by Loren Horton
Snowfall glitters
Starlight glimmers
Points of brilliant light
Shimmer on the glaze
Of ice-bound streams
Stillness hovers
Hushing the fluttering flakes
To mute repose
Across the sheeted earth
Calm enfolds the scene
As branch and twig and bush
Keep silence
In the light and in the dark
While snowflakes fall
Monday, December 5, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Honor Flights
Oaknoll residents Bob Laudie, Bill Byington and George Dane had the opportunity to go on an Honor Flight to Washington D.C. Eastern Iowa Honor Flight is a non-profit organization dedicated to sending veterans to our nations capital, where they can visit historical sights and war memorials.
Bob, Bill, and George are veterans of World War II. We thank them, and all veterans, for their service and sacrifice.
For photos of their trips, please visit the Oaknoll Facebook page at www.facebook.com/oaknoll on Veterans Day, November 11, 2011.
We hope you enjoy this short video of Bob Laudie filmed during his Honor Flight on October 18, 2011.
Bob, Bill, and George are veterans of World War II. We thank them, and all veterans, for their service and sacrifice.
For photos of their trips, please visit the Oaknoll Facebook page at www.facebook.com/oaknoll on Veterans Day, November 11, 2011.
We hope you enjoy this short video of Bob Laudie filmed during his Honor Flight on October 18, 2011.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Oaknoll Nurse Shirley Cox Wins Award
Congratulations to Oaknoll nurse Shirley Cox, who was recently awarded the University of Iowa College of Nursing/John A. Hartford Center for Geriatric Nursing Excellence Long-Term Care Nursing Leadership Award for her career in long-term care and her mentoring of nursing students!
Check out the video for highlights from the event.
Friday, October 21, 2011
The Tale of the Oaknoll Oak
by Willa Jones
A resident saw it
Out there in the Oak.
A dark mass of something,
Was it a joke?
She called in her neighbor
To look in the oak.
What is that big blob?
Or is it a joke?
"No," said her neighbor.
"That's no joke in your oak.
I think it's a turkey
Asleep on that limb,
It may be about time
To awaken him."
From under a bush
Came a hen turkey then
With chattering poults
Numbered One to Ten
One scratched here,
Six over there,
Five and Eight argued
They wouldn't share.
The blob shook awake
And looked down from the limb,
That racket on the ground
Was bothering him.
"What's going on?" he called from the oak.
"Come down here and help," yelled his wife.
"These kids are no joke."
Big wings flopped him down.
He'd straighten them out.
With face red, feet stomping,
He began to shout.
The poults didn't listen
They were scratching around
All over the place.
Three and Ten had a race
To get the same bug.
One and Two over there
Found a big slug.
They were having such fun
In their new atmosphere.
The grass was for scratching
They couldn't hear.
From the window the residents
Looked down on the drama,
While big old Dad Turkey
And old Turkey Mana,
Looked on in amazement,
As their poults One through Ten
Fed themselves joyfully and then
Ran under the bush for a quick little rest,
Mama went after, she'd done her best.
Big old Dad Turkey
Flew into the oak
To become the dark blob
He was no joke.
A resident saw it
Out there in the Oak.
A dark mass of something,
Was it a joke?
She called in her neighbor
To look in the oak.
What is that big blob?
Or is it a joke?
"No," said her neighbor.
"That's no joke in your oak.
I think it's a turkey
Asleep on that limb,
It may be about time
To awaken him."
From under a bush
Came a hen turkey then
With chattering poults
Numbered One to Ten
One scratched here,
Six over there,
Five and Eight argued
They wouldn't share.
The blob shook awake
And looked down from the limb,
That racket on the ground
Was bothering him.
"What's going on?" he called from the oak.
"Come down here and help," yelled his wife.
"These kids are no joke."
Big wings flopped him down.
He'd straighten them out.
With face red, feet stomping,
He began to shout.
The poults didn't listen
They were scratching around
All over the place.
Three and Ten had a race
To get the same bug.
One and Two over there
Found a big slug.
They were having such fun
In their new atmosphere.
The grass was for scratching
They couldn't hear.
From the window the residents
Looked down on the drama,
While big old Dad Turkey
And old Turkey Mana,
Looked on in amazement,
As their poults One through Ten
Fed themselves joyfully and then
Ran under the bush for a quick little rest,
Mama went after, she'd done her best.
Big old Dad Turkey
Flew into the oak
To become the dark blob
He was no joke.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Oaknoll Trees
by Loren Horton
A maple tree
Stands proudly in the yard
Right next to a ginkgo tree
By late September
The maple tree sports colored leaves
Bright red, orange, yellow
The ginkgo tree is still green
And shows a reserved façade
The two tree neighbors
Present a vivid contrast----
Each in its own way
Demonstrates nature's beauty
We are glad to have variety
To ease our eyes and hearts
All too soon there will be change
And we will see naked branches
Starkly grey against winter snow
A maple tree
Stands proudly in the yard
Right next to a ginkgo tree
By late September
The maple tree sports colored leaves
Bright red, orange, yellow
The ginkgo tree is still green
And shows a reserved façade
The two tree neighbors
Present a vivid contrast----
Each in its own way
Demonstrates nature's beauty
We are glad to have variety
To ease our eyes and hearts
All too soon there will be change
And we will see naked branches
Starkly grey against winter snow
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Summer's End
As summer comes to a close, here are two pieces by Claudine Harris to celebrate the season.
