Best Chinaberry Poems

I recall a dirty sidewalk
running in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white oaks

Meandering down to the levee
with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
Barefoot in careless summers

I recall one low spot 
beneath a straggly Chinaberry 
filled...

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In the absence of complication,
trials and tribulations become distant memories.
Above sapphire skies delight sanguine eyes -
inspiring forthcoming musings of the mind.

While a tiny thread weaves daydreams
among tulips and chinaberry,
creating comfort along a beckoning horizon
as footsteps are soft and freedom a gift.

Birthing a simpler life singing,...

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The true magic of the evening

A soft breeze rustles through
pine needles swishing
amidst fireflies at play on a warm
enchanting April night

I am a bit skeptical
as you take my hand,
satin fingers intertwined,
leading me to a secluded spot

We sit in quiet anticipation
as a bright full moon keeps watch
from...

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The touch of gossamer wings
on eyelids busy with the darkest,deepest
thoughts of sleep
under the chinaberry tree
bending,sighing
one with the sea of grass
windy waves
chasing each other across the yard
gone to seed
with dandelionsandforgetmenots
blueblack cats
hiding from lizards
until it is too late
coming back to bring you
a surprise
a gift of love
a wriggly...

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Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Way Down South           
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: June/2014


Growing up
way 
down south 
in
Florida -

was like
a 
fiesta -

We would
go to
the
beach,

swim, run,
and 
play

in 
the white 
sand -

and
soon as 
we
get home,

It was 
time 
to raid 

the 
sugarcane 
farm -

Life
was sweet,

in
the
Sunshine
State -

Each day
was 
better than
the
day before -

We 
had good
fun
times -

pushing
our
box cars,

made
from old
veggie crate's -

And

Roller 
Scooters, 

made
from scrap
wood -

We had
roller skates,

the
metal...

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The poem was visualized on the front, screen porch, 
in silence, in wonder...
It swarmed the Autumn-purpled flowers by the door, 
leafed through reds, golds of the Chinaberry Tree...
sleucing words down Sunday-wet-tin, 
onto the wooden steps.

The poem never stalked like Lady McBeth, through
darkness to her ending...

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Sage Saga Of A Home On A Hill 

Having drank from the sun at meridian,
The moon drunk with the light 
Of reflection, always dissipated dreaded darkness
Seeking to veil the Hill—Raised bump
Of nature’s glowing face; 
This swollen womb of nature nourishing beginnings
Of generations plodding centuries wounded
With...

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Sage Saga Of A Home On A Hill 

Having drank from the sun at meridian,
The moon drunk with the light 
Of reflection, always dissipated dreaded darkness
Seeking to veil the Hill—Raised bump
Of nature’s glowing face; 
This swollen womb of nature nourishing beginnings
Of generations plodding centuries wounded
With...

Continue reading...

A dirty old sidewalk
runs in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white-oak

Armed with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
we meander down to the levee
barefoot in careless summers

One low spot beneath
a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed...

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Making mud tamales
Sucking cherry tomatoes
Gorging on figs til
my stomach ached
Splattering a watermelon
to the ground
Ripping its guts out

Competitively running
from the start of Isabella Street
to the Rail Road Tracks
of our dead end street
I was faster than Larry and Mike!

Blowing bubbles
that floated to Neverland
Chalking a mansion 
With rooms...

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There is much to be said about weaponry in my childhood.
About our weapons made for play and not for conflict.
But may just one lifetime-moment suffice for now.
A moment in the manufacturing of Bow And Arrows.

At about the age of 6 or 7, I suspect, I...

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Deer linger in the bitterbrush
Below the gambel oak—
The brittle fern shows no concern
For killdeer or cowpoke.

The miner’s candle lights our way
Now lost in limber pine—
The water birch does not besmirch
Beargrass at timberline.

Sky pilots bend on mountain side
Dark as the black hawthorn—
A horned lark rests on...

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My best guess is that I must
have been 6 or 7. Back then,
long before boys like me turned
into men, I had a friend named Jack.

Anyway, I was just a little boy
when I first met him. He was
truly at-one with the entire
family, but I recall him...

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In my Heavenly Father's house, there are many mansions, and I look forward                                ...

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If I gave it time, I suppose hundreds of things would come to mine.
Like the old two-story mansion where my father's friend made moonshine.
Like the feel of blue, an escape route, that turned many to singing the blues.
'That blue feel' was still strong and hung...

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