Long Out of doors Poems
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Completely different from what I once experienced, and
Only the land, roads, some trees, and a few houses are left
Most of the people I once knew have died or moved away
In their place are additional fields of cotton, corn, and beans
Nothing is inviting or enticing about my 'once upon a hometown'
Green grasses and quiet out-of-doors remain along with the empty places,
But the people nor their descendants; houses nor home exist anymore
Activities lived here, as did the laughter of children, the stability of families
Creeks and irrigation ponds are less reasons to return without people to bond
Kindness comes from people who overcame their sadness without going mad
History may not repeat itself; I will pass the memory to the next generation
Overlooking our little town was a steel tower into which we played and yelled
Many years ago, that structure was a landmark; now, like the people, it's gone
Every thought of my early years stops me cold, creating yester memories.
021521PSCtest, Coming Back Home, John Hamilton
"Another 150 Illinoisans have lost their lives in the last 24 hours
May each of their memories be for a blessing
2,240 residents have tested positive for the virus
Another 365 new hospitalizations were recorded
730 people are on ventilators...
"These are real people, who have and had real lives
So, the virus is out there. It is among us
Stay inside your homes. Please!
Only go out for essential trips...
"Make sure to wash your hands thoroughly
for at least 30 seconds, with soap
whenever you touch exposed skin or a foreign object
Multiple hand-washing is the message here...
"And wearing a mask at all times out-of-doors
is key in mitigating the virus
I just can't stress that enough
Don't forget social distancing either
Stay at least six feet away from the person
with whom you are interacting...
"I'm the last person in the world who wants these restrictions
I'd like to open up the state as much as you would
Yet the the statistics don't lie. And though
we're flattening the curve
the virus is still out there
It is among us..."
I could give the daily speech by heart myself
Thank you, Governor Pritzker, for spooking me
and so many other law-abiding Illinoisans who have
been foolish enough to buy into your extended lockdown
For which you had no legal authority, whatsoever --
Bully!
And which, by the way, didn't apply to your family
Your wife and kids hopped on a plane and flew to Florida
to your tawny vacation home ---
Stay at home, my foot! ---
Hypocrite!
I hate going outside with my mask and gloves
I hate going shopping or to the pharmacy
I hate going for a walk in the park
It's all on you, Mr. Pritzker
May you reap
What you've sown...
And after the next election
May your memory be for a blessing
Summer Breeze
You told me once,
That you’d like to know:
What the summer breeze
Whispers in my ear.
Whether it sings a song,
Tells a story,
Or just talks with me
‘Bout a path to glory
You’ve always asked me
And I’ve always said:
Go, m’ child, go out of doors,
Bathe in the sunshine
That falls upon you.
Look through clear waters and
Kiss all the leaves
Then meet the summer breeze and ask:
What will you say to me?
You have always asked me
Why I go out in the morning
To say ‘morning to the flowers,
And talk to the trees.
Say ‘hello’, to the sun and
Ask him to be nice.
Then I always told you
I did it because,
The summer breeze came
And spoke to me alone.
So here, listen,
What the summer breeze said.
What I wanted you to ask it,
But you never obeyed.
It told me once,
When I was like you:
To say ‘morning to the flowers,
Talk to the trees,
Say ‘hello’ to the sun, and
Ask him to be nice.
For,
Only if you’ll say,
He’ll obey, and be nice.
ekphrasis
Five glasses filled with brew but only two in kind;
the bread is toasted lightly, portioned just for four.
Although the background’s hazy, something rests behind,
dim splotch of green? a clue we may be out-of-doors.
A meeting of the minds? just what shall we assume?
Simplicity. The toast and drink, an easy fare.
It seems the palate lacks variety, it’s true;
be careful, but move past the concrete things in view.
Which guest will do without the toast or maybe share?
Perhaps this scene’s a prompt not meant to be consumed.
Imagine artists gathered round, with tools all set,
each marking what he sees upon that butcher block.
A not so simple task, the brush and palette used
or words in lines employed so meaning is infused.
The artist/writer spinning thoughts which can unlock
the core of what is seen, our appetites to whet.
written by Reason A. Poteet
written 18 April 2015, for Giorgio's Ekphrasis 01 Contest
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poetry_contests/member_contest_details.aspx?ContestID=6243
When I was sick and in my reclining chair
With the remote tucked in my _curve
Box of Kleenex in reserve
How I longed for the freedom of the out of doors
To run across the meadow of spring
Blow, sniff, only dreams
To touch on the Japanese Magnolia's buds _blooms
Enjoy the aroma of the wafting scent of the Narcissus
Feel the delicate softness of the Daffodils golden flowers
Grandmas, baby sitters, and pastors' wives don't have __noses
All red from blowing the crud that has accumalated
They are a joy to be around almost float on air
That wonderful angelic expression on their faces
Oh! Where is that box of Kleenex
Blow sniff exhaustion
I need some sleep and rest from the hacking
Maybe one more nap and I will be cured
There was some orange juice but my sick husband drank it all up
Oh well!....Maybe
Waking up on winter mornings – the birth spasm reenacted
Time to head out in a world of pain and cold
Have to harness up the troika, don my bashlyk hood and jacket
And see my shadowy comrades all now stark and old
A scumbag in a salt truck, all snow chains and attitude
Comes plowing through the fast lane in a blitz
As the man in his Corolla, a little bald patch of gratitude,
Moves over giving thanks he still exists
Must be winter
Must be wintertime again
Must be winter
Must be wintertime again
The shivering commuters on the avenues of frost –
On this great and cramped peninsula, no fear
And when those storms rage in from the west,
they trumpet, “All for the best”
while shaking like suspects in front of a two-way mirror
My lover is at my bedside, kneeling in our warm cathedral
Maybe today we won’t have to go out of doors
But if I send her out in the snow,
should she come back hard and frozen,
May I long for her summery flesh forevermore
So I’m going home for Christmas,
to my little makeshift suite
by the pawnshop on the corner of 85th,
And I’m gonna be warm tonight with my hopeless appetite
And cozy thoughts of another season of bliss
Must be winter
Must be wintertime again
Must be winter
Must be wintertime again
2013, 2016
Floating fluttering fleurs
are jewels in fuchsia and magenta
transmuting into taffy hue
with the kiss of dappled sunlight
like her cheeks that blush in pink
with his wondering wink.
