Best Small Town Poems
In my countryside, silent at sunset
Long gone is the stress, long gone is the fret,
Long gone is the need to be so wide-eyed
Silent at sunset, in my countryside
Calm now are my skies with their colors bold
Streaks of blue marry with orange and gold,
My mind long gone astray, as the crow flies
With their colors bold, calm now are my skies
Another day ends on my small hometown
It's old, sunbathed bricks now shading brown,
As dusk creeps in corners, silence descends
On my small hometown, another day ends
Down the sun dips behind my shadowed pines
And so easily now my head reclines,
Watching and awaiting some dreamy trips
Behind my shadowed pines, down the sun dips.
Someone in a small town
gave me a place after losing my home.
The window of my room in the morning
gave waking visions of a yard in bloom.
The family cavalier spaniel
gave company when I was alone.
The park where we walked
gave a fresh breeze to ease my thoughts.
The breath of a fresh breeze
gave new life and inspiration.
The mother playing with her child
gave a moment’s affection.
The lady down the street
gave odd jobs for spare change.
The local food pantry
gave a basket of food.
Its social worker
gave words of comfort.
The brass band in the band shell
gave a song to remember.
The bartender at the corner tap
gave a free whiskey and a hug.
The view out my window at night
gave visions of a town in slumber.
The small town I found
gave what I needed most.
Alternating red and blue, police car siren blaring.
My heart is thumping wildly. I wave and blow him a kiss,
But he doesn't notice. He is on the job, not caring.
And since I'm driving slowly, a chance meeting I'm going to miss.
Had he wings, he would be the Heavenly Angel Michael.
But he is an honest cop who watches for speeders on the road.
His manner is courteous; his aura is physical,
Yet, his peaceful brow is smooth, tending not to furrow hold.
Today, I see him at the curb writing a citation.
I wave, I wink, and blow a kiss as I drive on by.
Though my heart is bursting with daily infatuation,
It is those California girls who always catch his eye.
here is the house we grow up in;
down the road, there is the house we grow old in.
somewhere down the road, split right down the middle, is everything in between.
in this thousand acre town, there’s not much to know besides the way the grass rubs against our palms while we try to break our falls, or the way the concrete seems to have the same amount of cracks, every time we count.
i found you in this town, three streets up, like you never meant to be far, to be hiding.
i met you in the grass, dewy but ever so sweet.
i met you with a chip in your tooth, dull but ever so sharp.
i met you, loud but never quiet.
this town gave us fireflies in jars instead of train horns and city sidewalks;
gave us nights stargazing in your backyard instead of flashing lights in the middle of the street.
this town was our match in a city-wide power outage, and we wouldn’t blow out the light for a second.
this town made us, but it also saved us.
She was a pretty girl with long brown hair
But I just didn't want to settle down
I was honest with her because I care
Went to meet her for the last time in town.
With teary eyes she said that she loved me
All she wanted was to be by my side
Told her gently I wanted to be free
She went home and committed suicide.
The gossip mill turned said I was to blame
Why couldn't it have been me that had died
They expected me to bow down in shame
And would ask why I hadn't even cried.
Then some lowlifes tried to burn my house down
That was enough; I packed up and left town.
Written 11th September 2020.
small town train station
ticket in hand
~ suitcase with big dreams
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Carnival
Two brothers save coins
Look forward
Excitement
Read, reread poster, pictures
Talk about strange sights
Main big tent
Brothers find a seat
Excitement
Mountain high
Someone in main tent screams,"Fire"
Boys run, bam, brick wall
Contest: Share A Shardoma
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Written by: Sara Kendrick
Shadorma form not listed
It was Friday night in small town, USA. The convenience store clerk was outside in the parking lot, arguing with her boyfriend. Instant recognition, one person is both clingy and aggressive, perhaps slightly inebriated, and jealous or insecure or having some sort of emotional semi-crisis. The other one has responsibilities and places to be, yet still wants to calm the first person down easy, get free for the moment while not burning the bridge just yet. I felt like telling her to drop that loser, but who knows?