Never been to Missouri, never expect to go there. But every summer a day comes when boxes of their bounty piles into my co-op store. Missouri peaches are here! One of the embellishments of summer. Long awaited. Long dreamed of. Peaches arrive the same week Marvin's sweet corn is heaped high on the counter, its brown silks limply cascading from tight green husks, like so many dark tresses on a pillow. Corn fresh from the field. There is none better, swiftly, slightly simmered, and eaten at once.
Summer mornings are too hot, even at dawn, to tempt a walk through the neighborhood before settling down to writing. A pair of goldfinches beyond my window cling upside down on the drying stalks of catnip and nameless weeds, pecking at the seeds of August. Blossoms of impatiens in the rock wall await silently the brief thunderstorm that may bring them relief.
Evening is corn on the cob, glistening droplets on my window screen, and a peach.
August is all things shimmering.
At last a summer day like those in childhood, bright and clear, wind free, dry. Endless. A day to chase butterflies, made mud pies in the shade and color them with the rainbow tables in a paintbox.
Climb a tree to near its top and sway there, holding tight, hoping to see a boat leave the dock on the lake at Vevey. Summer in 36, 37? But this is Iowa, already the end of August.
The paintbox is long abandoned with the dolls. Trees are not climbable and no lake stretches out, lazy, to distant blue-gray slopes. Butterflies only seldom flitter by the window.
All Things Shimmering
Never been to Missouri, never expect to go there. But every summer a day comes when boxes of their bounty piles into my co-op store. Missouri peaches are here! One of the embellishments of summer. Long awaited. Long dreamed of. Peaches arrive the same week Marvin's sweet corn is heaped high on the counter, its brown silks limply cascading from tight green husks, like so many dark tresses on a pillow. Corn fresh from the field. There is none better, swiftly, slightly simmered, and eaten at once.
Summer mornings are too hot, even at dawn, to tempt a walk through the neighborhood before settling down to writing. A pair of goldfinches beyond my window cling upside down on the drying stalks of catnip and nameless weeds, pecking at the seeds of August. Blossoms of impatiens in the rock wall await silently the brief thunderstorm that may bring them relief.
Evening is corn on the cob, glistening droplets on my window screen, and a peach.
August is all things shimmering.
Butterflies
At last a summer day like those in childhood, bright and clear, wind free, dry. Endless. A day to chase butterflies, made mud pies in the shade and color them with the rainbow tables in a paintbox.
Climb a tree to near its top and sway there, holding tight, hoping to see a boat leave the dock on the lake at Vevey. Summer in 36, 37? But this is Iowa, already the end of August.
The paintbox is long abandoned with the dolls. Trees are not climbable and no lake stretches out, lazy, to distant blue-gray slopes. Butterflies only seldom flitter by the window.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Iowa Rhapsody
by Loren Horton
Summer heat
Punctuated by flashes
of lightening
To a background continuo
of bass thunder
Leavened by the heaviness
of humid air
So fitting a stage setting
For picnics, fireworks
Small town festivals
When communities unite
In a social family reunion
The leaves thick on sturdy branches
The grass burned with brown patches
And the native wildflowers
Overwhelmed with yellow
Interrupted by occasional bluish-purple
Rivers and creeks
Flow sluggishly by grassy banks
Lack of regular rain
Reduces the volume of water
Redecorating for turtles and frogs
And making bullhead habitat smaller
The swimming holes are challenging
When all these phenomena
Come together in this season
Summer becomes collective
A mosaic of these myriad parts
But coalesced into a visible whole
Understood by those who live in it
Mysterious and alien to strangers
Who have never known the joy
Of standing on a back porch
To watch the lightening strikes
Illuminate the dense cloudbank
To listen to the crash of thunder
The character-building nature
Of these aggregate experiences
Create a comradeship of sorts
Based on mixed common feelings
Shared by those who have known
The pleasures and the pain
Endured the physical discomforts
Been exhilarated at the sense
Of survival in face of obstacles
Understood most fully
By the band of brothers and sisters
Who have grown up in Iowa
Summer heat
Punctuated by flashes
of lightening
To a background continuo
of bass thunder
Leavened by the heaviness
of humid air
So fitting a stage setting
For picnics, fireworks
Small town festivals
When communities unite
In a social family reunion
The leaves thick on sturdy branches
The grass burned with brown patches
And the native wildflowers
Overwhelmed with yellow
Interrupted by occasional bluish-purple
Rivers and creeks
Flow sluggishly by grassy banks
Lack of regular rain
Reduces the volume of water
Redecorating for turtles and frogs
And making bullhead habitat smaller
The swimming holes are challenging
When all these phenomena
Come together in this season
Summer becomes collective
A mosaic of these myriad parts
But coalesced into a visible whole
Understood by those who live in it
Mysterious and alien to strangers
Who have never known the joy
Of standing on a back porch
To watch the lightening strikes
Illuminate the dense cloudbank
To listen to the crash of thunder
The character-building nature
Of these aggregate experiences
Create a comradeship of sorts
Based on mixed common feelings
Shared by those who have known
The pleasures and the pain
Endured the physical discomforts
Been exhilarated at the sense
Of survival in face of obstacles
Understood most fully
By the band of brothers and sisters
Who have grown up in Iowa
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