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Esther Rhoads Poem
Spokane needs no cane,
Like the little train that could,
Spokane really can.
Copyright © Esther Rhoads | Year Posted 2011
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Esther Rhoads Poem
B K
U R
T A
T P
E
R E
F H
L T
I
E N
S I
Giant butterflies, bigger than life,
Symbols of free dom and peace..
Giant butterflies with heavy steel frames,
Hung with brightly patterned wings.
Turn and flutter, with the slightest breath
Of a breeze. They perform
Graceful aer- ial pirouettes
An architec- tural wonder,
Amazing how they maneuver.
With such grace and ease,
Silent centurions, guarding the park.
Butterfly witnesses,
In day light,
Or dark.
Copyright © Esther Rhoads | Year Posted 2011
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Esther Rhoads Poem
Can anyone tell me why,
The dogs must always bark?
Is there something out there?
Are they just afraid of the dark?
Is it a burglar or a boogey man,
Or maybe a haunting ghost?
Why must they do it only,
When I need sleep the most?
The barking can be disturbing.
But worse is when they growl,
Its even more maddening,
When they set up an awful howl.
Is something really wrong?
Is there something that their after,
Or perhaps some cruel joke?
And thats the sound of their laughter.
Am I the brunt of it all?
Or are they just answering,
Some lonesome coyote's call.
Copyright © Esther Rhoads | Year Posted 2011
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Esther Rhoads Poem
The Portables
Baby boomer fourth grade,
We overfill Longfellow school.
Like coffee running over the cup brim.
Caught in a saucer of portables,
Two garage like class rooms,
Like Siamese twins, joined at the middle.
Flanked by rows of single paned windows,
That shake and rattle when the wind blows.
Bulletin board doors filed across, the back,
Masquerading as a cloak room.
Hiding coats, hats, shelves and boots from view.
One door between the two,
At the conjoined middle,
Side by side exterior doors from each class,
were never just opened,
But burst or exploded with a blast.
As forty five of us fought,
For the first breath of freedom.
As salmon fight to swim upstream.
Two teachers shared responsibility,
For weaving the fabric of our education.
I was lucky and got Mrs. Cuddly,
Who taught us times tables, decimal and fractions.
And reminded me of grandma, instead
Of every fourth grader's constant dread.
Whose wooden arm, it was rumored,
Was used to beat you over the head.
Mrs. Wooden arm turned out to be quite kind.
And taught nouns, verbs and spelling.
And the magic of the written word,
Like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly,
She gave our imaginations multi-colored wings.
And taught them how to fly.
Which is really the difference,
Between great fiction and an obvious lie.
Copyright © Esther Rhoads | Year Posted 2011
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Esther Rhoads Poem
Sunlight blinding him,
Swirling dust choking him.
The bronc gyrating
Nearly throwing him.
Feet braced and pounding,
Pounding the ground.
Jolting his spin,
Up, and again down.
His head jerking,
Neck snapping,
Daylight beneath him,
Then SMACK!
Down on the back,
Of the writhing cayuse.
No eight second buzzer.
To call the end of the ride.
Ignore the pain.
Remember the Pride.
Sunfish, slam and jerk,
Hanging on any way he can.
Fighting to win this battle,
Between beast and man.
The brute gathers his muscles,
Leaps over the rail.
Running, running, running,
Like he’s on freedom’s trail.
Sides heaving, legs shaking,
The horse slows to a stop.
The cowboy turns him homeward,
And says, “Now you learn to walk.”
Copyright © Esther Rhoads | Year Posted 2011
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Esther Rhoads Poem
Night comes silently, upon the hills.
No siren wails, or horn that trills.
No city lights, to blink and flash.
No noise or threats, its’ peace to slash.
Just a blanket, of darkness soft.
Is all I see, from my loft.
A mouse darted across, a field of snow.
An owl rises, I watch it go.
The mouse screamed, I heard it die.
My peace was gone, I wanted to cry.
I know that violence, is a night thing too.
It is what all , the night creatures do.
Though the violence of men, is of a different kind.
The thoughts of night, were heavy on my mind.
I drifted off to sleep, moon light on my face.
With thoughts of you, out there some place.
I don’t know how, and I don’t know where.
May God watch over you, because I still care.
Copyright © Esther Rhoads | Year Posted 2011
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Esther Rhoads Poem
Raw boned, Time lines etched her face,
Her clothes hung from her frame,
Like the sails of an ancient ship;
Forgotten by the wind.
She drifted silently through,
Opened wide carousel doors.
Drawn by an invisible cord
Wooden steeds began to move
Prancing, dancing up and down,
Carousel music stirring her veins.
Music pilots memory's flight
Her body a fluid graceful sway.
Musically transported to ,
Another place, another time.
She moves with the rhythm,
Until she becomes the rhyme.
She's a willow tree,
One with the musical breeze.
Jeweled stallions rest midair.
The music stops.
She turns, and leaves.
Copyright © Esther Rhoads | Year Posted 2011
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Esther Rhoads Poem
She sits quietly now,
Gone is the chittering,
Squirrel sound,
She no longer rocks,
Incessantly to and fro,
She sits silent.
The voice that rang,
To the rafters,
And thrilled thousands,
When she sang,
“How Great Thou Art”,
She sits silent.
Like pearls set aside,
In a dark corner,
Unused and unworn,
Their life, their glow,
Slowly fading away,
She sits silent.
The sparkling eyes,
Her joie d’ viere,
Has withered up shrunken,
Hidden deep inside,
Not here yet not gone,
She Sits silent
Copyright © Esther Rhoads | Year Posted 2011
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