Inside the store, three people are talking in a back corner, laughing and leaning against a freezer and the store walls. The now-returned clerk greets the first person in the check-out line, a grizzled older man, wizened, almost, leathery skin over an impression of inner strength still, despite many hard years gone past. An 18-pack of beer and a carton of cigarettes and he's out the door, happy as a clam. Next is an urgent young woman, who just asks, "Where's your restroom?" The clerk points to the back corner where the three people are laughing up a storm. Off the young woman goes, with all possible speed.
Then, a kicking and a pounding, doorknob rattling. "Hey, hey - there's somebody in there!" The three people are trying to set the young woman straight, but she's on a mission, and kicks the door again. From inside the room, another young woman's voice, not too pleased from the sound of it. She appears in a minute or so. Must be a party somewhere nearby - she's got plastic devil horns and a cat face painted on. With Miss Urgency, she exchanges epithets and imprecations, and then she too is out the door.
There is no bar in this town.
The bakery on the corner
“Closed” spread across the door
The grocery gathering dust
Will open again no more
Gone is the ice cream shop
A child screams and cries
All of this can happen
When a local business dies
The people know what happened
They didn’t want to say
Their products might be better
But shops open inconvenient times a day
They claim that its much easier
To shop the supermarket that's next door
The bad thing is that this leaves
The local business owners poor
How can we stop this issue?
How can we take a stand?
If you wish to see a change
Then your mind you must expand
You need to buy their products
Their stores you must promote
You need to fight for town character
Help keep local businesses afloat
She grew up just 20 minutes southwest of Tulsa..
In a small town with 2 stoplights and a Tastee Freeze...
Everyone gathered at the First Baptist Church every Sunday morning...
Remember, if you haven't got anything good to say about somebody...
Please come and sit by me...
The years passed quickly and she couldn't wait to leave that town behind..
It's funny how time always brings you back to the Tastee Freeze and a
Root Beer float....
In a small town....
It makes a heart glad to know
there are still, small country towns
like Woodford, where homes
with large old trees,
sit scattered between small shops
and local businesses
To think the spirit of Elvis exists
in a greengrocers’, called, “Grapelands.”
‘Elvis Parsley’ swivelling his hips
amongst the carrots and parsnips
imitating “Blue Suede Shoes."
I select a punnet of strawberries
as a smile slips out at the absurdity,
of how, some live out their fantasies
“Blue blue “…you can do anything
I cross the street to check out
a “Second-hand” furniture store.
It is closed so I cup my hands
and peer through the window.
A group of old, store mannequins
piques my interest, draped in 50’s fashions
It seems like a time warp, as there
are no opening hours posted on the door.
I wonder if the mannequins
are an eccentric collection,
or, if they were for sale,
which one, I would buy,
The one, with eyes, demurely cast down,
or, the arm-less one,
looking enviously past her
Back on the street, I inhale sun-warmed earth,
as I walk past a garden’s bright picket fence.
A shiny black crow flaps up, startled.
Suddenly I smell, what the scent of home
is like, for someone else.
For My Kind of Town Contest
Janis Thompson
I grew up in a very small town,
A small town in which I still live,
A town where even my parents grew up,
A town for which all I would give.
Down on the corner, the small barber shop,
Where 'Grandpa Jones' first cut my hair,
And then next to that is Pop's Ice Cream store,
Where sodas were made with such flare.
The movie theatre where soldiers did fight,
For the land of the brave and the free,
And in my backyard, all my friends there would meet,
In my clubhouse way up in a tree.
The schoolhouse with only one old musty room,
With a bell tower sitting on top,
We'd play in the courtyard for all we were worth,
Till the school bell would tell us to stop.
And when I got older, the town's coffee shop,
Where friends there would meet to discuss,
The state of the Union and prices of gas,
Which at times would cause someone to cuss.
I never would think of leaving this town,
Its life-blood now flows through my veins,
It was good for my father, for me and my kids,
And to leave would cause nothing but pain.
