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
My memories of that old red barn.
Visiting as a child on my grandpa's farm.
Climbing the rafters and throwing hay.
Always had a place to run and play.
One day there was a fire and the barn burn't down.
Papa's friends came to help even far away as town.
They all said"we'll build it up from the ground.
They all brought wood,hammers and nails by the pound.
When summer was over and I went back to school.
Memories of that old red barn and being a kid was so cool.
Wrote for"the old red barn"contest by Rick Parise
The picture of this old red barn
Hung behind my bed
This old sweet barn where I spent
Many a rainy day
The hay stack for my bed
And Fairy tales for company
No one knew this secret place
Except for Uncle Jack
Who brought milk and cookies
And a little sunshine thru his tales
Where the musty smell of wet grain
Became a part of me
This safe haven in a tiny corner
Of this huge world still remains
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
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.
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
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.
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*
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!
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.
.
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.
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