10 Years

It was our backroads, pickups, and dust.

It was our teachers testing our trust.

It was our fishpond, blue goose, and main.

It was our moment, it was our "train."

We fought off blues and we won the gold.

We did bad things and scorned those who told.

We were the grads in those gowns and square caps.

We took those trophies and ran those long laps.

We graced that stage and took pride in that walk.

We said goodbye for a future unlocked.

A decade has past since we last took those halls.

Straight A's in subjects mixed with prank office calls.

Cliques turned into friendships as divisions would fade.

A common thread found; a legacy laid.

The world was ours in two-thousand-six.

We separated journeys and sifted our picks.

Unexpected dreams became greatly known.

Struggles and hardships humbled our throne.

Families were started and houses were built.

Missions and adventure had us working full tilt.

The years sped by fast, though we wanted them slow.

The wisdom has set, and we have lots to show.

Heaven's slice is class of '06 and some of the greatest friendships I've ever known.

The Dirt In Our Manes

Anybody's whose spent a good portion of their lives in an enclosed arena will definitely relate to that which this post is referring to.

You spend a better part of an hour or more chasing in calves, opening up shoots, warming up horses and chasing down decent shots for your loop to snare. 

You sit in stands watching how their runs play out and wait for your event to make it's show. 

You practise in quansits. 

It's the horse loving sport. The work, practise, and performance. 

And after it's all said and done and you exit it's stage with your horse in tow. 

Load him up or turn her out. It's over. 

And you eventually feel what has subtly settled onto your hair and eyelashes. 

Dirt. 

Good ol' dirt that's been kicked up and swirled about in the horse-work steam and cattle cry air. 

You can feel it's tangible texture as you touch your head and you can see it visibly on your eyelashes. 

I cherish that texture. 

It's so many childhood memories soaring through. Adolescences. 

From teenage angst. To young adulthood. To well, yesterday. 

For me that dirt hair feel brings more of a memory than a photo can convey. 

It may be an odd way of thinking. 

But it truly brings memories and more of myself into the experience than any device could try to capture. No matter how public I could make it on social media.

That dirt all tangled into my mane is a symbol of rodeo heritage for me. 

The dirt in our manes is beauty wild.

And I'm bestowing it onto her.

Heaven's slice is tangible textures that make memories linger.

Throne of a Mother

A familiar creak lies in the crooks of it's spring,
That brings such comfort in the deep of the night.
This is where I was rocked, held, and hugged.
And where many sleeps fought a good fight.
My mother sang songs and soothed many tears,
She rubbed tummies and spoke sweet sayings.
More than just a chair, for me it bore up
A nurturing heart with it's prayings.
Blessed and grateful, this chair is now mine,
Sitting in the corner as a baby room's staple.
I hold them close and kiss their sweet faces.
And I read to them many a fable.

This chair has held so much of love,
In it's thirty plus years with a mother.
It's the throne of a woman higher than a Queen,
And I hope it seats many another.




Heaven's slice wishes every nurturer (woman) a Happy Mother's Day!!

The Littlest Foot

The littlest foot gurgled then gave a big yawn,

His mother held him tightly, it was just before dawn.

In the backyard of the suburbs with his father playing catch,

A yell to come in for a Saturday noon stretch.

A college graduate, listening to his girlfriend sing;

A ring in his pocket to give to her that evening.

Then the littlest foot grew into a man,

In that hospital room, holding his wife’s hand.

The wonderful sound of a small cry breaks through;

In the still of the night his baby born new.

…

But the littlest foot never got to grow up,

Because  a choice was made for his life to stop.

A mom never got to rock her barren miracle to sleep.

A father never got a son, for his last name to keep.

No, that littlest foot never got to crawl or grab hold of a finger.

He never got to marry or feel a kiss that would linger.

He never got a blanket to keep him warm at night.

He never got snuggled after an experience of fright.

He never got to be a daddy. He never got to see.

He never got to speak, for he never got to be.

His perfected life’s mission was never made full,

Because the littlest heart chose pride over a soul.

                                       - Julie J.

Heaven's slice is adoption and defending the defenceless.

Just For Me

I love writing poems, especially for someone else. A few years back, I wrote a poem for my mom for Mother's Day and I thought I'd share it with you during this special time of year.

Just For Me

You see when God created children, He planned so carefully.

This person, who would care for us, would be the best that there could be.

With a smile that lights up the world, and a look that tugs at the heart;

There needed to be someone that would be with them from the start.

He needed someone bold, who would dare to take this role.

He needed someone kind that could mend a troubled soul.

A kiss would heal wounds, and a hug would stop fears.

A touch would make a memory, and a word would chase tears.

He could not choose just anyone; it had to be just right.

This person was particular for each child in his sight.

She was his pride creation, ‘A mother’ she would be called;

There to care for the helpless, and give life to those who fall.

So when God created you, He made you just for me,

And a mother always will you be called, for a mother you were meant to be.

By Julie Jensen

Feel free to use it! But please give credit where credit is due (i.e. the author's name imbedded in). If you have any questions regarding usage of it feel free to ask.

p.s. my mother is awesome. (love you mom!)


Heaven's slice is mothers.