It’s 100 miles in any direction
To the nearest shopping mall, hospital or familiar place you might go.
It’s not for city folks, I reckon;
No fast food, drive-thru, like one might be accustomed to;
Or movie theatre to watch a picture show.

The roads, they are long-
Some not paved, and some in desperate need of repair.
But like something from a John Denver song,
We watch the sunsets until they are gone.
They are a masterpiece
Leaving one filled with inner-peace;
Taking your breath away-
Something that makes one stop and stare.

Where neighbors know your life
And gossip at times, is more prevalent than the clean mountain air.
Who’s going out on flight for life or who’s cheating on their husband or wife;
But when something goes awry,
You know they are always there.

We recognize when strangers enter our town
Like something out of an old western film or such.
We’re protective when outsiders are around;
Especially when we feel like they’re putting us down
Or impressing their own interests upon us.

Old miners made a living mining vanadium
In what’s now a ghost town-not far from here.
While mining, they also found uranium
Yellow cake it was named, and we were proud to boast the fame
Of helping to produce the first atomic bomb with materials extracted from there.

But now only memories are left,
Marked by a lonely flag in a
ball-field/campground along Highway 141,
Annual stories retold of those who saw first hand;
And driving by, one would never guess
Everything has been laid to rest;
All buried now, under its’ own land.

There’s a hanging flume above the river,
And Indian Henry’s old cabin is also something to see.
The drive to get there, might make one quiver;
Petroglyphs and evidence of Native’s homes,
Sign of dinosaurs that used to roam,
And the grave site at Piñon,
Where the first settlers are resting in peace.

The mountains are tall,
Shooting up to the sky and the canyons are wide and flowing.
You may not be able to make a cell phone call,
But it’s uniqueness will make one stop and look;
The scenery, like a picture book;
It’s most definitely a place that’s worth knowing.
~carla reams
10/10/2017

My dad struggled with alcoholism for many years, but has managed to stay sober for well over 20 years now and I’m very proud of him so I share this poem, not to remember the bad times, but so others struggling know that there is a way out. Always….

You fought with the devil
And played a sinner’s tune;
Caught up in things-that lead to things-
A life of destruction and ruin.
I watched you from a distance
Not knowing you all too well;
A young angel looking through innocent eyes of heaven
Straight to the devil’s hell.
I got to know you on days you were sober,
You’d sing songs to me;
I prayed then, that those days would last longer
And that Satan would just let you be.
Though I know that deep down,
Your heart really cared- you were not there to show;
But through choices you made and prices you paid,
You’re much different than that now, you know.
Now you’re songs, they linger
And your humor- it shines through;
And the demons that once lived within,
Are no longer part of you.
I’ve watched you become a better dad to me
And a loving ‘papa’ to my kids;
The past is just that- the past
You’re freedom is what lives.
I can tell now- who you are
And who you were meant to be;
My sense of humor and love for music
Came from you to me.
When people say that they can’t change
I’ll never believe that’s true;
Because I’ve witnessed that change is a choice-
A great example of that-is you!

~carla reams
2/13/2016

He was born, February 8, 1933,
On a ranch that runs along Unaweep.
The eldest of 4 children,
his parents couldn’t agree on a name,
So his grandad named him, Beeman,
like the fellow at the bank.
At two months old
his folks laid him down by
The girl who would end up
being his bride.
He jokingly tells the story
about how his parents getting apricots,
Lead him to know
he’d be tying the knot.
As he grew up-
to be school aged,
He’d ride his horse-
two miles each way;
Milking cows in the evening
and again at dawn,
Raising hogs for food
that his family depended on.
He began breaking horses
at the early age of 9;
He realized he was good at it
and made money on the side.
But farming and ranch work took priority,
He knew that the ranch was where he’d always want to be.
So with his wife, Jessie, by his side
They bought the upper piece of the ranch, when his parents retired.
And raised two children of their own,
On the same ranch that he had always known as home.
They helped with their grandchildren
as they grew up too;
And now the great-grands
provide them both, memories of youth.
A small statured man,
in his ol’ brown hat and boots;
He’s passed down the knowledge
of his ranching roots.
Devoted to God, hard work, and his family,
He is an honest man with true integrity.
I am proud to know him
and happy to say,
I love you, Beeman!
2/8/2019

I watched a movie last night called, Same Kind Of Different As Me, which inspired me to write this poem: ❤️🙏

I saw him standing on a corner street
Holding a cardboard sign.
As I drove past, I caught his eyes;
The words, “anything will help”
Staggered through my mind.

