Broadway plays, and County Fair days.
We're pedicures, and hog manure.
We're Pro life (with common sense) and want patriots for Presidents.
We're higher learning and wage earning.
We're Any-Doodle pups and pickup trucks.
We're SMART cars, and Honky Tonk bars.
We're True Blue Cops, and cool Hip Hops.
We're Gucci suits, and cowboy boots.
We're Peking Duck, and the deer rut.
We love the Bears (need a good Punter there?)
We are Northern Loud and Southern Proud.
So....
We're everything Chicago is and, Lord knows, a ton of things they ain't.
We're the country air breathin', freindly greetin', good people of DOWNSTATE.

K.L Dennie 2019

MEMORIAL DAY

I had occasion to be sitting in my pick-up at a cemetery recently. I sat gazing across the manicured lawns and the acres of monuments and tombstones erected to honor the dead. Some of the monuments were sculpted wonders; some were simple slabs whose letters and dates had faded in the wind and rain of the ages. As I always do in a place like this, I thought of those who rested here, and those who cared enough to mark the place where life had ended.

 I thought of all the different cultures in the world, and how each one has their own way of honoring the dead. In all the many ways, traditions of burial rites, it is a way of saying goodbye to those who are passing and making a place of remembrance for the living. All over the world, cultures seem to have a way of saying, "Gone, but not forgotten". As I was lost in these thoughts, I noticed across the way, a car driving up a lane fifty yards or so from where I was sitting.

The car moved slowly up the lane, then stopped next to the flag pole where the Stars and Stripes were waving gently in the breeze. I was out of view. After a few seconds an old man who looked to be in his nineties exited slowly and a bit unsteadily from the car. He stood next to the car, holding to the door and gazing at the flag. It was then that I noticed that the flag was a bit worn. He stood for half a minute or so, then reached inside the car and removed a box. He closed the door and shuffled to the hood of the car, laid the box there, and opened it.

After opening the box, the old man turned to the flag again. He squared himself up to attention, and  raised a hand salute. He lowered his salute then and moved to the flagpole. He loosened the chains and slowly and reverently lowered the flag. After removing the flag, he folded it and laid it aside. He then removed a new flag from the box, unfolded it, and placed it on the chain. Once the flag was secure he quickly raised it to the top, then ever so slowly lowered it to half-mast. I remembered then that the American flag had been ordered to half-mast by President Trump to honor the passing of President George H.W. Bush. Forty One had been my Commander and Chief during Desert Shield/Storm.

Once the flag was secured at half-mast the old man stepped back, squared up again, and hand saluted Old Glory for several seconds. He then slowly, almost in Honor Guard fashion, lowered his salute and came to parade rest.

As an old soldier myself, his posture and reverence toward that flag suggested to me that this was an old soldier from an earlier time. World War II or Korea? The slow lowering and rapid raising, the hand salutes, these were proper flag protocol.

 The old soldier stood after his salute and just looked at the ground below the flag for a few minutes. I wondered if he was remembering those who had fallen; friends and family perhaps. Maybe he was praying for those gone on. Perhaps he said a prayer for the country he obviously loved. Whatever his thoughts were in that few silent moments, it was silent reverence I beheld...and it was humbling to watch.

After gathering the box from the hood and placing it in the car, the old soldier prepared to enter the auto, but with one foot inside, he stopped and looked once more at the red, white, and blue symbol of the greatest country on earth. Then he eased himself (painfully, I thought) into the vehicle.

As he drove away I found myself saying aloud, "Thank you sir, for your service". I was thankful for the respect and honor shown to our flag. I was thankful for all those who have fought to keep America free.  I was thankful for citizens of this great country who still have a sense of respect, duty, and honor.
He never saw me, that old soldier, but I saw him. His actions moved me.

 I wondered if he'd ever raise that flag again. I wondered who would take his place. I wondered, when the time comes, if it should be me.

K L Dennie
Jan 2019

A Country Creek

If ever you have walked a country creek
As far as you possibly can
To see perhaps where it leads and ends,
Or the source where it began

If you loved its restless rolling purpose
As it traveled steadily along,
And drank in the soul-feeding music
Of the water's bubbling song

If you marveled at the dazzling sparkle
Of sunlight playing in the spray
As it dances o'er the many rocks
And logs it meets along the way

If you've waded in up to your knees
And felt the cool gentle caress
Or in cupped hands savored a drink
As you paused a little while to rest

Or if you've just stood along the bank
And lovingly wondered where it went,
Then you know that time at a country creek
Could not have been better spent.


K L Dennie 2019

A Land of Ghosts

 I went home to the bluegrass state recently. As always, I am pleased by its natural beauty. The Kentucky hills reaching to the sky with lush pastures and creeks at their bases. Rock outcroppings that weep with little streams of water that begin their journey somewhere in the peaks. The pastures are often a quilted pattern of cattle and horses grazing happily on the blue grass. From crossbred to pure bred, painted horses and Thoroughbreds, it is mostly a picture of agricultural bounty wrapped in wooden fences and dotted with magnificent barns.

   As we made our way through old familiar roads however, I was surprised, and a bit dismayed, to find half million dollar houses on land that was not so long ago occupied by rusty-roofed wooden sheds and contented livestock. Where twenty acre pastures fed family herds, now five houses of masonry splendor with four car garages have cut black ribbon paths across creek and grass to scar the quarter. Progress, or some by-product of it, has come to disquiet this lovely place. The city has metastasized and is reaching the heart of this particular rural community. Its encroachment is evident by the abandoned farms.