So I'll live and I'll die in my little home town,
And be buried up there on the hill,
My spirit now free to wander through time,
But in fact I'll be living here still.
-For Landscape and Towns contest - May 20, 2017
SMALL TOWN LIBRARY - OCTOBER
Sleepy with silent words , soundless print
Outside a world of school bells and traffic hum.
Cant keep my focus, glasses need renewing.
Read same line seven times, I’m losing
My place - losing my grip. I am
Held in a place where speech ends and
Time stops - quiet, silence, hush , no noise.
Afternoon long pale crimson sun oozes
Into gloomy room, lone sunbeam edging
Into the forbidden roomy gloom.
Silent stealthy steps like a yellow cat with
Dust motes held in its claws.
Snoozing over yesterday’s newspapers
Old man agreeing, nodding, mutters,
Nodding at the 1968 UN yearbook.
Studying and skimming thru files for a look
Imperceptible earphones in students head.
Kids being shushed for fairy tales being read
Smell of polished tables and newly-printed paper gloss,
Books on shelves by the dusty dozen to choose,
Quotes and poems by Zola, Balzac and Moses,
Flies buzz lazily by, old librarian checks books out,
Buzz, flicker, and plink-plonk from the faulty tube light.
Doze, lose consciousness,
Soon be November - winter approaching….
Got to save energy = mc squared = MC2…..
CO2 + H2O is acid rain = droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven…..and
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night, ****
And so to sleep , perchance to………….wake
In a place where speech ends,
Time stops………………….
**** Langston Hughes (1902-1967), U.S. poet. April Rain Song (l. 4-6)
As I view flat prairie with mountain range beyond, morning sunshine warms me
and I know by afternoon, fierce storms may gather without warning.
I envy not the urban dweller rushing to and fro amidst stark cement barriers.
Yes, small town life suits me…
I’ll not trade nights laying head on pillow as moonlight pierces the darkness
and coyotes cry to the far reaches like their ancestors before…No, never!
I could not, would not, give up the freedom found in these open spaces
where peaceful Amish plow behind horses harnessed in leather strap.
I proudly tell inquisitors, I met my husband dancing at the old grange hall,
then settled on the ranch his kin claimed and worked three generations back.
I feel safe, protected here among friends in this quaint little town.
Crime is not a factor—not a priority one deals with on a daily basis.
Trips to market bring no snarled traffic, no changing lights of red, yellow, green.
Welcome is felt, not heard from silent voices behind familiar smiling eyes.
On unpaved roads I return as dust fills nose and eyes, making me sneeze
but it’s joy rather than nuisance as I jog along in our old pickup truck.
Here the family is strong, unified—respect for elders required,
blending generations of those who tamed the land before us.
Sunday church services overflow with scrubbed and shining faces
as preachers spread harmony and warnings from the Good Book.
Camaraderie and sportsmanship are taught in this small town.
Proud parents gather in crowds to support their team at each and every event.
Discipline and morals form traditional characteristics of the region,
and authority is respected on all levels, patriotism honored.
Our children do not stray to the bright lights of the city
vandalizing, joining lost souls seeking acceptance on mean streets.
Early evening sounds of slumber echo thru’ thin walls of this old farmhouse
for morning chores greet our kids, us, in this game of sweet survival.
No, I do not envy city folks or opportunities I may have missed therein,
nor do I allow them to bring me scorn, or take pity on my soul.
I gain my worth from one greater, wiser, more forgiving than mere mortals…
I hear the voice of my Creator, and I follow where He leads.
I know of a man
The finest man from the Southern land
That man is my dad
He is just a small town Southern man
As strong as a bull and as old as a mountain,
He wouldn’t harm a flea and is as wise as can be
He’s as smart as a whip,
You can’t teach an old dog new tricks
He rather be working at home or at the family farm,
Instead he works on washers and dryers every day
He drinks Heineken from some German town
Cause he truly is just a small town Southern man