My heart sank low,
And I felt a knot
Pierce the bottom of my core.
So I turned around
And rolled the window down,
At the place he stood before.

I asked him what it was he may need
He replied, “whatever you’d like to give.”
I didn’t have much,
but gave him some cash
And asked if he had a place to live.

He said, “no ma’am, I am homeless,
But I am not alone;
You see, all God’s children are homeless,
In search of who we are,
‘Til we can find our way back home.🙏

~carla reams
2/24/2018

I wrote this poem a few years ago for my mom for Mother’s Day and thought I’d share it again…

I call her JoYellen- cuz she likes to holler a lot,
She’ll even brag about the set of lungs that she has got.

She may not be mild mannered, or the even tempered kind,
But a harder working woman- I guarantee you’ll never find.

She’s got a passion for horses and it’s part of who she is.
Hauling horses around to rodeos with Amber and someone else’s kids.

She used to haul us kids around to rodeos too,
When it was a poor man’s sport and the one thing we could afford to do.

She taught us about GOD and we often went to church.
Can you believe that nearly every Sunday she’d wear a dress or skirt?!

Her blue hard hat and irrigation boots, Yep, I made fun of those with you.
But she once sold real-estate and dressed to the nines and I remember those days too.

I’ve seen her fighting mad at some people and the next day, be their friend.
Never holding a grudge and realizing, it really doesn’t matter in the end.

Johnny Horton, Conway Twitty and Elvis Presley too.
She loves their music, but not quite as much as she likes dancing to Footloose.

My brother, Paul, can make her laugh until she nearly cries.
I’ve seen her and Aunt Terry both laugh with tears welling in their eyes.

Hunting season is something else she can’t wait for each year.
Friends from Michigan, California and cousins have come just to hunt with her here.

We’ve all had her famous biscuits and gravy- she cooks it every winter.
Before or after a long hunt- we have it for breakfast and for dinner.

I’ve learned that when she says “goodles” of elk in a heard-
her definition is entirely different than my interpretation of that word.

For Christmas she asks for .22 bullets, not diamonds, clothes or even a bike.
So she can go shoot prairie dogs with Regis, Mel and Mike.

She may not be your typical, every day mom- you know, the June Clever kind.
But I love her dearly and I’m certainly glad, GOD chose to make her mine.

~carla reams

Girls on social media with high-end makeup, hair and clothing
Every man’s dream at night.
Their lips, eyebrows and eyes lined oh-so- right.

I am not that girl.

The selfie-takers, image breakers, flawless mistakers
most expensive hand-bag, best-shoes,
and bank breakers

I am not that girl.

I am not the girl who wishes to live life in suburbia
nor drive the Cadillac Escalade,
I don’t care about the Jones’-
think I’d rather be homeless

I am not the girl who wants to be like others-
Nor the queen of the homecoming parade,
I’m not looking to impress you-
God doesn’t make mistakes.

A small town girl in rural America,
that’s where I fit
A shopping mall of majestic mountains,
bike trails and ski slopes
with views of sunrises, sunsets and starlit nights that will make you forget…

I am that girl.

A tent pitched by a lake and fishing rod in hand
Hair tucked under a baseball cap and jeans from a second-chance.
No make-up on, but my teeth are clean,
aren’t I a real man’s dream?

I am that girl.

Riding a horse and pushing cattle,
I practically grew up in a saddle
The smell of sweaty leather and horse hair- nothing purer when mixed with fresh mountain air-

I am that girl.

