September 1, 2016

Three poems by Marcia Conover: "Earth's Day," "My Indiana Home," and "Old House on the Hill"

Marcia Conover was born in Indiana and grew up in a small farming community located in northern Madison county. Since she was a small child she has had a compassion for animals in need and a love of photography and the outdoors. She wrote short fiction for her high schools literary publication. Poetry slowly became her hobby and favorite release, but only since her mothers death in 2015 has she began to share her work. She is married, has two grown children and lives on a small farm where she has operated a state licensed child care service since 1984. Her poems have appeared in Indiana Voice Journal and several anthologies.

edited rose drawing 4.jpg
Digital Artwork submitted by Anonymous Indiana resident

Earth's Day

A tapestry of water colors on display
Rising slowly in the east this way
Each stroke timed and perfectly placed
Hues of purples, yellows and pinks are laced
Earth’s awaking of yet another day
Clearing to a vibrant blue bouquet
Seemingly dotted with tufts of cotton
So blissfully unique it's never forgotten
The sun has traveled from east to west
Where once again the sky's refreshed
Spray painted darker shades this time
The moon begins its wayward climb
Beautiful ending to yet another day
No promises of tomorrow's array

My Indiana Home

White sided house
in front of a woods
Unmown acres grow
full of dandelion and clover
Neighbors just far enough
down the way
A single Row of peonies
lining the front by the road
A gilder seating four
paint peeling exposing the wood
Sounds of laughter Lingering
as long as it could
Gently flowing, a small creek
out back by a swing
Walnuts fallen to the ground
teasing squirrels to eat
Childhood days so simple,
happy, complete
Corn fields as far as
the naked eye can see
Safe to walk down dusty
roads in bare feet
My Indiana home
is beckoning me

Old House on the Hill

Brilliantly built some centuries ago
Majestic old house so much to show
Shaded by trees at the top of a hill
Constructed to last by carpenters of skill
Years so harsh on your thin wooden frame
Broken windows and peeling paint it's a shame
Rusted tin roof and quaint gingerbread trim
Chances for revival are seriously slim
A time of tranquil simplicity on hold
Tales of days long past will never be told
Enamored by secrets hidden within
Curtains still hanging, torn and worn thin
Saddened someday it will all disappear
A heritage hopelessly lost I do fear

Marcia Conover

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