Best Swing Poems
The grass
alas
is shorn
like corn
the dew
eschews
forlorn
this morn
the crowd
avowed
the ball
and all
then groans
and moans
clubs thrown
are known.
Embued
and hued
the words
like swords
wrong swing
the sting
bad lie
too high
the squeeze
on knees
in pleas?
to seize
the gold
and hold
glory
story
though droll
their goal
control
cajole
that ball
to fall
or roll
in hole
August 22,2022
For Brian Strand's Premiere Choice Contest
FIRST PLACE TROPhy!
POEM OF THE WEEK!
Swing, swing, swing your feet
Then you point your toes
Lean, lean, lean on back
Pull your legs in close
Hold, hold, hold on tight
Tightly to the rope
Grip, grip, grip it right
Never let it go
Spin, spin, spin around
Pull your feet back in
Slow, slow, slow it down
Point your toes again
Smile, smile, smile real wide
Swinging on your swing
Laugh, laugh, laugh inside
Life is but a dream
A tire swing hanging from a willow tree
barely swaying to and fro
my small feet sweep
and kick up dirt
on the ground beneath and below.
Under a cold damp gray sky
safety is found here in the yard
from the darkness of the house
and the many things
I want to forget and discard.
As the rope holds my weight
my little mind is lost
too young to grasp the damage
or understand the cost.
I am the master of holding back tears
a lump keeps words from escaping
I scream silently inside
keeping my thoughts from shaping.
Slowly the motion rocks my fear to sleep
and I come back to where I came
imagination takes over
burying sad places
in my little frame.
My thoughts set free to run with wonder
oh how I love this tree
that I'm under.
Peace found while floating in a soft rubber tire
dark soul lit again
twirling under and
higher and higher.
Like scars that fade but never go away
rope has left a mark still Imprinted on the tree limb
In that yard
today.
7/20/15
OLD GARDEN SWING
Oh, recollection is
such a powerful thing
I think of us together
on this old garden swing
Our love was birthed
when we first danced
You were my music
we were so entranced
That first touch
and we couldn't let go
It wasn't intentional
but we put on a show
Music slowed down
and you held me tight
When you leaned in to kiss me
I didn't fight
Saw it in your blue eyes
mine were thinking it too
A private dance would be nice
Yeah, just me and you
The summer was hot
the temperature high
Inhibitions gave way
we danced in the sky
Then autumn came
and things got cold
We tried so hard
but our love couldn't hold
You packed your bags
but left me memories
The good and the bad
those sweet miseries
Now Spring has arrived
got this letter from you
I'm on my old garden swing
..wondering what I'll do
Date: 8-20-14
Poets: Seren & Lyric Man
Who says I’m getting old?
My hairs are not gray
Its beautiful sterling silver
The finest silver around
Who says I’m getting old?
My face isn’t bright red
I’m not having hot flashes
I just have constant sunburn
I love the outdoor
Who say’s I’m getting old?
Not me I’m as young as I feel
Tennis anyone?
It was really a simple thing
Four chains holding a large plank
Suspended from the ceiling
A big blue swing
Summer at its peak
Heat touching 45 degrees
Cousins all crammed up
On a large blue swing
Listening to granny’s stories
The distant fan slowly whirring
Laughing and giggling at nothing
On a large blue swing
Plate in hand my brother would sit at its end
Pretending to drive an airplane
Never knew planes did not have steering
On the large blue swing
Sometimes when no one was around
I’d sit on it with outstretched hands
Barely touching both its ends yet feeling like a queen
On a large blue swing
With my favourite cousin sometimes I’d sit
Munching hot salted peanuts
Pouring out our deepest secrets
On a large blue swing
At noon in granny’s lap I’d lie
And listen to her lullaby
Soon asleep, without a worry in life
On a large blue swing
Like the swing her hopes never ran high
She spoke to me of days gone by
Looking beautiful, despite a toothless smile
On a large blue swing.
Today it is no more there
With grandma it slowly passed away
But memories still remain
On the large blue swing.
the empty swing
still moving to and fro...
cry of a child
© kash poet
===============
Hello midnight hour
It is I again
I’ve come to you in restless mood
I’m not tired
Nor am I sleepy
But here I be
In sleepless mood
I fear not the darkness
But I dare not close my eyes
I hear loudly the thoughts in my head
But I don’t even understand my thoughts
They’re a jumble of everything
Now I feel like crying
But why
And there it is a single tear
In silence it rolls
Down my cheek like a liquid diamond
Wait there’s more now
Flowing like two small streams
Hastily downhill
Through misty eyes I heard laughter
Oh, it is I laughing hysterically
OMG, have I gone mad
Quickly I assured myself nonsense
I’m just homesick in this restless midnight hour
And of course it’s that time of the month
Mood swing happens
Ahhh, to be a woman
Fin chuuk
3/24/23
Quiet and still now.
The swing occasionally catches the air.
The tire never moves.
There’s no one there to care.
The jungle gym beside it is played with by squirrels.
The sand box below holds creatures quiet and shy.
Tiny plastic men are lost in the sand deep below.
A metal car is with them, once favorite of them all.
Leaves stir in the clubhouse, with spiders in its loft.
