Nebraska Center for Writers

SON GROWN TIRED OF THE CITY
by Judy Lorenzen


He drives home about every weekend—
to visit the farm,
the place he couldn't wait to leave:
he needed a big city, bright lights, opportunities,
places to go—loud music.
But ten years have passed since his college graduation,
and happiness has eluded him
like the Canadian geese migration—
momentarily beautiful with long lapses of absence—
now his longing is calling him home.

Was it finding Sarah, your fianc&#eacute;e?
Is it that homing syndrome—like the pigeons—
that draws him back,
that draws us all back?
Is it disillusionment
with corporate-world promises?

Now he slows down—
as the drive for success and self talk goes dead quiet—
to reevaluate.

He returns to this boyhood home,
gazes out at green pastures;
prairie flowers bloom in their silent colors;
soil of plowed fields glows deep brown—
life from the dirt pushes up in stillness;
he'd forgotten how much he loved this country song of solitude—
just a boy and his dog.

To be free again
no one talking down to him
as if he were intellectually inferior—
he is free,
unemployed.

Tonight, he stands—
changed from his business suit of resignation
into his Levis of sweet solace—
looking out over the farm
under a star-sprinkled sky,
the moon rises over the evergreens,
off in the pasture, one cow moos lowly,
slowly moving towards the herd.

Reprinted with permission
Copyright © 2014
by Judy Lorenzen


SUMAC
by Judy Lorenzen

While October was culminating,
autumn got into the jewelry box
of these thriving bushes, and
silently pocketed the emeralds,
leafing these radiant red rubies,
and, running through the pasture,
scattered diamonds on Silver Creek.
Now this crowned season
in crimsoned autumn air,
with fields gone russet,
dazzles brilliantly. Oh,
that I were queen
of these woodlands.

Reprinted with permission
from Plain Song Review
Copyright © 2010
by Judy Lorenzen


SEASONED
by Judy Lorenzen


Plum blossoms bloom — soon blushing road side’s face,
green pastures, fields flower’d in the wild rose,
and every turn reveals sweet Summer’s grace,
birthed from the tender seeds — lovely Spring sows.

And you my blue-eyed love, my blonde-haired boy,
your golden skin, your muscled sturdy frame,
kissed by sun’s love each year you’ve farmed with joy,
you’ve spilled your love out on the land — the same.

Soon Summer’s greens flame into Autumn’s reds,
the harvest of love’s labors ripe with grain —
years grace your face as Summers now have fled
and leave their trace of Eden’s curse ingrained.

Sweet fruits and flowers the gift of Spring time’s seed
in love, the harvest of man’s toil indeed.

Reprinted with permission
from Shakespeare on the Green program
Copyright © 2009
by Judy Lorenzen


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