Poetry of Kansas Here & Now, There & Then

Posts tagged ‘Nancy Hubble’

27. To the Stars Through Difficulty: Nancy Hubble

Carry that story to the future, boys, and we’ve lost the family farm.
Money Men came, played their corporate game: all of us fell to harm.

The stars were ours til the deadly night they were lost in the coal fired dark.
Greed razed our lives for pocket change and then they took our heart.

My family hide in a cellar now, wearing gas masks all, good lads,
’cause the Blackguards and their coal plants stole all the air we had.

We once kissed in our own farmyard, our chins stained dandelion yellow
Splashed in horse tanks cool-water full, owned fields both rich and fallow.

Now, there’s nothing else to drink, my girls, the water’s gone for frack.
Give Kansas to the Brigands, friends, and you’ll never get her back!

– Nancy Hubble

94. Take Memory Lightly

To re- member, to populate your life again,

with the past may not be clarity.

The Great Plains, the Prairie, appears to be
a sea of endless nothingness,
without life.
After 20 miles of plains, a tree
becomes a green miracle. Look!
A tree! A tree in the emptiness.
Then, instead of seeing the flicker of red
like new-minted fire in the witchgrass,
or the trailing robe of the wind
crossing the road just ahead of you,
a low, yellow brown mist of dust,
we strain to see another tree,
the memory of Tree clouding our vision.
The memory creating a need in the now.
And the now:
the wind, the witch grass,
the never looking up to see the hawk
is lost.
– Nancy Hubble
Nancy Hubble has been a teacher at KU as well as various alternative and public elementary schools. She has had poetry published in the Journal World, a variety of small zines and a publication by Imagination and Place, The Wakarusa Wetlands in Word & Image. Her work includes a CD and chapbook: Dharma Dog.

54. There! There!

Winner of the Kansas Poetry Month contest: bright sky or blossom

First the early-morning
cup of coffee to my lips
while herons fly over
on their way to the Kaw
From the Haskell Bottoms,
wetlands only fourteen blocks
south of my fenced yard.
In silence, they glide above us.
Starlings whirring, hunker down
as if they saw hawks or hot air balloons.
So, picking up my brush to paint –
to make the circle of my day come
true – I think how pleasant is the town
that embraces these beautiful creatures.
Darkness comes again, shadows filling inside
Fences. Flowers lose colors as light puts itself to bed.
Once again the prayer of holding my evening glass.
Water tonight. Tomorrow some of the new wine.
Heat leaves the day and tomorrow
winter will want our attention.
But sometimes in the dark, just
as the end seems imminent,
geese sew the crest of the wind.
Sparks of dying light
reflect in the water.
We see it.
There!
There!

– Nancy Hubble

46. Begin Again

Go back and do it again,
my father told me.
And I would lift up my hoe,
dragging my feet through
the dusty rows
of beans and a few weeds,
to start at the first row I started an hour ago.
Lifting the hoe for the first pull,
dragging dirt around the plant,
kachunk – flicking out a weed.
The rhythm of pulling in,
the dance of flicking out.
Beginning from the right,
I would fall into the dream
See the hills, watched the horses
beginning from the right come in
and make a straight line
tied to the leather rope
strung between two trees.
The women walked behind, carrying bundles and babies
and the men stand and wait, watching each other carefully
while the children run through each other like little goats.
The soft eyes of the young women watch
the unmarried boys
begin again.
Mother said, This needs more work.
Go back and do it again.
And I would put each dish
back into the pan,
filled again,
scrubbing each dish.
The rhythm of circling in,
the dance of circling out.
Beginning from the left,
I would fall into the dream.
See the road, watch the cars
beginning from the left come in
and make a circle
headlights pointed inward
against the coming dark.
Women carry pans and dishes
to the tablecloths spread in the fields.
The men carry babies, drums and rattles.
The children who can run, charge
against each other like little bulls.
The soft eyes of the young women watch
the unmarried boys,
and begin again.
My father’s garden grows enough
for the critters, neighbors and for our family.
He said, If it doesn’t come up,
go back and plant again.
And I would find the place
where crow had danced,
where mole worked his blankness, and
the bug children had eaten
more than their share.
The rhythm of planting again,
the singing in empty places.
Beginning from the center,
I would fall into the dream
See the storm, watch the water
beginning from the center, fill the wetlands,
rush the ditches.  Bloom the flowers.
The birds fly through us,
standing on the walkways.
The water changes colors as we pass through,
while the children expand like popcorn with the beauty.
And the questions find answers.
Living we go back. Learning, we come forward.
Our return is our prayer.
We began again.
– Nancy Hubble
Nancy Hubble has been a teacher at KU as well as various alternative and public elementary schools. She has had poetry published in the Journal World, a variety of small zines and a publication by Imagination and Place,  The Wakarusa Wetlands in Word & Image. Her work includes a CD and chapbook: Dharma Dog.

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