R.E. Slater - Of Grandsons & Grandparenting

LITTLE BOYS, DOGS AND CARS

by R.E. Slater

I'm not sure what it is about

little boys and dogs and cars

but they seem to go together

like ice cream and waffle cones,

like cold cereal and milk, like

puppy dog tails, sticks, and mud.

If you have grandsons as I do

you'll notice they take naturally

to laying on floors playing with

their trucks and toys, each

making their own noises,

going Brrrm, Brrrm, Brrrm.

And don't forget the family dog

who lays nearby drowsily listening 

with ears alert through sleepy lids

until they become a mountain,

a road valley, an obstacle to climb,

to hug and ride and drive upon.

When Grandpa goes for groceries

each little one wants to drive,

imagining exciting adventures

as they go Brrrm, Brrrm, Brrrm,

in the front seat happily steering,

with doggy seated behind them.

Too quickly these times fly by

as grandpa grows older and his

grandsons lose their num-num,

soon learn to play winter soccer,

forgetting their aging playmates,

eyeing the girls and growing up.

These are the days to remember,

to hug and hold tight; to lean into;

of getting down on the floor playing

alongside grandson and dog, going

Brrrm, Brrrm, Brrrm, down the

country lanes and o'er the far hills.

R.E. Slater

August 27, 2022;

edited September 22, 2022

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

* * * * * *

LITTLE BLESSINGS

I have little blessings,

   I count them one x three,

They travel in grandpa's arms

   Or upon his shoulders wide,

But it's all OK by him.

We duck wild'ing hanging branches,

   We learn to walk the fields,

I carry little blessings,

   Who are brightly learning,

To grow alongside of me.

R.E. Slater

August 27, 2022;

edited September 22, 2022

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

* * * * * *

BEHOLD! GOD'S MANY WONDERS!

Grandpa, Grandpa!

I hear my welcomed guests crying out,

excitedly running down the hallways,

hearing me call, following my voice,

"Over hear, over hear, over hear!"

with arms open wide, I gather

each little body in as best as I can,

squirming for a better seat,

and me, a better grip, as we

mash together to watch, or

listen, whatever I might have on,

uncaring just then my plans to

play baseball, bikes, or go upon

happy wilderness hikes!

R.E. Slater

August 27, 2022;

edited September 22, 2022

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

* * * * * *

RESTING UNDER A GREEN BROOK

Against a bluing sky

   a fawning, aging tree's
   green leaves tilt and flutter
As mirthless breezes
  whisper, Listen... Listen...
   hear what is unheard,
See what is unseen,

   smell my deep roots,
   planted wisdom's soils,
Rejoice! and be content.

R.E. Slater

August 27, 2022

edited September 22, 2022

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

Farming & Agricultural Poems

FARMING & AGRICULTURAL POEMS

The Farmer
by Sue Ikerd

He has been a farmer all of his life,
long before he took a wife,
he knew he was meant to work the soil.
His days on this earth would be spent in toil,
planting the crops and clearing the land.
This was all part of the Master's Plan.

As in his father's and grandfather's days.
For generations this had been the ways.
in which they would work the land and the sod,
drawing nearer to nature and communing with God.
To each of his neighbors he lent a hand
They worked together to farm the land,
in autumn when the harvest came,
each one in turn did the same.

All through the week they labored each day,
but on the Sabbath they gathered to pray.
To thank Him for His blessings and love,
what they gathered on earth had come from above . . .
When his children were born he watched them grow.
He taught them the lessons so they would know,
and learn the ways of country and farm,
of love, truth, respect and to do no harm
to creature on land or those in the air,
and to be good stewards of the land in their care.

He watched them ride horses and float down the stream,
but he knew that their future could not be his dream.
This farmer he realizes that he has wealth beyond measure,
because here on this farm he has found all his treasure.

With his family around him, for wealth there's no need.
With all of His blessings he's a rich man indeed.
His breed is a rare one, it's becoming extinct,
with this world's busy lifestyle, there's no time to think.
Life's becoming too hectic and people miss out,
on all of the beauty that lies roundabout.

This farmer can see it as he goes through his days,
From bird's nests to sunsets, each free for the gaze.
The path that he's taken is different than most.
He's content in his heart and has no need to boast.
His drumbeat is different but he follows its sounds,
with his dog by his side he walks over this ground,
of the land that he loves, he will do it no harm,
The place of his birth, the old family farm.

