Best Fencepost Poems
“Perching on a fencepost, the meadowlark calls in sweet trilling tones like a solo marimba.” L. Milton Hankins
The meadow lark happily sits along the fencepost singing away
and watches as Milton appears all aglow and here to stay
God’s creatures gather around to watch this beautiful scene
In this heavenly place where it’s forever peaceful and serene
He awoke to the faint sounds of meadowlarks singing under the sun
As peaceful feelings envelope, his pain is gone, realizing he has none
The air is warm and fragrant of fresh summer flowers in bloom
As he smells a familiar scent getting closer, his late wife’s perfume
He hears her voice coming closer and she appears at his side
She tells him he has crossed over and reunited with his bride
He feels tears of joy and peace knowing they're now reunited
and realizes he's crossed over to heaven, so happily delighted
The meadowlark joyfully sings on the fencepost singing his tune
As other birds join in a welcoming serenade to Milt as they croon
FROM A HOSPITAL BED
Wordancer
Even if I’m dizzy with an aching head,
I must not disturb the others in the beds
In this hospital ward where not much is said
For fear of making a fuss.
It’s not much fun with nothing to do
Can’t even get up to go to the Loo
The doctors come, and ask, ‘How are you?’
It’s hard to tell them which is worse
Visiting hours and here’s Dad and Mum
Who immediately asks me why I’m so glum.
I tell them, ‘The others had ice-cream, but I got none,
And, if it was you Dad; you’d curse!’
Patting my hand, Mum says, ‘It’s all right,’
And Dad says, ‘You might get some tonight,
Cos you’re looking better, you’re not so white,
I’ll go over and ask that nurse.’
Back he comes grinning down the ward,
And sits back in the chair without a word,
To Mum he whispers so he can’t be heard
Then his eyes meet mine, his lips are pursed.
The doors swing open; a nurse comes through,
Carrying a tray and says, ‘This is for you,
You can have some now you are healing like new,
To Mum, Dad says, ‘We’ll cancel the hearse!’
I’ve broken no bones, the x-rays prove,
But there’ll be a scar and a slight groove
Left from the fencepost that failed to move
When I fell on it, off my horse
With an arm in a sling and one foot on the ground,
The other in plaster and my head bandaged round,
I’m going home soon, and my horse has been found
Across the river, but he’s none the worst.
It’s easy to laugh with no aching head
And it doesn’t disturb the others in beds
‘There is no need to fear,’ as everyone says,
‘Just ring the bell for the nurse!’
The fencepost, bits now
Sunk below the surface of
The dirt, lay broken much the
Same as that day, years ago,
Little Georgie told his Ma, with
Excitement building in his voice,
Hurried by his mates pleading
Nearbye "Momma, I'll fix the
Fence better than new when I
Get home from the war! it won't
Be long... seeya Ma"
What's left of the fence, barely
Visible in the tall weeds of the
Vacant lot,
Lay forgotten
By the Whitehall
Neocons...
11/9/14
© james marshall goff
Mornings to me
are not an exiting crescent moon
glowing gold in the west,
preparing to retire
below a distant tree line silhouette
Scattered footprints
in the glistening dew
on a lush lawn
still dreaming of the day before
Cantaloupe skies tickling
a sleepy horizon,
restless in vivid ribbons
on a wide eyed sapphire canvas
Yawning morning glories
climbing a silent fencepost,
standing guard in the shadows
of a stately oak
Butterflies floating
on dawn’s cool breeze
quietly touching each blossom
in mosaic laced flight patterns
The enchanting coo
of a stirring mourning dove
spreading its wings amidst
woven branched tapestries
Mornings to me
are always you,
surrendered in first blush beauty,
a breath of every sunrise’s promise,
awakening all that my heart desires
Good morning Soupers
I posted this earlier in the week but took it down. Here goes round 2. : )
The ILLUSION of a TIMELESS SILENCE
Drenched the RUSTIC creaking barn
Its tortured wind scarred face
Snarling at the SWIRLING winds
A lonely BLOSSOM sprouts atop a fencepost
Mice scurry about an empty silo
A naked scarecrow dances in a barren field
Dreams carried away on the dust
They had returned, the children’s children
To piece together a family history
To sit and weep while viewing pictures
Of weathered, beaten faces
Twisted, tarnished features
Unable to EMANATE a SYNTHETIC hope
Causing a sadness to consume
The ILLUSION of a TIMELESS SILENCE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It wasn't grand,
this bell upon Ivy’s desk –
just hammered tin
nothing distinct,
a traveler's relic,
perhaps,
or bought for pennies
at the county fair.
