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

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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.