Sowing the World

by R.E. Slater

Farming is a global profession

      Performed from early morning

      Til' late at night all hours of the day

By many hands

And earthy talents

      Who feed the world,

      Clean the stalls,

      Sow the fields,

      And pray their labor

That all be well and good

And blessed in outcome

      Whither sweat or tears,

      Loss or outcome,

Feeding hungry families,

From near to far

      Blessed Keepers of the Earth

      Blessed Wardens of the Climes

      Blessed Restorers of Creation.

R.E. Slater

August 19, 2022

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

Amazon Link

The Cow in Apple Time

by Robert Frost

Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.

Close the Gate (For Dad)
by Nancy Kraayenhof

For this one farmer the worries are over, lie down and rest your head,
Your time has been and struggles enough, put the tractor in the shed.

Years were not easy, many downright hard, but your faith in God transcended,
Put away your tools and sleep in peace. The fences have all been mended.

You raised a fine family, worked the land well and always followed the Son,
Hang up your shovel inside of the barn; your work here on earth is done.

A faith few possess led your journey through life, often a jagged and stony way,
The sun is setting, the cattle are all bedded, and here now is the end of your day.

Your love of God’s soil has passed on to your kin; the stories flow like fine wine,
Wash off your work boots in the puddle left by blessed rain one final time.

You always believed that the good Lord would provide and He always had somehow,
Take off your gloves and put them down, no more sweat and worry for you now.

Your labor is done, your home now is heaven; no more must you wait,
Your legacy lives on, your love of the land, and we will close the gate.

Farming Poems - https://www.poemhunter.com/poems/farming/

Agricultural Poems - https://oklahoma.agclassroom.org/resources_food/songs/

Harvest Celebration
by Diego Flammini

Completion of the harvest, is a time to celebrate,
Leaves on trees are yellowing, around the whole estate,
Barns and bins are full to bursting, for winter now is here,
In olden days it was the same, to grow still takes a year.

A lot more hand work then, more men worked upon the land,
Ploughed with horses and acre a day, seed was sown by hand,
Good rotation of all the crops, kept most weeds at bay,
At harvest stood sheaves up in stooks, for two church bells they must stay.

Into bays or ricks were built, threshed out as needed through the year,
Wheat went to the mill to be ground, flour for bread we do revere,
Oats to feed the cattle and horses, and some for porridge bound,
To feed the men and families who, work on the land all year round.

Mechanised now and fewer men, but crops still grow the same,
Sunshine and warmth in the spring, showers to grow good crops the aim,
In nature nothing really changes, seasons come and go,
To keep us on the land we all love, its food for everyone we grow.

The Farmer
by Amelia Barr

The king may rule o’er land and sea,
The lord may live right royally,
The soldier ride in pomp and pride,
The sailor roam o’er ocean wide;
But this or that, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.

The writer thinks, the poet sings,
The craftsmen fashion wondrous things,
The doctor heals, the lawyer pleads,
The miner follows the precious leads;
But this or that, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.

The merchant he may buy and sell,
The teacher do his duty well;
But men may toil through busy days,
Or men may stroll through pleasant ways;
From king to beggar, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.

The farmer’s trade is one of worth;
He’s partner with the sky and earth,
He’s partner with the sun and rain,
And no man loses for his gain;
And men may rise, or men may fall,
But the farmer he must feed them all.

God bless the man who sows the wheat,
Who finds us milk and fruit and meat;
May his purse be heavy, his heart be light,
His cattle and corn and all go right;
God bless the seeds his hands let fall,
For the farmer he must feed us all.

The Farmer's Creed
by Frank Mann

I believe a man’s greatest possession is his dignity and that no calling bestows this more abundantly than farming.

I believe hard work and honest sweat are the building blocks of a person’s character.

I believe that farmers, despite its hardships and disappointments is the most honest and honorable way a man can spend his days on earth.

I believe my children are learning values that will last a lifetime and can be earned no other way.

I believe farming provides education for life and that no other occupation teaches so much about birth, growth and maturity in such a variety of ways.

I believe many of the best things in life are indeed free: the splendor of a sunrise, the rapture of wide open spaces, and the exhilarating sight of your land greening each spring.

I believe true happiness comes in watching your crops ripen in the filed, your children grow tall in the sun, and your whole family feel the pride that springs from their shared experience.

I believe that by my toil I am giving more to the world than I am taking from it, an honor that does not come to all men.

I believe my life will be measured ultimately by what I have done for my fellow man, and by this standard I fear no judgment.

I believe when a man grows old and sums up his days, he should be able to stand tall and feel pride in the life he’s lived.

I believe in farming because it makes all this possible.

