Sundown creeps,
across adorned amber,
sky whose welkin,
shades volte face,
as evening edges,
into cosmic chakra,
of visual feasts,
orange, pink, purple,
prelude which emblazon,
point of day exodus,
atrophied moon winking,
mystic morph of,
dwindling halo,
to homeward bound,
throngs thirsting,
for redress within,
winter jasmine enclave,
cabal, clique, cluster,
in shrunken retreat,
from dreary toil,
nudge from nightfall,
whose cryptic code,
a dark art patois,
exemplified by,
eastern screech owl,
whose stocky medium,
and varied volume,
that twilight tremolo,
purring incognito,
among other creatures,
wet soil genus,
brisk firefly flash,
in town backyards,
wing rubbing katydid,
tree top rasp,
or amid green bush,
chirpy cricket,
midget burrow dweller,
allow oneself to wallow awhile,
in evening habitat,
in all its allure
Despite the heaviness of grief,
I am beginning to feel that magic
that comes with Spring in Kentucky
The beauty of blooming flowers and trees
the bluegrass starts to grow
the bees flitter about, polinating
and distrubuting the magic
the animals and their babies
start coming out in natural places
with the occasional wildlife
turning up in backyards and parks
Children flock to parks and open spaces
Kentucky is a magical place year round,
but esspecially in Spring!
Every now and then, I hear the happy sound of laughter
when children visit next door
It's a sound that should ring,
it should be audible much more
Where are all the children?
Self imprisoned in their rooms?
Where are all the children?
Self imprisoned in their homes?
Where are all the children?
Self imprisoned with a myriad of screens?
it's Saturday afternoon and the town is eerily quiet
not a single human sound is coming to the fore
Not from the parks. the playgrounds, backyards or from the streets,
a total contrast, to the days of yore
Today a ghostly silence
as I visualise these scenes
In my heart I feel some sense of pain
as a message loudly screams
Where were all the children
in the days of yesteryear
you could hear them in the parks, backyards,
playgrounds and often on the street
There was cricket. hopscotch, billy carts and bikes,
soccer, basketball, these activities, now all seem obsolete
And as I put my thoughts on paper
and exercise my pen
Can we resurrect community,
will it rise again ?
29. One expected orchid was gift enough but eighteen and of different color blossoms, well, that beats all my expectations.
30. Clover, dandelions, oxalis, and buttercups that’s our front yard. No wonder flag-man-riding-an-easy-rider-chopper-of-grasses regards me with suspicion.
31. The snow reports kept coming: first inches and then feet. This year, the Sierras, oh so fat with snow, will go on a diet. All the salmon rivers will overflow and the fish will go dancing in backyards.
32. This log carcass at my feet--a coffin’s bottom shelved against mushrooms and other soft-moss decaying things--was once the arm or a nose of a tree and a cracking-moaning breeding song of a cicada discotheque.
33. The garden broke free. My chalk lines, the twined enslavement of kale, and the chicken wire were broken, cut, or directly spilled into grass and dandelions—a family reunion.
34. Plato, I imagine, is in Greek heaven shaping olive trees into perfect spheres. From there, he longs for messy branches, sweaty breasts, and children’s uncontrollable laughter.
***~~~***
They drift into my mind quite frequently,
those memories of days when I was free
of classrooms, books, and teachers. I could be
an unencumbered child. Time was the key
that opened doors to creativity
for kids performing their own comedy
and posing for those snapshots all would see.
Backyards transformed to wonderlands as we
rode piggyback and played with buoyancy.
Green grass served as a cushy mat for me.
A little rest made summer tiredness flee;
then I pursued fun to the nth degree.
Walked a lot... why? Didn't want to wait for the bus in the chilling wind.
I had to walk, block by block, through alleys and backyards.
Bought some groceries, came home, had my lunch. Its a murky day outside. But I had just come from there, hadn’t I?
The weather seemed normal to me, and the wind only blew at the bus stops. What now?
I have to go back to the past. To your photo album. You're waiting for me there, as always, at your computer desk. Hello, my darling. It’s great to see you.
We were witches brewing potions from twigs and berries in our backyards
Amateur astronomers wide eyed under the stars
We were royalty having tea in makeshift tents in our living room floors
Children with limitless imagination
We were kings of the world
Never knowing the existence of locked doors
We were told our whole lives that those envelopes were meant to be pushed and when we dared try to live as we dreamed
The world said, no
They pointed fingers, they laughed, they twisted their faces and turned their backs
They cursed and accused, insulted and abused
Those that gave up on themselves to live miserable lives want others to suffer as they suffer but don't you dare do that
Keep following your heart , stay living true
Keep being artists, writers, dreamers, dancers, creators
Saints, you all
Keep giving the world your brilliant fantasies and vivid colors
All of us are needed to weave the most perfect tapestry
Keep being beautiful you
The outdoors.
Underground is where they live.
We walk mostly above ground.
We see flowers and walk on the trails.
The outdoors.
There are snakes but they get out of our way.
Trees fall down mysteriously.
They say it’s natural.
