Best Childhoodold Poems
Peace such peace
by that old pond
of mine,
many years ago
would dream my
cares away,
for hours on end
had my first kiss
while sitting by
that old pond
we made plans
of what would
never be. The
old pond is
dried up, as
my memories
are beginning to
dry up, but
the memory from
that old pond
will linger on
for all ages.
wrote 3-29-11
The marshal saddled up as dawn broke over old Dodge City.
Upon town rabble and mean hombres he took no pity!
He donned his ten-gallon hat and strapped on his gun.
On his vest the marshals' badge gleamed in the rising sun!
Sheepskin chaps and fancy boots completed his dandy outfit.
He was a handsome dude - with the ladies he made quite a hit!
He mounted his horse Woody and took a ride about the town,
Ever on the lookout for desperados of notorious renown!
He took a break for a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs,
Then continued on his rounds on the lookout for society's dregs.
Rowdy cowpokes galloped down Main Street on a toot.
Marshal Dan escorted them out of town in hot pursuit!
At high noon the peace of Dodge City was interrupted,
When a brawl at the Long Branch Saloon suddenly erupted!
Shooting began and Marshal Dan drew his peace-maker;
Two rowdy gun-slingers had a date with the undertaker!
With Marshal Dan, peace in Dodge City was guaranteed.
Danny dismounted his rocking horse Woody, his faithful steed.
It had been a tough day trying to be fair and impartial.
Now it was afternoon nap time for the little five-year old marshal!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
The morning sun hovers coyly
behind broad shoulders of the John Crow Mountain
before unwrapping petals of fever plant and Venice.
Mama’s countenance was far contrast to one so radiant,
so when the old Leyland bus went shuddering along gravel road
the first beams break through pinewood forest.
The old New Hampshire Red was up last night,
bamboozled by the plump moon,
but all was still in the petite hours ‘fore daybreak.
His first boast was far too late;
Banties have already blown their tops,
and warm rays long ago penetrated rabbit fence.
Leghorns proudly announced fresh eggs.
Beds were unoccupied and unmade.
Voices came, children in euphoria;
oppressors were off to nine to five.
Nightingale sang an encore
before morning forage,
and gaiety commences.
Brown skinned pickneys,
like the color of the Balaclava clay,
with reflections of innards on innocuous visages.
The hoopla lived until the Leyland snaked along treacherous drop
and the sun hastened to avoid mama’s air.
Chores rushed,
and mama voice ruined our names.
Tomorrow, at first light, we will be children again.
Most of us have heard of lands where dogs licked their humans’ faces
and are driven about in carriages in nappies,
while we loathe our predicament
some counterparts wrestle in grown-ups’ arenas;
innocence lost to palm wine and brown-brown,
and blood moves consciences far less than September’s rain.
Will tomorrow’s shoots be allowed to be children,
delightful progenies?
Let the bright sun shine on Columbia, Cambodia, Guatemala, and Sierra Leone.
Pretty little girls in pretty little pink dresses
Cowboys and Indians , Cop's and Robbers
Scraped knees from climbing trees
Pretty little girls in pretty little pink dresses
Smudged in mums make up wearing her best high heels
Turned into crappy old tools in a rickety old wood shed
And headaches in her head just before bed
Both lives I have lead and too this myself said
If I had the option of getting rid of the shed and headache in bed
Id dig out my old sheriffs badge and walk my old beat
In the hope of experiencing that childhood feeling one can only describe
As being very , very intimidated
By pretty little girls in pretty little pink dresses
nostalgia a nine-year old does come to honest by
no care for romance, no accompany
should the chance occur within
that strike that might strike that
similar something somewhere
that nine-year old out there
strides with legs we lost
for fumbles in his pocket for a match
well
he looks away and counts
railcars in a blip of a day dream
top that while you dollar value your day of late
penny for penny in the fumble
your hands already were too fat
and he beat you for tying his laces
*rib-b-it*
Let us all go to the turtle race.
It is in such a quiet, serene little place
No one says go, and no one says stop
The turtles just run when the sun gets hot.
The starting line is an old dead log,
Poking out of the water, in a cozy cove.
The finish line is the water's edge
By an old oak tree and a cypress hedge.
So hop in the boat and we'll take a ride.
It's just across the lake on the other side
Where the redbird sings and the eagle glides.
And all nature looks grand through happy eyes.