R.E. Slater - Sunday Afternoons (a poem)

Sunday Afternoons

by R.E. Slater

Here I rest, enjoying

a hot, lazy, Sunday afternoon;

the perfect weather to read and write.

Well, any weather is though isn't it?

For a writer, you just go with the flow

of whatever a day brings.

Today, it dwells in thoughts of

earlier, dustier, dry summers

lived out in the country with only

my thoughts as company; the

hot scent of scorched earth against

your skin; and the quiet drone of

the browning hay and grain fields

lit in golden fire shielding the

restless crickets and grasshoppers, 

meadowlark and bobolink.

These were the days of youth,

when nothing else existed;

where all stood still

for the close observer to

discover; inhale; breathe in-and-out

the withering graces of a hot sun

uncaring its habits or heats; of a

life lost upon the endless stretches

of undulating grain fields broken

occasionally by rutted tractor paths

worn down with time and usage.

In those days all was quiet.

Without demand. Simple.

Distant. Unhurried.

Mediating time with space.

No need of anything... but love.

And the seldom companionships

which occasionally drove up

upon the dried lawns; unexpected

visitors; happy of heart; generous

with their smiles; come to stay, to

remember, to speak of the old days

and the old ways; come to visit our

hilly, forlorn homestead, itself an

island to yesteryear's afterglow - 

but not of its laterly progress

downwards; drained upon the lands

of time of livestock and working hands.

But for the moment, for this Sunday,

this holy day of rest and contemplation,

absent past histories lived on in their

sweet memories of toiling fellowships,

earthy work, the grind, dust, dirt,

oil, gas, tractor, and warm barns.

But now, for the day, all stood still,

lost upon the deep recesses

of mind and heart

These were the lost lands which time forgot.

Bereft of its previous lives and families,

whither native or pioneer, premodernist

or urban dweller, who once had stopped

living on the golden lands of blessing,

abandoned - for one reason or another -

to the streams of time. Which now 

lie in the drone of the field crickets

in their ageless rhythms; or like an

older earth belatedly encumbered

by the weary human habitations

of pestilence, war, drought, or disease.

Lately become unnatural to its ancient

rhythms beyond the gentle goodness

the land once bore. Living beyond its

circle of days and years, uncaring

the burden but its own sorrows.

Nonetheless progress came. Unstopped.

Unwanted. Undoing. To a land beyond

time; and a time beyond modern 

remembrance; of a sudden; in the

blink of an eye; within a short generation;

taking with it an old, weary, world

forlorn and neglected, like so many

other things forgotten; a modern day

demanding sustenance beyond what

the good earth could provide for the

times which were given to those

unworthies unwilling to walk

any further its burnt landscapes,

hardships, or natural rhythms.

Refusing what was, for what could be,

and thereby refusing earth's wisdoms;

which seldom come to a hurried mankind

bearing stopped ears which cannot hear;

holding eyes full of cravings unnatural.

Nay, here lay a dying land that knew

it was dying but stayed its death for a time

upon the nether wanderings of those few

who stayed upon the hot days

remembering the shattered remains

now lying here, now there, like whatnot

lying about my feet; discarded things

used long before I had life; or had yet borne

the torpid breath of a burning land

faithfully obeying its summers and

seasons as they came and went

year after year after dying year.

Where blessing lived long beyond all else.

Where beauty was seen by inward souls

looking outwards beneath a burning sun.

And when looking, finding contented

satisfaction known only by earth's

oldest peoples who sang of its beauties,

its hardships, its wilderness become

familiar to the one who had stopped

to listen and feel the land's breath.

Who considered the ways of the ant,

the insect, the grasshopper, and beetle.

Whose paths beat along the hot breezes

slipping in-and-out upon the turned

brazened face searching for relief.

Knowing a circumspection which must

come to every living being willing

to stop and listen; beholding an

earthly wisdom where none else

could be found in the accumulating

days of farming heat and dry weather.

R.E. Slater

July 5, 2015

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

R.E. Slater - All Are Not Lost Who Wander

All Are Not Lost Who Wander

by R.E. Slater

I sometimes pretend my brother and I
are sitting on a hillside in a field of grasses
together like, as brothers do, after
playing hard and running till exhausted
then sitting down for a moment or two
gazing about, wondering, listening
feeling the cooling breeze upon our faces
as we watch the grasses sway just a bit
here, then there, then back again
before lying down to rest our bodies.