The outdoors.
The busy road does exist in the background.
I cross streets and bridges everyday.
They could come up at any time.
The outdoors.
Creatures that burrow.
In ways we can’t conceive.
We assume there is nothing under dirt with patches and tall grass.
The outdoors.
They’re coming to eat us all.
Creatures that live underground.
They’ve been listening to our vibrations.
The outdoors.
Exists everywhere.
Even in our backyards.
Wilderness can creep in.
The outdoors.
The horrors.
The mud.
The blood.
If I had just stayed inside that day…
Instead…
I fell into that hole covered in sticks and leaves.
That they dug deliberately.
The creatures who live in mounds.
We assumed they were animals.
I fell into their trap in broad daylight.
And stayed a long while.
The town fathers
are long neglected by scavenging vultures,
locked up as they are,
in the wood cabin, we call the town museum.
Inside the shack, there are old tintypes, sepia
photographs and the usual rural relics.
Outside, a small patch of lawn
divides the past from a main road,
one that bridges our hamlet
between two swelling and brawling cities.
Those cities also have their metropolitan relics,
grand achievements forever displayed
for groups of bored schoolchildren.
Outside, vultures are shood away
by men in HazMat suits.
Our community fathers are black-suited
grim featured farmers and church dignitaries,
even the mayors that are still alive
look out from their portraits
as if wishing for the odd vulture or two.
Nothing else around here bothers
enough to matter much.
Fields are pushed back beyond backyards.
We killed off all the rattlesnakes years ago.
Arboreal chum noodle trunk gesticulating
Male pattern baldness syndrome squiggles
Trigonometry Palisades uneven ripple
Framework salmon people
Rise evangelical steeple
Pigmentation feeble
Hillock molehills
Hedgerow backyards
Autumnal equinox
Sara beaumont? a k a nichola charles.' hosts a podcast (view
It in your own backyards)or on the couch; in motel on airplane as you go'
Shes one of those neighbours stars? Of tv fame ya know..! Well she's toughed it out, and is really going strong '
Find her on rumble, you-tube; and even patreon' well i won't just keep
Gassing here on soups backyard fence! You can make up your own mind, i don't guess you're that dense? So swing over to Aussie and have a (look see) you can email and suchlike..Just take it from me' this sheila is rock'in with
Stuff from the hole! This is straight through the mirror
Thats been hiding some goals' a word similar to gaol?
Guess it depends on your ed? And like where we get our
Info? Now thats quite enough said.)
htpps://thewhiterabbitpodcast.com
Red.
Yellow, brown, or orange.
Leaves live comfortably.
At cider mills, and in backyards.
Maple leaves.
They are spiky, and boldly shaped.
Into a leaf pile.
They are dead, but not haunted.
They are yellow, brown, or orange.
Mostly, red though.
Or maybe we just like the red ones the best.
Stepping inside, crumbled leaves on the floor.
They seem dry and brittle in the kitchen.
She hands me a broom.
Leaves are not so fun inside.
But still they are yellow, brown, or orange…
…or like my broom handle, like rust, like the sunset…
They can be my favorite color:
Red.
Moans of ecstacy the hymn singer
a regional delight
We heard Hymn singers in
barns, in backyards
and in the pews.
What they served up
was something
you couldn't confusse
Ironing clothes
before one would take there bath
a delicate celight
they stood in lines
from first to last
A comforting song
soothing as ones eyes could see
a calming spirted greeting
all would come to see
Hymn Singer: Hymn Singer
we heard the demand
fresh and delicate
not something from
a can.
Hymn Singer: hymn singer
How ya'll doing tonight
Hymn Singer: Hymn Singer
everythings
all right!
Ah, how invigorating to body, soul, and spirit.
Ah, how soothing, especially after a long dry spell.
All of nature pauses to inhale the awesome fragrance.
Whether a hot August night or late in the month of May,
It makes you want to stand still and absorb every drop.
How refreshing on a long hot and sunny day.
Every living thing bows to the one who loves us so.
There's nothing like raindrops falling on our heads,
soothing and saturating us right down to our toes.
Even with oceans full, or backyards filled with swimming
pools, there's no substitute for raindrops embracing us.
We love the early morning dews, sunrises, and sunsets too.
And whether we are stoic or socialites, country or city folk,
mountain or valley dwellers, we all adore the raindrops.
Remember when we used to play
In our backyards every day
We built castles in the sand
And chased each other hand in hand
Remember when we used to laugh
At silly jokes and photographs
We shared our secrets and our dreams
Ate ice cream and watched moonbeams
Remember when we used to be
The best of friends, just you and me
We swore we'd never drift apart
And keep each other in our hearts
But now we play a different game
We've grown up now, it’s such a shame
We rarely talk or have time to spare
Now kids and jobs are always there
Remember when we used to say
Nothing could ever get in our way
We were so young, naïve, and blind—
We left our childhood behind
*I wrote this poem on January 27, 2024, as part of a ’30 days of poetry’ January challenge. This was day 27 and the prompt was: Write a poem that evokes nostalgia.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.