Old Cold Poem

I was searching in my attic one day in winter when I came across an old poem I had written a long time ago, so today I write a poem to a poem.


                                                             One
                                                                   old poem,
                                                                                  cold
                                                             from
                                                                   lacking household
                                                                                               heat,
                                                             makes
                                                                  me want
                                                                                               to
                                                             write
                                                                  a new
                                                                                             poem
                                                             that
                                                                  is warm
                                                                                           enough
                                                             to
                                                                  be considered
                                                                                           right
                                                             for
                                                                  reading.

Windy Winter Nights

A young boy's imagination can be his friend or his antagonistic teaser.  I slept in an upstairs room that was a solice sometimes, but the souce of nightmares if the imagination took over.


                                                               The wind would sometime
                                                                wake me up when it rattled
                                                                     my bedroom window at night.
                                                                The trees were at least
                                                                 a half an acre from the house,
                                                                      so they couldn't stand guard against it.
                                                                 Winter nights were the worst
                                                                  for snow lay on top of  the grasses
                                                                      that may have stood tall enough
                                                                  in summer to grab the heels
                                                                  of a racing wind, and slow
                                                                       it down before getting to the window.
                                                                  If I couldn't get back to sleep,    
                                                                  I'd imagine the guests that the wind
                                                                       was asking me to let inside.
                                                                   Most of them I would make pleasant,
                                                                   Because I didn't want nightmares to take
                                                                       over if I drifted back to sleep.

How Not to Get Lost

When I was a boy, my dad taught me and my siblings ways to go iinto the woods and come out again without getting lost.  This poem is about this teaching:


                                                                 To find his way
                                                                     back through the woods
                                                                           where no path existed,
                                                                  he'd bend down a
                                                                     larger branch, or break
                                                                            branches from a
                                                                                         dead tree.
                                                                  If he'd do this,
                                                                      As he made his
                                                                             way along "his" trail.
                                                                  He would only have to
                                                                       look for them when
                                                                              he returned.
                                                                  He taught me this,
                                                                        and would say he
                                                                               he never had to worry
                                                                  that I would get lost
                                                                         in the nearby woods.
                                                                                Remembering his
                                                                  teaching was somewhat difficult
                                                                         for a young boy
                                                                                 in pursuit of a
                                                                  colorful butterfly,
                                                                         or a fluffy brown
                                                                                   wild bunny.      

Hayrakes and Windrows

The following poem was entered in a contest, and an offer came if I wanted to pay, I could have it published.  Well, I don't have money to have my work published, so as far as I know, it never was.


                                               No wind, no clouds, no rain
                                               made this a perfect day for haying.
                                               With scythe balanced on his shoulder,
                                                and a wad of chewing tobacco stuffed
                                                in the pocket of his faded overalls,
                                                Grampa Les prepared for a day of
                                                Hayrakes and windrows.
                                                Gliding the blade through tall grasses
                                                until not one was left standing,
                                                He prepared the field.
                                                Darting swallows and frantic butterflies
                                                seemed to be the only things stirring.
                                                Too hot to be working. yet too sunny to waste time
                                                was reason enough to endure.
                                                Buckets of switchel drained from a tin dipper
                                                brought relief from the irritating hay chaff,
                                                and a paisley bandanna handkerchief wiped away
                                                the beads of sweat that glistened
                                                in tiny rivers from brow to chin.
                                                Our rakes could not keep up with his scythe,
                                                but there never was a real effort to do so.

A Couple of My First Poems

I wrote these two poems many years ago, more as thoughts than poetry.


                                                     I   see
                                                              then look
                                                     to see
                                                               if what
                                                     I    saw
                                                               is what
                                                     I
                                                              was looking
                                                     for.

...............................................................................................................................................................................................................

                                             The white sheet
                                                absorbs sweat
                                              from
                                                my naked body.
                                             The papered wall
                                                 absorbs my
                                                        naked
                                              thoughts.

In the Old Barn

I remember sleeping in the barn as a kid.  I remember it to be an adventure.  Now the old farm is gone, but memories linger on:


                                                                 Last night I slept in the barn
                                                                 once more.  The sounds were
                                                                 different, in that no  horses shifted.
                                                                 their feet, nor did cows chew on
                                                                 grain or hay.  There were, however,
                                                                 the scampering of little mice feet
                                                                 as they searched for some morsels of
                                                                 food.  The wind crawled in the
                                                                 spaces left by aging clapboards.
                                                                  I wrapped my old blanket a bit
                                                                 tighter around me waiting for the
                                                                 moon to reach the west window.
                                                                 Years of memories swirled around
                                                                 like snowflakes in a blizzard.
                                                                 These had been piled in the back
                                                                 by my mind;s snowplow, pushed aside
                                                                 by the passing years.  Did I
                                                                 want to shovel out, or merely rest
                                                                 from  the day \that  had sent me
                                                                 to find solice there?

Too Cold?

My maternal grandmother and grandfather didn't show much love between them, and often exchanged cross words. This poem come from one such times I remember.




                                                                I often heard him say,
                                                                  " It's just too cold                                              
                                                                                                 to snow."
                                                                I guess I believed it
                                                                   back then, but I
                                                                                                 didn't take
                                                                The time to look it up,
                                                                    or even question if this
                                                                                                 could be true.
                                                                 " Get some wood for
                                                                    the kitchen stove before
                                                                                                  the storm starts,"
                                                                  She'd nag.  Putting on
                                                                     the old worn coat,
                                                                                                   he'd mumble
                                                                   as he started for
                                                                      for the woodshed, " It's just too cold
                                                                                                    to snow.