I do the same now and then in my memories
mostly lived, but not quite completely,
watching out a window, or on a short walk,
hearing the woods breath, the birds sing as they do
or water tumbling over the brooks in quiet chatter
mindful of life's many adventures at home
or abroad, its moments with family and friends,
the strangers I've met who have come and gone
like the fair breezes as they too settle down
to rest in their evening prayers.

I have wandered often enough unknowing
where I go, nor caring, unless upon some errand
or two, where in my mind's heart or across
my restless soul imagining all my days, searching

I know not what, but always searching, always

curious, favorably so for the most part, each day

wrapped mostly in beauty wherever I go,
whomever I meet, though some will doubt
distrusting life, who are unwashed, unconverted,
to the God I see wherever I roam, wherever I go.

Nay, Lord, all are not lost who wander
Nor are they who wander ever lost in Thee.


R.E. Slater
March 10, 2022

R.E. Slater - A Maple Burst in Autumn Temper

A maple burst in autumn temper

Upon golden rays of warming sun

In playful breezes pushing hard

Scattering dancing leaves o'er wilding fields.

R.E. Slater

December 16, 2021
March 23, 2022

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved

Hard winds howled in full blow

Battering frail shaking window panes

Roaring fury across a black night's lays

Unseen its fell labors till morning light

Twisting, fallen timbers of ancient souls.

R.E. Slater

December 16, 2021
March 23, 2022

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved

Fiery blazes swept earth and sky

O'er woodland choruses filling tilted ear

Where streaming, sunny shadows quietly fell

Radiating forested leys flush with golden charms

Hurtling an earthbound heart heavenwards

Crying, Glory!

R.E. Slater

December 16, 2021
March 23, 2022

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved

R.E. Slater - Hail to the Ballplayer

Hail to the Ballplayer

by R.E. Slater

“Ah, youth, fair mistress maiden never held for very long -
Would’st thou be mine but for a little longer!”

To have, to hold eternal, t’would be blessed eternal bliss –
Living final days in youthful play by grace’s fiery augur.

Boldly running dusty bases with feet still sure and swift,
And glove again knuckling grounders in agile pounce and stride,

To hotly line a wicked pitch ripping through stiff defenses,
And collapse again a team’s fading heart with savage glee and pride!

Pray, by thy coy mistress’ fleeting deign and wanton pleasures,
Thy joyful mirth lessen not come rain or shine, colds or heat,

Upon a sweltering July’s infernal infields hot and dusty,
Lying across the enchanted Elysian fields of lore and legend,

Where teammates on forgotten yesteryears be united once again,
Who, cursed or vexed, played steady on, redoubtable the strain,

Battling together hardy foes and teams without relent,
Neither bowing to pressure nor surrendering field or base.

To play on misty morning’s early dews and wispy breezes,
Late into summer evening’s dusky, droning reprises,

Listening addled fans shouted jeers and adulations…

“Ah, youth, be my mistress, for but a little longer!”

Give strength to my aging hands and feet, my aching body,
Revive my failing spirit to valiantly strive and compete,

Refusing body’s relent, deigning defeat’s disgrace,
Rebuffing time’s withered reach upon last euphoric dance.

And when I grow old and fall from favor,
Please, dear, coy mistress, tell me not ’til later,

Bless all my final games by thy fair grace and spirit,
Granting one last season on fabled fields of unsung honors.

Then give to all your beaus and cherished sweethearts,
A bittersweet kiss with one last parting embrace,

Harkening back to days of yore of lost youth divine,
When ballpark’s sounds and fury once were mine to hold,

Where rousing rants and cheers filled fulsome airs with glee,
As fierce swings lifted home crowds up to frenzied heights,

Remembering blessed days played fair pastoral fields of green,
In heavy heart, place dusty spikes away, tipping ball cap in adieu.



R.E. Slater
January, May 2009; August 2010;
rev. November 2021
From “Batter-Up!”

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved

The Gordian Knot - "Whither Brute Force or Deft Touch?"

The Gordian Knot -

"Whither Brute Force or Deft Touch?"

by R.E. Slater

Whither brute force

    warrants savage act,

or deft touch may

    thwart one's ends,

is a question for the ages

    asked time and time again.

Some, the wiser, may fall upon

    task with slashing violence,

rather than pull at stubborn stay and twine

    where another, perhaps less wise,

wrest at lashings losing time

    to wind and tide, day with night.

Whither the means,

    or whither the ends,

which directs fated hand

    or mind its errant task,

the act reveals all to all beholding

    the actor deigning to lead.

