Fencepost Poems | Examples

Juncos

Pretty juncos flutter in my backyard.
One sits on a fencepost, clearly on guard.
They wander through the weeds,
eating insects and seeds,
but fly when they hear my big Saint Bernard!

Burma-Shave

They stood like rhymes
on fencepost spines
with wisdom scrawled
in shaving thymes—
a roadside gospel,
terse and sweet
that preached with
meter, grit, and heat.

Rosemary likes
a clean-shaved man,
if wooing her
is in your plan.
She’ll linger near
and take your hand
and proudly wear
your golden band.

Parsley hides
beside the plate—
the garnish mocked
by those who ate.
But lean in close—
she knows the names
of all who passed
and played their games.

Sage recalls
those roadside lines—
poetry caught
between the pines.
Sometimes sly
and sometimes wise,
a fleeting truth
before my eyes.

They’re all gone now
fenceposts bare—
but I still see
those rhymes out there.
Burma-Shave.

Still Blinking III

First, remove the eyelids—
they hold too much fiberglass.
Grind streetlight into gunpowder,
cut it with gravel—snort the cocaine dusk.
Take the sidewalk like heretic communion,
metal-flake wine, asphalt host.

She blinks razors.
Stars break in her clavicle.
You don’t touch her—you calibrate.
Banana fingers, bruised and humming,
plucking vapor off the fencepost.
Storm-laced teeth.
Voice as hinge,
breath as cordless vacuum 
throat tightrope over a cheap
motel dirty sink.

We lit the penguin rodeo in her Glacial ribcage.
Called the roots collect.
Spoke in wire glyphs.
The cancer slept in our gums,
soft, radiant.
I opened her chest 
found an IPhone 
still blinking,
still ringing,
with no one left to answer.

Midnight Confessions

First, remove the eyelids—
they hold too much fiberglass.
Grind streetlight into gunpowder,
cut it with gravel—snort the cocaine dusk.
Take the sidewalk like heretic communion,
metal-flake wine, asphalt host.

She blinks razors.
Stars break in her clavicle.
You don’t touch her—you calibrate.
Banana fingers, bruised and humming,
plucking vapor off the fencepost.
Storm-laced teeth.
Voice as hinge,
breath as cordless vacuum 
throat tightrope over a cheap
motel dirty sink.

We lit the penguin rodeo in her Glacial ribcage.
Called the roots collect.
Spoke in wire glyphs.
The cancer slept in our gums,
soft, radiant.
I opened her chest 
found an IPhone 
still blinking,
still ringing,
with no one left to answer.

acknowledgement

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

Life's weariness o'ertakes me

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

The illusion of timeless silence

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

I'm Here

I won't leave you Bluebird 
Forever I will be
Your troubadour in waiting 
Where no one else can see
My heart is yours, it has been
I penned a little note
Then hid it in a fencepost 
So many years ago
It started with an inkling
Resisting, still it grew
I wrote this down on paper
"I think that I love you" 
I put it in that secret place 
Protected and secure
I wrapped it up in plastic
And hoped it would endure
The elements of weather 
The rain, the wind, the snow
It was my first endeavor 
At telling you, you know?
I state now for the record
You know will never end
Regardless of what happens
You're more than just my friend

A Heavenly Rest In Peace

“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

Autumn Still-Life

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

The Greeter

yellow meadowlark
offering sweet melodies
atop a fencepost
my mood suddenly lightened
I stroll toward the woodland 

Written May 23, 2022

Pranking

When morning comes too early in the day,
And I have not yet begun to plan the afternoon
I shall make some time for myself to play.

For such a day leaves room to be the buffoon,
And find the time to do what pleases me most
Perhaps, I shall buy a yellow or a red balloon.

I shall blow it up and tie it to my fencepost
For no reason I shall make my neighbors wonder
About what it is that I am making boast.

Or, I think, it shall give them pause to ponder
What it is that I am celebrating today
They surely have a little time to squander

And if they don’t, they will find a way
To shake their heads and laugh audaciously
At a neighbor who has pranked their day.

BRONZE MEDAL WINNER
written September 23, 2021
submitted to "***ty Poems" poetry contest
All Poetry, December 4, 2021

Lost September

I lost September somewhere in the sadness
lost track of shadows in the sun
mourned not fading warmth nor shortened days
shivering in a crystal cloak of frost.

Lovers, sated on a Summer’s sweetness
succumbing to the lie – forever’s now
idle in the arms of humid passion
wilting on the vines of plumping lust.

Cold soil covering September
blanketing the joys of milder days
memories slow fading with the  season
huddled near the fencepost by the barn.


John G. Lawless
©10/9/2019

Mornings To Me

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. : )

My Mornings

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

• Short Fencepost Poems
• Famous Fencepost Poems
• Best Fencepost Poems
• Read Fencepost Poems
• Long Fencepost Poems
• Fencepost Quotes