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A "Donna's Doorways Website" page

Prose & Poetry

is the impish attempt
to paint the color of the wind."

- Maxwell Bodenheim

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All But Mist, 2000
-by Donna C. Flood
The brow of the earth is dry and cracked,
Her bosom the heat has racked,
The sky will not even cry her tears,
Drought always comes to be our fears.

We of the rain band cannot pray,
Hearts too heavy every day,
The murder of our own, no cause
Raised their fist to both race's laws.

The fires have burned across the land.
Shirk you not His love for the rain band;
Simple, quiet, gentle, loving of laughter,
Wish only of happy hunting here after.

And you who were kind to our trials;
Because you too knew of sorrows miles.
Your bringing us of hunted game;
Shared with us just the same.

Rest you now in mother's arms,
Safe you are from all harms.
Sleep in bravery as you did live
Not holding but always to give.

Your age a will o the wisp,
Would that death could have kist
So that we would never have missed
Not a sad memory of 2000 mist.

-by Donna C. Flood
How many days ago, I won't count, now,
When these I knew stood calm.
Remember seeing them leading like a ship's bow.
Whether water was rough or balm.

Their steps were certain and sure.
They stood firm, untouched by greed
Not one of them offered a cure,
For mankind's ills ad need.

Life was full and plentiful for them.
They seemed easily to reach out,
To pluck a great shing gem-
Of it....doing so without doubt.

Can you show me where they live,
These old ones of yesterday.
Where is their wisdom to give?
We need it in a bad way.

Our people have picked up the shreds,
Of what those ones needed to leave,
And of their truth, the dregs,
These today, don't even sip and believe.

-by Donna C. Flood
When I was a child I only wanted to be an artist,
With statement, "That is where my heart is."
Didn't wanna' be a teacher,
Didn't wanna' be a preacher,
Didn't wanna' be a doctor,
Didn't wanna' be a lawyer.
There were those breathtking sunsets,
Colored landscapes held no regrets.
Didn't wanna be a loyal chauffer,
Or a veterinarian with all that fur.
How could I ignore aliron crimson,
Or shades of blues to win some.
There were greater loves given to me,
Children of golden songs all three.
Now I'm a teacher, preacher, lawyer, doctor,
Grace shed on these jobs, don't mock her.
If I trained of spheres, cones, hues vibrant,
There is no need to lament or virtually rant.
With new attitude, quick take a look at outcome,
To keep at a greater canvas and some.

-by Donna C. Flood
His name is Fireshaker
But really, he is a sky raker.
Truly, he is an artist,
And that is the hardest,
When mind and heart is a strider
Creative energy requires him to
Work like a spider.
Weaving a web of visions game
This is of this gentleman's name,
This one they call "Fireshaker,"
Who is too a vision maker.

An Award!

Honoring the poem Fireshaker for
"Stopping Us a Moment"
presented by
The Daughters of the Ring
"for women who love the net"

Thanks, DAU, for this honor!

-by Donna C. Flood
Dawn caught us on a high hill.
At my left, below, ran the river,
To my right, beside me, a lower hill,
Father's grave, his spirit returned to its giver.

Caught we an uninteresting sight,
Of grey dull sky above,
The cold wind pulled at my courage's fight,
To remember; yet, forget my Dad's love.

The slow measured step of an elder man,
Approached toward my way.
As he came here, I knew by plan
To recieve one basket in this way.

I studied the basket and contents,
As, I too watched him walk.
It has been only a year ago since,
And these tears I cannot block.

The elder reieved his gifts of respect,
This basket holding Dad's favorite,
Of silk sock, candy corn, western bolo tie for neck
Here too, was a hat's beaded band that is bright.

As hard as it is to dispense these gifts,
To someone who shared my father's way
Of admirable and common characteristics,
This morning was to give me a new day.

I could see Dad again, now,
In these people and things around...
And I felt it possible, somehow;
He would not always be here in this cold ground.

-by Donna C. Flood
"Grandma Tyndall, where are you, proud lady?
With your gentle quiet ways, you watched me,
Fumbling at a project while learning.
Here she was, so elderly, she was at force,
To pull wheelchair to stove, matter of course,
Patiently teaching me of dough and meat,
How to season and cook such a treat.
She is gone now and as softly as raindrops,
Her life melted into the earth's stops.
This brief teaching, love's greatest gift,
Tells me "The race does not always go to the swift."

Marcellus Big Goose
-by Donna C. Flood
He saw beauty
When there was none,
He saw light
When there was no sun,
When he was on earth,
He walked in the stars,
Until we see you again,
Farewell - Farewell, Mars.