R.E. Slater

November 1, 2021

rev. Nov 2, 2021

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

* * * * * * * * *

The Gordian Knot

Aug 9, 2021

Shall I Use the Sword to Solve the Gordian Knot?

link to passage

The problem of untying the Gordian knot resisted all attempted solutions until the year 333 B.C., when Alexander the Great - not known for his lack of ambition when it came to ruling Asia - cut through it with a sword.

'Cheat! ' you might cry.

And although you might have been unwise to have pointed it out in Alexander's presence, his method did seem to go against the spirit of the problem.

Surely, the challenge was to solve the puzzle solely by manipulating the knot, not by cutting it.

Yes, life itself is the fiction. And knowing self is that - and cutting life with sword of self, knowledge - is like Alexander's way of solving puzzle.

But being able to solve by patience, perseverance and constant effort to make impossible to possible is way of imagination and fiction!

- Anon

link here

The Alexandrian Solution

https://andreaskluth.org/2010/05/24/the-alexandrian-solution/

A lot of people have a very famous story… wrong.

The story is that of the Gordian Knot and precisely how Alexander the Great loosened it. Most people imagine Alexander slashing the knot with his sword, as pictured above. But he did not.

In the nuance of how he really untied the knot lies hidden a worldview: 

the supremacy of simplicity and elegance over brute force and complexity. 

The true “Alexandrian Solution” was, for example, what Albert Einstein was looking for in his search for a Grand Unified Theory — a formula that was simple enough (!) to explain all of physics.

I’ll give you the background and the nuance of the story in a moment, but first another fist bump to Thomas for reminding us to make the association.

We are, remember, talking about complexity:

• The Gordian Knot is the archetypal metaphor for mind-numbing, reason-defying complexity;

• Alexander’s triumph over the knot is the archetypal metaphor for triumphing over complexity.

Now read on…

I) Background

a) Phrygia

The Gordian Knot was, as the name implies, a knot in a city called Gordium. It was in Phrygia, an ancient kingdom in Anatolia (today’s Turkey).

The Phrygians lived near (and may have been related to) those other Anatolians of antiquity: the Trojans and the Hittites. They were Indo-European but not quite “Greek”. Their mythical kings were named either Gorgias or Midas (and one of the later Midases is the one who had “the touch” that turned everything into gold). Later, they became part of Lydia, the kingdom of Croesus. And then part of the Persian Empire. And then Alexander showed up.

b) The knot

Legend had it that the very first king, named Gorgias, was a farmer who was minding his own business and riding his ox cart. The Phrygians had no leader at that time and consulted an oracle. The oracle told them that a man riding an ox cart would become their king. Moments later, Gorgias parked his cart in the town square. In the right place at the right time. 

So fortuitous was this event and Gorgias’ reign that his son, named Midas, dedicated the ox cart. He did so by tying the cart — presumably by the yoke sticking out from it — to a post.

And he made the knot special. How, we do not know. But Plutarch in his Life of Alexander tells us that it was tied

with cords made of the rind of the cornel-tree … the ends of which were secretly twisted round and folded up within it.

It was a very complicated knot, in other words, and seemed to have no ends by which to untie it.

Lots of people did try to untie it, because the oracle made a second prophesy. As Plutarch said,

Whosoever should untie [the knot], for him was reserved the empire of the world.

II) Alexander, 333 BCE

Alexander, aged 23 and rather ahead of me at that age, arrived in (Persian) Phrygia in 333 BCE. The knot was still there, un-untied.

Alexander had already subdued or co-opted the Greeks, and had already crossed the Hellespont. But he had not yet become divine or conquered Egypt and Persia. All that was to come in the ten remaining years of his short life. And it began with the knot, since he knew the oracle’s prophesy.

Here he his, his sword drawn, approaching the knot:

Did he slash?

No, says Plutarch (ibid,. Vol. II, p. 152, Dryden translation):

Most authors tell the story that Alexander finding himself unable to untie the knot, … cut it asunder with his sword. But … it was easy for him to undo it, by only pulling the pin out of the pole, to which the yoke was tied, and afterwards drawing off the yoke itself from below.

III) Interpretation

I leave it to the engineering wizards among you to re-create the knot as it might have been. But what we seem to have here is a complex pattern that was nonetheless held together by only one thing: the beam.

It was, Einstein might say, like quantum physics and gravity: intimidatingly complex and yet almost certainly reducible to one simple reality.

Alexander, being Great, understood this. He saw through the complexity to the simple elegance of its solution and pulled the peg.

This is how I understand “the Alexandrian Solution.” I intend to look for it in all of my pursuits.