My son hadn’t played with it for a long, long while.
But I hadn’t noticed while he was here running in the house.
And now when I see the Wooden Swing Set…
It’s connects with my empty heart.
A touch of Empty Nest Syndrome brought this poem to me.
Sworn to secrecy, she told me it had been a long time..
as we sat swinging in a hammock in the late day sun.
'What., are you sayin' you never did it?'
I thought what my mom would do if she caught me, and replied
'brought up different I guess'.
She leaned back into the netting, perhaps chewing on what I said..
half her face streaked in sunlight.
Suddenly aware of her leg touching mine. So warm...
My cotton red racing striped trunks from Sears, with a secret webbed key pocket..her faded OshKosh B'Gosh bibs she wore all summer except on Sundays.
(Sundays were saved for wearing that white & pink pleated Victorian get up she so detested; a gift from her Grandma bought from Macy's mail order catalog)
She ribbed me with her right elbow, as she jumped clear of our swing..
when her mom yelled 'time for supper Kat!' from the front porch.
But she turned back with that dangerous look I'd learned, leaned in close, and licked across all her teeth.
'Milk's colder and better ya know..
drunk straight from the carton.'
She ran inside letting the screen door go with a full slam..!
I thought about all the times we watched Jonny Quest at her house,
eatin' our Quisp or Kaboom with that milk..., and smiled.
I kept Kat's secret safe..,'til just now anyway.
dialogue
The Faded Garden Swing
If the flaked paint on the old swing
could speak, it would tell stories of
days long ago,
Of children's laughter and their bare,
muddy feet,
Of fireflies caught and imprisoned in
empty jam jars,
Like the fireflies, my memory flickers,
trying to recall who lived across the
street.
The faded swing’s rusty chains creaked
loudly under my weight, an old familiar
song,
And the scent in the air from the aged
honeysuckle, still going strong,
An old familiar perfume of yesteryear,
At this moment, suspended between
the then and now, time stands still.
Once the echoes of children’s giggles,
now a silent yard,
Images of scraped knees, loud cries
and a lemonade stall,
In the distance, the sound of an old
church bell rings,
Here, on this faded garden swing,
I sit in the past with the weight of
what was and of what can never be
again.
Now, shadows linger in silence,
Where children once soared with
dreams,
Oh, faded swing, a keeper of stories
of joy and pain,
You hold the essence where memories
remain,
At last, I am home, in the place where
time stands still.
By Valerie D. Staton
Down a long winding road there lived Old Betty Ann
In an old wooden house, the color of sand
Her home was surrounded by gardens and trees
And wind chimes that sung with the stir of a breeze
Most days Betty Ann could be found on her swing
It was above her porch and asparagus green
She’d kick off with a foot and then she would soar
Each vacillation higher than the one before
Betty Ann loved her metal swing so much
Only by permission could it be touched
Every year its color would be renewed
In either white, green or cobalt blue
She often sat on the old swing to knit
When in a good mood she’d allow others to sit
There was not much Betty Ann could not do
In the cast iron swing that was built for two
When Betty became ill and the end was near
She gathered together all those she held dear
"Before I go family, I ask one thing...
For one last ride inside my swing."
On the final day before Betty Ann died
She was placed in the swing for her final ride
And thus she transitioned doing what she loved most
She took one last swing then gave up the ghost
Dark eyes shine,
reflecting trees and skies
as they fly by.
Small hands hold on as,
with each kick of her bare legs,
she inches ever higher.
At the apex of her arc
she hangs for a moment,
weightless,
suspended between
Earth’s gravity and
release.
Is it still there, swaying in the
Chicago air?
I dream of myself with dark,
ribboned braids, being just seven.
And swinging my tanned legs as
hard as I Could,,trying to kiss God's
cheek in heaven.
Oh to be seven again!
When free speech reigned.
Girls had cap guns and trains.
We played games of all kinds,
No PC police to say,"No, No"
"No cowboy and Indian games.
Choose marbles, they are PC tame"
(Yes and so maddeningly lame!)
Nobody hit one another.
We were of all nationalities!
All colors and yes, were sisters
and brothers.
No such freedom for Children today.
They must, bow, kneel and kiss
whatever pressure groups say!
They are trying to make girls into
boys and boys into girls.
One androgynous nation under
no God at all?
Where all are "whichevers" and
Freedom has taken it's fall!
We use color to get our way.
That white man is pure evil they say.
So we beat them good, though they
did nothing to us.
It's the sign of the times.
All white women and men must
Bite the dust?
Sadly, sadly, our freedoms down
the toilet go.
To the SS Socialism Ship we blindly go.
Cheering for free everything.
You will never hear another
Liberty Bell Ring!
October 23, 2019
No one to play with, what to do?
Shall I sit down to sulk and rue?
Shall I stand up and cry aloud?
Shall I go jogging midst the crowd?
Or shall I walk down to the zoo?
Well, let me think of what to do,
My swing - the best place to break through
All troubles that my mind do cloud,
No one to play...
The swing is my only friend true,
The solo place under the blue,
Where I can swing and sing so proud,
Where no other child is allowed,
Swinging freely like once I flew...
No one to play.
Image #1
08/01/18