A Sunday spent in the wilderness,
brings me closer to God than Church ever did
Music playing constantly,
and singing even if the words change on me
Words light a fire in my soul-
dancing around the kitchen floor

I am that girl.

Hiking and hunting, soaking it all in
The beauty that surrounds us,
restoring the beauty that lies within-
Capturing the scenery as it’s sent

I am that girl.

The girl who wants peace on earth, good will to All Men
Recognition for those who sacrifice, so that we can live our lives in
Freedom
The girl who isn’t a redneck, nor a hippie, and hates litter on the streets,

Don’t we all live here?
Shouldn’t we help keep this world clean-
that would be a dream.

The girl who uses foul language now and then
forced by passion from within-
I’m no Saint and don’t pretend
to be one,
My life is full of sin, but I believe in HIM.

I am that girl.

~carla reams

He sang Battle of New Orleans
And Poor Old Kalijah,
And everyone sang along with him
When he’d belt out, Jumbalya;
He packed his guitar, music stand
and binders full of lyrics and chords,
Of all his favorite western tunes or old country songs that we adored;
He’d say, “Chriti, what’s that song…. how ’bout this one here?”
His daughter, Christi would sing along or whistle when her part came near;
With Grandson, Scotty, by his side playing right along,
You could see the pride light up inside
Every time they sang a song;
If I ran into him on the street,
It was music we discussed,
He’d say, “Girl, you oughta get that fiddle out sometime and come play with us.”
I threatened to, but never did;
Instead I just sang along,
My memory of him will now be found,
In the lyrics of those old songs.❤

I’ll sure miss ya, Dave! 🙏

He was a freckled face little boy
18 months younger than me;
And we were always the best of friends
Even though, we were also family.
We’d shoot bows, and pretend to drive
While smoking sticks for cigarettes.
We’d prank call our neighbors,
And gang up on our sister;
Back then, we didn’t have many regrets.
We’d take turns in belting out cuss words
So long as our mom never knew;
She’d make us drink hot sauce for every bad word-
I’m sure that’s when his love for Tabasco sauce grew.
We rode horses for hours out in the foothills,
Playing Cowboy and Indians.
We’d be on one team, our sister on the other,
And we’d never let her win.
He learned to ride a bike before I did,
But he wanted me to ride along too;
So he took my training wheels off all by himself-
We both thought he was so cool.
I’d make him a seat, in my classroom of dolls,
And teach him school subjects a lot.
I was sort of like a drill sergeant when it came to his learning,
and I think, to this day, it paid off.
We built forts and played with walkie talkies,
Pressing out words in Morse code.
We’d spend hours riding his dirt bike or
Speed around on the big yellow three-wheeler;
Leaving dust on every dirt road.
We listened to Vanilla Ice, boom from his speakers,
And rap along to Sir mix-a-lot;
We’d race in seeing who could name the Presidents in order,
Or all the other weird things we never forgot.
He excelled in both academics and athletics,
And as a friend who could make anyone laugh.
He has the same group of friends, he’s had since fifth grade,
He’s the type that would never turn his back.
As the years found us growing up, like it does
Life led us along opposite paths,
I still looked up to my big-little brother,
Our friendship, I’ve always held steadfast.
I still bossed him when I felt it was needed,
Or gave him advice when wanting to help;
I watched him battle some pretty big demons,
But he never gave up on himself.
He’s been a friend, a husband and father
And I’m so proud of who he is today;
He’ll always be my friend and big-little brother,
And my memories won’t ever fade away.

Happy Birthday! We Love you, Paul James!

~carla reams
3/18/2018

creamspoems🦋

Mom I love you-
I hear her say
I hope I’m big like you some day
Can we paint our nails
When you get done
Can you find some time to just have fun
Put down your phone
Watch me swing
Maybe later we can sing
Mom I’m growing up real tall
Can we mark the measures on my wall
This is the best day we ever had
Corbyn is away working with dad
I love our girl days
Just us two
There’s nothing else I’d rather do
Maybe tomorrow we can swim
I can’t wait to spend- time with you again
Sometime when work is out of the way
Do you think we can have another girl day?

~carla & rynn reams