-by Donna C. Flood
Blowing winds skittered across hills of snow
While my children and I were snuggled warm.
Inside this hill house, through large windows, to see all below,
Boiling gray clouds that rolled
Over us from a winter's storm.

As if in an effort to speak to us,
Old summer's mockingbird flew close.
Gone was his song and rattely fuss,
Was he now, appealing to his host?

As he rested unusually near, at the edge of patio,
I knew his need was urgent.
It was unnatural for him to go,
This close without being in hunger sent.

With a feeling of urgency too,
We rapidly began to mix up a large pan,
Because in our instant of communication, I knew,
This tiny creature wanted to live and sing again.

The bits of warm cornbread
We scattered like gold flecks on the white,
To see, he and many, arrive instead
To peck, peck, at the bread pieces, bright.

Time ran past winter to spring
And, one mild day I stepped out to see,
What springs of herbs had to bring
If any at all, there could be.

The winter had been so long and hard,
I was reluctant to learn their fate,
I heard a shrill wolf whistle, a distinct, certain bard,
That mockingbird, was greeting me with a cherry grate.

"I see you, old man, I do.
Hey! What a welcome you've given me,
And, if I didn't love you too,
I might just throw at you my shoe!"

-by Donna C. Flood
On the prairie where Majesty's ply,
In the roaring vastness of the sky,
Those prairie people could see,
Among the expanse and lea,

His great works in the tower,
Of thunderhead in their power.

Edges of persons were smoothed,
As winds about them moved;
Where but the prairie's plane,
Ladie's coiffure is no long vain?

Or three x Beaver's Stetson's loudness,
In a rainstorm lost its proudness?
So, humility was taught to prairie people,
Not by lonely church steeple.

No, I'm quite sure it was not barb or burr,
That gently honed his character,
It was only the sands of time, lifted by the wind,
That whipped and smoothed him once, and once again.

The prairie, again, a parent, gave him wood,
For fire, and in its warmth he stood.
The sod of the prairie's covering
Became his house, with a secure mothering,

For prairie people needing armour,
From the winds hammerin' on their door,
These the prairie they learned not to test,
With careless behavior during her best,

Balmy sunshiny day tht could become,
A raging terror, for unwary to stun,
All those who foolishly douted her ability,
To turn, and instead, try their agility.

The expanse of sky's dome a cathedral,
Forever, for these prairie people.
Well then, of whom do you speak, you ask?
Simply, all those who know of this task.

~ by Donna Jones-Flood (1989)
When I was a little girl of ten,
"Ten is a special time, it is never again here,
Enjoy every moment as rare,"
My father advised, with care.
Then I was fourteen, growing up,
"Linger here, don't be abrupt,"
Said Father, "Fourteen's the greatest of time,
Soon you'll begin a pleasure rhyme."
"The world will be a joyous song,
It's a precious age to belong."
When I was sixteen, I knew he was right,
All life was mine, and bright.
There were many things, both new and old,
I was once shy, then, bold.
Eighteen, and it was surely true,
It's a wondrous time to live with a view,
To this sleeply and wide awake time,
I wanted to embrace life as mine.
Then came suddenly the year twenty,
I was certainly overwhelmed with plenty.
Oh, it was a laughing year,
A time when I knew no fear.
Thirty, and someone sobbed a sigh,
"Don't trust anyone over thirty's bye."
"Why?" I wanted to ask and know.
"I only feel a great need to grow."
I smiled to myself and thought,
"Thirty, is the finest I've bought.
I am passed pained Joan of Arc,
New, I can see a promise of matriarch."
Forty, whipped and swirled by me, a whirling age,
And, all at once, my awareness came at this stage,
It is true, what they told to me,
"Life does begin at forty," I can see.
I'm young, yet wisdom I have caught.
Now, at fifty, I begin to understand,
What I didn't know about this plan
How soft moments of this time,
Are measured and are a find,
Of sure pleasure to look,
To one-half of a written book,
And one-half, to a future,
A glistening bubble, so demure,
That life is a clear see-through bubble,
Lifting high, of rainbow colors, and sweet trouble,
Just let me step to an easy, flowing melody,
That has been told to me.

-by Donna C. Flood
Strands of hair blowing,
Gently in the wind,
Looping, flowing, floating,
Then together, whole again.
A swift stride, feeling earth's energy,
Head and neck held almost regally,
Eyes alert, catching each movement.
While , a stranger, breathed in the sun's glint
On raven black hair and ancient spirit.
Left here by these youth's foot print.

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