No polished gleam,
no silvered tongue,
just simple weight
in weathered wood
it clung.
But when her hand,
thin-veined and strong
from chalk-dust,
ink,
and garden-loam,
reached out –
a stillness fell
across the room
like held-in breath.
Then came the tap:
a single, clear,
unhurried ping
that seemed too small
to hold such things.
Yet out it flew!
A silver thread
unspooling fast
across the dew-wet
pasture grass,
over the stile
where Billy paused
his milking-pail,
through orchard rows
where apples hung
like sleepy moons.
It skimmed the creek
where minnows flashed,
startled the crow
on the fencepost,
sailed past
farms
where hay
was baled…
It flew!
That tiny sound,
that humble ring,
had wings.
It called the freckled boy
still wiping sleep
from sun-shot eyes,
the girl whose braids
were barley-gold,
the quiet one.
It gathered them,
like scattered seeds
on shifting wind,
to this one room
schoolhouse
where maps unfurled
and numbers bloomed
and stories hummed
beneath the rafters,
warm and low.
The bell sat still.
Its work was done.
Just hammered tin
beneath the sun
that slanted through
the dusty pane.
But in its silence,
echoed plain:
the scrape of chairs,
the turning page,
the hopeful rustle
of a bygone age
being called –
not ordered,
summoned –
by a sound
that knew
its own small
but mighty
weight.
No, No, November
Hoar frost harbinger
Scowling Pumpkin faces
Snarling Halloween hangovers
Empty wrappers
Dancing with
Chocolate faces
Turkey’s plotting an escape
Gather at a rotted fencepost
Isaac Newton’s apples
Hang just out of reach
Choosing their own time
The clocks may change
But time doesn’t
December stalks the trees
Its cold breath
On the back of their neck
Oh, November
You cold coldly lusty lover
Welcome home
In the meadow a single robin winters over
A hearty bird of sturdy disposition and feather
Oblivious to the cold, he thrives; moreover,
Appearing now and then despite the weather.
A hearty bird of sturdy disposition and feather
I have seen him on a fencepost, snow all around,
Appearing now and then despite the weather
Looking for a barren place to scratch the ground.
I have seen him on a fencepost, snow all around
This hopeful little creature singing his song
Looking for a barren place to scratch the ground,
Optimistic, he acts as though nothing is wrong.
This hopeful little creature singing his song
Although I think he must be chilled to the bone,
Optimistic, he acts as though nothing is wrong
You’d think he’d give up, realizing he is all alone.
Although I think he must be chilled to the bone
In many ways, his persistence is a beautiful thing
You’d think he’d give up, realizing he is all alone
I believe he is here as a harbinger of spring.
In many ways, his persistence is a beautiful thing
Oblivious to the cold, he thrives; moreover,
I believe he is here as a harbinger of spring,
In the meadow a single robin winters over.
Written November 27, 2022
Submitted to "A Brian Strand Premier Contest No. 53"
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Judged: November 29, 2022
FIRST PLACE WINNER
December 3, 2022
Submitted to "Writing Challenge - X'd Poems Second Chance" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Perching on a fencepost, the meadowlark calls
in sweet trilling tones like a solo marimba.
I mimic her voice and watch her curiosity
as I stroll among the goldenrod and yarrow,
the pathway winding through a welcoming maze
of autumn wildflowers wanting to be noticed
before the cold north wind nips their heads
and turns golden brown their long-legged stems.
The sweet scent of summer honeysuckle lingers
though their bright orange blossoms are gone,
but I still faintly hear the rapid fluttering wings
of hummingbirds who overstayed their welcome,
hurriedly fleeing before October’s chilly breath.
Touching the raspy edges of a Queen Anne’s Lace,
I pluck a stem or two for a neglected vase.
