Below is the poem entitled VACATION DAYS which was written by poet
Cwiak. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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When I was the tender age of seven
I was to go on a week's vacation...I thought "heaven".
My uncle had a '55 Buick in two tone green
A vehicle in which I would always want to be seen.
As we drove from the city that hot Saturday
I watched the roadside as we went along the way.
No tollways then, just the roads heading north
It was an adventure all the way as we went forth.
My Aunt kept my Uncle in the front seat on track
My brother and I watched the green cornfields pass from the back.
A long destination to the farm, you know
I felt like we'd traveled for a week or so.
But when we pulled into the dirt road alongside the farm
All I could think about was its interesting charm.
There was the White Cottage where we would sleep
And the Old Red Barn, weathered and creaky...in need of upkeep.
We weren't to play in it because of its danger
But to a seven year old, that is no stranger.
I went in when no one was around
Saw the stalls, the loft, the ladder, and the straw on the ground.
The big door creaked as I swung it open
No one heard it...at least I was hopin'.
The smell of that barn I will never forget
With the straw and the fertilizer...like a musty ommlette.
With a roof that had perches high up in the air
And holes in the shingles through which you could stare.
It was haven for us kids in the weeks to come
As we played and explored and hid in it some.
There were the railroad tracks that went past it in back
We'd walk them to look for interesting stones to put in a sack.
That barn was even the backdrop for my uncle's .22
He was aiming at the cans, but missed more than a few.
I can still remember that musty old barn today
Sometimes it comes to me on a wet summer day.
For the smell, the sight, and the memories live
Too many old barns gave what they could give.
But you will still see a silo standing next to a barn in the field
I wonder sometimes, how many bushels of corn it had to yield.
For most of the barns are weathered with their red paint in fade
Like some poor traveler, lost and waylaid.
Yet, they all stand as proud as can be
There to fill my childhood memory.