“When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed, . . . ”
the weary high-school student read with a sigh.
The sun had long since set and darkness loomed.
Each night, homework and slumber for Todd’s time vie.
His interests do not in somber poetry lie.
With misty eyes, his teacher, so deeply affected
while reading Whitman’s lines aloud, hoped to stimulate
an appreciation for their timeless themes. Often, she corrected
the class for childish, insensitive actions that tend to deflate
a teacher’s hopes—passing notes, napping, etc.-- Do better times await?
No efforts to cajole them into class participation
with rewards—extra points, field trips, etc.—have gone far;
but their interests in other areas rise to elation:
etching on metal, acting, sports, and playing the guitar.
Perhaps their view of poetry will someday be up to par.
Categories:
dooryard, appreciation, poetry, teacher, youth,
Form: Quintain (English)
Behind the door,
Lay your shattered tears in seafloor,
Pardon my betrayal outdoor,
My heart wandered away indoor,
Through the trap door,
Never let this guy indoor,
She recalled his spoor,
Washing the floor,
Broken doorknobs,
A love stopped to a hidden doorsill,
He laments in the dooryard.
Doorways dispersed the doorstops...
Crying her heart, a home withoutdoors,
Dead as a doornail...
Categories:
dooryard, adventure, courage, feelings, happiness,
Form: Free verse
Amid the glacial hills of central Maine
There stood forsaken, gray, an ancient farm,
Which always filled us with a vague alarm.
Atop the humpback ridge of a moraine,
Abandoned now, for centuries it stood,
Defying time, and ice, and hurricanes.
Its windows now were yellowed, cloudy panes,
Its weathered clapboards, bleached unpainted wood.
We’d see its silhouette against the dusk:
Its gambrel roof was reared against the skies
With dormers like two staring, evil eyes—
Unyielding in their aspect, heartless, brusque,
Perhaps a touch of malice in their glare.
And though untenanted for many years,
It never failed to stimulate our fears,
Because the house seemed gleefully aware.
But was it haunted? So we all assumed.
Yet still each May we’d watch as swifts would nest
And use the eaves and dormers for their rest;
And in its dooryard fragrant lilacs bloomed.
February 16, 2019
Enclosed Rhyme Poetry Contest
Emile Pinet, Sponsor
Categories:
dooryard, horror, house, imagination, memory,
Form: Enclosed Rhyme
I hear can sparrows perching in the dooryard
Twittering by for a place to pick worms and beetles
But on this morning I have chosen to lie in bed an hour longer...
An hour of absolution for my soul;
I will give myself back to toils of living thereafter,
Even the wicked deserve a second of respite --
There's is a hard-hat to wear and things to do,
But in this hour I want to deliberate with a tender light mind,
Saying less whispers to heaven.
... A life borne to tides of the day both is and is not.
These sorrows I have seen laden the leather of my old catapult heart
On this morning I have chosen to lie in bed an hour longer,
What's the rush into the chaos of the world?
06/03/18
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Categories:
dooryard, appreciation, devotion, sensual,
Form: Free verse