   Together houses, sheds and barns that once were full of families and their living, now stand graying and folding with neglect. The metal gone from barn and shed roofs exposes ancient wooden shingles, and where those are missing, solid old beams painstakingly axed and placed by able hands, are now naked to the elements and left to perish. Doors are hanging by a single hinge waiting for one more storm to lay them to rest.

   The houses that experienced the laughter, the joys of birth, and the pain of death within their humble walls, now set cold, silent and empty. Houses are just structures until they are occupied, its then that they become homes. You can have a fine house with bricks and wood alone, but it takes good people to make a fine home. For many decades a knock on the door would result in a welcoming invitation. These were once good farms, but now it is only the wind that makes the wooden screen doors open and close. Only the light of the sun through the broken panes is left of the warm glow that was once a farming family home.

   Generations of folks for 180 years or more lived and died on this fertile bluegrass soil. Children were raised. Some children went off to school, some went to war. Some returned... too many never did. There was so much life here once. A farm is a living thing after all. Its’ a cycle. The earth producing sustenance to families, and then the giving back in sweat and toil of the energy received from the soil, is what completes the manner of a simple livelihood that is as old as the human race itself. Now, at some of the farms I saw before me, only memories remain of the vitality that once was.
I am not against prosperity nor am I unappreciative of change when change is necessary and good. Yet, as our nation becomes more and more crowded, our dependency grows increasingly on fragile things. Farming corporations are becoming the rule in agriculture. Big box store shelves are the main source of food. We place our sedentary lives in the hands of technology and pharmaceuticals... in the hopes of staying healthy.

   Media is often the main source of cerebral stimulation for people. Used to be that days working on the farm kept many folks “healthy, wealthy, and wise.” Wealth wasn't realized always in financial terms; spirit and character benefited the most. For most of America that hasn’t been the case for some time now. Our population is moving rapidly further from the family farm or rural life each year. The number of people who have no idea (or even care) where their food comes from is shocking.
Farming and ranching are literally the roots of America. As I watch the life drain from parts of rural America, I feel some trepidation and a great sense of loss. The “good old days”, I fully realize, were often very hard old days. But, they were simple days. Days that built strong people. Strong principles. An amazingly strong nation.

   Strength was gained from the land ...and the stewardship of it. Strength like the once sturdy buildings and fertile fields I beheld in some parts of my beloved home state.

A strength that I fear is slowly, imperceptibly, decaying away.

K L Dennie Jan 2012

Old Soldier, Old Glory

I had occasion to be sitting in my pick-up at a cemetery recently. I sat gazing across the manicured lawns and the acres of monuments and tombstones erected to honor the dead. Some of the monuments were sculpted wonders; some were simple slabs whose letters and dates had faded in the wind and rain of the ages. As I always do in a place like this, I thought of those who rested here, and those who cared enough to mark the place where life had ended.

 I thought of all the different cultures in the world, and how each one has their own way of honoring the dead. In all the many ways, traditions of burial rites, it is a way of saying goodbye to those who are passing and making a place of remembrance for the living. All over the world, cultures seem to have a way of saying, "Gone, but not forgotten". As I was lost in these thoughts, I noticed across the way, a car driving up a lane fifty yards or so from where I was sitting.

The car moved slowly up the lane, then stopped next to the flag pole where the Stars and Stripes were waving gently in the breeze. I was out of view. After a few seconds an old man who looked to be in his nineties exited slowly and a bit unsteadily from the car. He stood next to the car, holding to the door and gazing at the flag. It was then that I noticed that the flag was a bit worn. He stood for half a minute or so, then reached inside the car and removed a box. He closed the door and shuffled to the hood of the car, laid the box there, and opened it.

After opening the box, the old man turned to the flag again. He squared himself up to attention, and  raised a hand salute. He lowered his salute then and moved to the flagpole. He loosened the chains and slowly and reverently lowered the flag. After removing the flag, he folded it and laid it aside. He then removed a new flag from the box, unfolded it, and placed it on the chain. Once the flag was secure he quickly raised it to the top, then ever so slowly lowered it to half-mast. I remembered then that the American flag had been ordered to half-mast by President Trump to honor the passing of President George H.W. Bush. Forty One had been my Commander and Chief during Desert Shield/Storm.

Once the flag was secured at half-mast the old man stepped back, squared up again, and hand saluted Old Glory for several seconds. He then slowly, almost in Honor Guard fashion, lowered his salute and came to parade rest.

As an old soldier myself, his posture and reverence toward that flag suggested to me that this was an old soldier from an earlier time.World War II or Korea? The slow lowering and rapid raising, the hand salutes, these were proper flag protocol.

 The old soldier stood after his salute and just looked at the ground below the flag for a few minutes. I wondered if he was remembering those who had fallen; friends and family perhaps. Maybe he was praying for those gone on. Perhaps he said a prayer for the country he obviously loved. Whatever his thoughts were in that few silent moments, it was silent reverence I beheld...and it was humbling to watch.

After gathering the box from the hood and placing it in the car, the old soldier prepared to enter the auto, but with one foot inside, he stopped and looked once more at the red, white, and blue symbol of the greatest country on earth.Then he eased himself (painfully, I thought) into the vehicle.

As he drove away I found myself saying aloud, "Thank you sir, for your service". I was thankful for the respect and honor shown to our flag. I was thankful for all those who have fought to keep America free.  I was thankful for citizens of this great country who still have a sense of respect, duty, and honor.
He never saw me, that old soldier, but I saw him. His actions moved me.

 I wondered if he'd ever raise that flag again. I wondered who would take his place. I wondered,when the time comes, if it should be me.

K L Dennie
Jan 2019