The sun will be bright and feel so warm
Just watch the clouds as they float by
We can take the day and be lazy ones
And soak in sun rays while the turtles run.
The leaves rustle,
As the trees tell their story.
I lean against one and water it with my tears.
I walk on.
My pace slow.
I remember when I was young.
A child of three mabe four.
I ran among the trees.
A fairy or a bird.
Laughing with my friends.
Oh such innocence.
I reach the forest's end.
The trees part and grass has it's turn in the chorus of nature.
An old church.
It's white paint chipped,
It's bell ringing no longer.
Stands tall.
Guarded by Angels.
Blessed by song.
So many times I had prayed here.
So many times I had imagined coming back.
The door creeks when it opens.
Sturdy beyond it's age.
A single bible remains.
It's pages yellow.
Names written inside the front cover.
I run my fingers over the indentions of the letters.
And I find the name of which I am looking.
I close it and place it back where it was.
I shuffle down the aisle.
My feet rubbing on the aged carpet.
I lean in front of the old wooden podium,
Close my eyes.
And pray for the hope long lost.
The cross as my guide,
The bible as my messenger.
mummy took me to the zoo,
and just guess what i saw.
i saw a real big old lion,
with a big old mighty roar.
we walked a little further, dad,
and just guess what i saw.
piggies in the mud,
and a big old ugly boar.
we walked a little further,dad,
and just guess what i saw,
a hippo and a rhino,
drinking near a waterfall.
we walked a little further,dad,
and just guess what i saw.
monkeys' playing chasing,
like i'd never seen before.
we walked a little further,dad,
and just guess what i saw.
moo cows eating grass,
and a donkey eating straw.
there were chickens in the coop,dad,
and geese about the floor,
i even saw a llama.
scratching up against the door.
we walked a little further,dad,
and just guess what i saw.
day was getting dark,
and i couldnt see no more.
we walked a little further,dad,
and came upon the end.
i said to mummy,thankyou,
and thanks for the weekend.
.
Form:
An Ode to my Old Shirt
My shirt reminds me of my past
thorn and battered
too small for me to wear
it hangs far from everything else in my closet
when I look at it
I remember running and hiding from rebels
and seeing the faces of heart-broken people
it’s been with me
through the cries
and the laughs
my old shirt will always be part of me
but will hang far away from everything else
By-Tenneh Waritay
Form:
Sitting on front porches, old folks I remember,
in the shade filtered Arkansas heat, spitting snuff into mason jars,
remembering to us the things that happened, when they lived
in that faraway land called “a while ago”
On dusty golden summer Sunday afternoons, Chicken dinners I remember:
After service, at Harmony Baptist Church, seven miles outside town,
snuggled in the trees; graveyard on the far side, baptismal on the near. I remember
creaking porch swings in the cool of the evening, after the sun slipped
down into twilight like a red-hot nickel dropped into the piggy bank of time.
During daylight savings time, vacation time, July lessons I learned.
By country cousins taught – how to drive a team
of mules, the urge of "getup mule" and the easy pull of "whoa". And the secret words,
in mule talk, that more than reins coaxed the shuffling beasts to left or right.
The city boy drove a wagon and team, all the way to the saw mill.
Then Billy Bob would say "Good job", and drive the rig back home.
I am a branch, waving my leaves, in a forest of asphalt and steel.
But, the roots reach deep, down in Sparkman town.
I remember: who I am, where I come from, who my people are-
Papa Ed and Uncle Joseph; Mama Ginny and old Paw Paw
Grown urban smooth and city cool, I remember still-
both my gee and haw.
Buried Alive, 2010
V. Ortiz Vazquez
House play with a neighbor friend
Older than I is he, yet not old enough
Husband and wife, house wife
Bread winner comes home
Home, field between houses
Time for bed, naked from the waist down I lay
Caught, I’m to blame
Shamed with no explanation
I should have known better
Older than I is he, yet not old enough
Locked inside, exposed to me
High schooler, teenager; younger I am
Adult act becomes mine
Young I am, no stranger is he
Salty, whitish, I don’t understand
Shamefully I lurk around, searching without understanding
Finding similar, no teenager an adult
No teenager is he, still young I am
Sled to the side, incognito a touch
Finger nail’s cut
An excitement unforeseen
Unexplored essence exposed to me by his touch
Tragedy
Blamed, shamed, grounded
Who is to blame?