My heart smiles contentedly.
I long to see the meadow white with early snow.
Written December 9, 2022
Submitted to "Still-Life Autumn Scene" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper
yellow meadowlark
offering sweet melodies
atop a fencepost
my mood suddenly lightened
I stroll toward the woodland
Written May 23, 2022
After a moment
when something becomes
what it has always been
and creation comes flying in
as natural as breath--
now that shakes the earth
for me!
It takes an afternoon
of wondering to ease that away.
Anything will do to set it off:
an old fencepost,
silent as they come,
brings its own memories in
and it's a good source for musing--
a chunk of time
I might have left there
until the wood decays--
until the hammer blows
have ceased to echo back
across the meadow.
There's a world lying there
in the interim--
a world of seconds
holding history
that dangled there
above the waiting drama
we call years.
Now could one be
so callous as
to simply walk away?
~
My mornings...
are not an exiting crescent moon
glowing high overhead,
preparing to retire
below a distant tree line silhouette
~~
Scattered footprints
in the glistening dew
on a lush lawn
still dreaming of the day before
~~
Cantaloupe skies tickling
a sleepy horizon,
restless in vivid ribbons
on a wide eyed sapphire canvas
~~
Yawning morning glories
climbing a silent fencepost,
standing guard in the shadows
of a stately oak
~~
Butterflies floating
on dawn’s cool breeze
quietly touching each blossom
in mosaic laced flight patterns
~~
Or the enchanting coo
of a stirring mourning dove
spreading its wings amidst
woven branched tapestries
~~
My mornings are always you,
surrendered in first blush beauty,
breathing of every sunrise’s promise,
awakening all that my heart desires
Good morning Soupers
Life’s weariness o’ertakes me
Each step demanding more
Calling forth a shivering strength
Leaning on a rickety fencepost
Turning its face from the stinging gale
Whispers of weakness winnowing resolve
Failing flames scorching a yellowed page
Darkness seeping from an idle pen
A venetian red yearling’s head
Pops up
From behind a fallen log
Licks rouge from its lips
And the syrup sipped from dark maple bark
Ears tweaking
To the snow-crunch creak
Of my dog and me approaching
From down the trail
Forest
Tamed by these trampled snow-winding paths
The deer doesn’t flinch
Up ahead
Top of the trash receptacle
Is aflutter with cardinals and sparrows
Though observed
The object has not coalesced to solid reality
Remains a quiver of particles
Withering with infinite probabilities
This should not be
Ah
I see
What it is
Slices of strawberry apple orange watermelon banana cherry
Have been perfectly aligned spaced and placed
By somebody
As juicy trails of treats for the starving
Collection of fruit on a countertop log
Tapped across a fencepost
Table-topped to a stump
Necklaced across a trailhead sign
Little delectable rainbows scattered by a hand
All over the park
Flamingos may come
Hearing these rumors
I imagine
The feminine work behind these succulent lifesavers
The work of a woman
A mother
An older lady
Who was determined that morning
Packing plastic baggies the night before
With morsels carefully counted out
To be fair
With a lovely variety of fruit
Pinched and selected from grocery store shelves
Sliced precisely by her parry knife
Sorry if that presumption is not acceptable
In this modern age
But we all know it’s true
And is beautiful
Call her a wayward witch
An angel
Messalina
Daughter of Cleopatra
Mistress to Van Gogh
Wife of Jesus
A goddess of which we’d be so much better
If she were
To rule over
The velvet corners of the Earth
From a garden throne
Men like me
Bowed to her knee
Like these animals and birds that she’s fed
Today
Beholden to the world of majik
Yes
We’d be so much better
If we were fed from the broken-braceleted hand
Of a woman
Who
From her kitchen window
And snake-led dreams at the flight of her feet
Is unafraid to say
I do not fear you
I will bring forgiveness to the creatures of winter
Startle the men who pass by
I will feed them all
The fruit of my Knowledge.
I’m a fencepost
With barbed wire
Leaning
On the prairie
I don’t know
What I’m keeping in
Or
What I’m keeping out
I’m just a fencepost
With barbed wire
Leaning
On the prairie