The challenge of my poetry group for September first was to write a poem in the form of a ballad, and so I wrote about that memory. The judging is finished and I have learned that my ballad took second place. Here it is:
I was born at the end of it
but I’ve been told the tales,
of ruthless sun, of need for rain,
of cattle deaths and crops that failed.
My Grandma and her sisters wept
recalling want and pain
of others, but the four of them
still refused to complain.
“O sister, how them cows did bawl!”
They tried to meet their needs
but cows can’t live on seedless straw
or prickly thistle weeds.
And when the day grew dark as night
they hoped, they prayed, come rain!
But clouds of dust were blocking light.
Their hopes seemed all in vain.
They stuffed old rags in all the cracks
and still the dust prevailed.
Dirt and grit were everywhere.
Their greatest efforts failed.
Day after day relentless wind
howled over open plains
until a few hard-working men
lost heart and went insane.
When the wind died down, locusts swarmed
devouring all things green.
First the dust, then the locust plague
with no reprieve between.
Nineteen hundred and forty one
hard times came to an end.
How blessed were those whose faith held fast
and rain brought hope again!