Trinity: him, you, they
Should have known better, Female I am
One forgotten, hazy memories, not even his name
Second not seen for years, learned of recent lost—grandpa dies
The other, seen by occasional visits
Declining health, prostrated to a wheelchair
Life’s move, checked yet not checkmate
Here I stand, age 33
Foggy days, shatter pieces
Lights out
Checkmate since childhood
Life cut short
Living without breathing
World’s brightness taken away
Shifted to black and white
Muted
Silence my home
Distance my protection
Youngster, buried alive
The excitement built for weeks before rabbit huntin' season!
Not to partake of this annual Hoosier ritual was akin to treason!
For certain, on the first day of huntin' season, as a general rule,
Men called in sick to the boss and all the boys skipped school!
Our old hound, Spooks, sensed the excitement as well,
Eager to chase those wily varmints o'er fields and dell.
Thankfully, due to the rabbits' unusually prolific habits,
The old farmstead teemed with dozens and dozens of rabbits!
Too young to shoulder a gun, my job was to carry the sack,
Heavily laden with game upon my poor, achin' back!
Spooks brought the late Mister Rabbit and laid him at my feet.
I'd tell him, "Atta boy, Spooks!" and give him a doggie treat!
I reckon along about the age of twelve, my pleadin' with Pa was won.
At last I was allowed to hunt with the men and tote a gun!
The first time I fired the old twelve-gauge, it set me on my rear!
Old-timers laughed so hard, to their eyes it brought a tear!
I recall so many precious moments when a Hoosier lad,
Among them was doing "man" things with my dear old Dad.
Now in the autumn of my life, the gun leans against the wall.
I have no desire to harm God's creatures anymore at all!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
SCHOOL’S OUT!
School’s out
Building empty
But inside old Emerson Grade
I still detect the smell
That same oiliness
I hated on my first day
That same mopped-on conglomerate
flies ants dust puke urine
and antibacterial sludge
All fused together
INDESCRIBABLE that smell!
Well school’s been out for many years
Sign outside says
“OFFICES FOR RENT”
For rent?
Hell!
Building shook when a truck went by
50 years ago
It should have caved-in by now
But NO!
There are offices for rent
Though nary a soul has set up shop
I think it must be all the hate they sense
Hate seeped-in to ceiling floor walls
Oh how we hated dear old Emerson School
The smell alone would drive a saint away
SPOOKY!
Because now if you listen close
You’ll hear hundreds of kids
Joyous
Ghostly depression urchins
Distant
In unison SHOUT!
SCHOOL’S OUT!
Form:
Simple were the things that brought me so much joy,
Growin' up on the farm as a Hoosier country boy!
Barefoot, straw hat, patched overalls and summer tanned,
As free as a soarin' eagle as I roamed that prairie land!
Dad farmed the old homestead with teams of horses and mules.
He had a Massey-Harris tractor he used to tow heavier tools.
But to turn the sod he used his mules, old faithful Fred and Joe,
Who understood Dad's subtle commands of "gee, haw and whoa!"
He sat upon the brutal steel seat of his John Deere sulky plow,
Turnin' ten acres of soil a day, and now I wonder how!
Ah, what a pleasure to trot in that cool, fresh-turned furrow,
And wiggle my toes in the loam the shiny moldboard would burrow!
My old pal, Spooks, bounded hither and yon a-chasin' rabbits,
Of which there was a multitude, due to their promiscuous habits!
As the sulky plow turned the soil, I'd poke around with a stick,
To collect wiggly worms for feeshin' later in the ripplin' "crick".
Anon, Fred and Joe and the sulky plow were all retired,
Replaced by a Farmall tractor, shiny red and rubber tired.
Dad reluctantly gave up his sulky plow and bid it a sad adieu.
Alas, it was conscripted for scrap to aid in World War Two!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Time it was...when the old banjo player
held sway, reigned and ruled the day
in our mountain village that was
overlooking the bluish bay;
when he set the mood and sped up
the tempo of every fiesta
with the magic of his music
and his sweat-soaked, red bandana;
when lovely ladies swarmed and swayed
around him in a joyful dance
with the men envious yet themselves
falling in the same festive trance.
Time it is...when the old banjo player
is out of time, out of place
in our mountain village where all
moves about in a much hurried pace;
when folks rush and run to the ticktock
of the impatient wall clock;
no time for old-fashioned merry-making
for strangers round the block;
when lovely ladies wearing i-pods
and headphones just dash away,
the old banjo player sighs and blinks
at another passing day.