The willows are stalactites
seducing newly bloomed nympheas
slumbering in Egyptian blue water
like her shaggy windswept hair
teasing her beloved's face
beneath the dancing moonlight.
Oh, Monet,
your 'en plein air' emphyrean elegance
awakens my sacrosanct senses
as I envisage a Filbert brush
glazing each pearly petal
highlighting sun's luster
on emerald to lime leaves,
on cyan to admiral water,
reflecting cerulean sky
in consummate chiaroscuro.
7 April 2022
A Briand Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
8th place
Notes:
In 1893, Monet, a passionate horticulturist, purchased land with a pond near his property in Giverny, intending to build something "for the pleasure of the eye and also for motifs to paint." The Water Lilies is a 1919 painting by impressionist Claude Monet, one of his Water Lilies series. The painting, the left hand panel of a large pair, depicts a scene in Monet's French pond showing light reflecting off the water with water lilies on the surface.
(www.metmuseum.org)
*plein-air painting, in its strictest sense, the practice of painting landscape pictures out-of-doors; more loosely, the achievement of an intense impression of the open air (French: plein air) in a landscape painting(www.britannica.com).
Some modern folks, when they hear his name,
will roll their eyes and look ashamed,
thinking the cowboy is uncivilized,
with his hats, and guns, and round-up rides.
That somehow they are beyond the stuff,
to good for the wild, and the rough,
following some unwritten ‘elite’ law,
suppressing the urge to shout ‘yee-haw!’
But I think when it all is said and done,
cowboys are truly made of awesome…
Riding swift across the wide-open plains,
coat flapping behind like your horse’s mane,
maneuvering a large and panicked herd,
turning a stampede with iron nerves,
rough-hewn men cooking by the firelight,
coyote chorus yips through the night,
knowing that for all the wind and grit,
it sure beats sitting in an office.
A battered hat worth more than any pearl,
grabs the attention of the cowgirls,
boots that announce you in any room,
be you a mere hand, or fancy bride-groom.
Leather vests that dress up any shirt,
and somehow can even make fringe"work,
a bandana or a wild rag,
with a thousand uses, not a mere fad.
The tell-tale jangle comes from your spurs,
vast coat made out of buffalo fur.
Square-dance, line-dance, twirl a girl around,
to fiddle and steel guitar’s sound,
campfire songs to entertain the kids,
harmonicas to sing the blues with,
teaching the folks to throw a lasso,
then breaking out tricks with swirling rope.
Living life by a strong honor code,
one that good people would do well to know.
Wyatt Earp and his famous revenge ride,
Masterson cut Dodge City down to size,
Doc Holliday gambling with a death wish,
Billy the Kid, criminal, yet tragic,
Wild Bill holding those aces & eights,
and old Kit Carson, out blazing the way,
Buffalo Bill brought the people a dream,
and who can forget, the legend Bass Reeves?
A six-gun at ready, holster right side,
the lines of a Winchester, ever sublime.
Ranches that sprawl on mountain and prairie,
riding the trails where man can breath free,
rampaging rodeo, those guns are fun,
and damn can those barrel-racers run!
Living out of doors, by both skill and luck,
be it on a horse or a pick-up truck,
It’s clear that when all is said and done,
that cowboys are truly made of awesome.
When I was a child
I loved marshmallows
so soft, so gooey and yummy
Oh I'd beam out of doors
when the birch stick bore
charred marshmallow goop
for my tummy!
When I was a child
I would go hog wild
for peanut butter and fluff
all that white marshmallow
in which I'd wallow
my mouth all covered
in sticky stuff!
My Mom often spread
the white Fluff on bread
with peanut butter galore
And we'd bypass the meat
for this sticky treat
and scream for her to
buy much, much, more!
But you see Mom knew
that good food it's true
can make children strong unlike
those sweet Fluffer-Nutters
so we had to contend
with the meat in the end
if we wanted that treat
from our Mother!
dark allure
brash charm
her movements an acrobatic show
mannered rhythm
like her arched back of individualism
my black cat
stealing affection
or holding me at bay
complicated, contradictory creature
with hinges of ease
by the window, she stares at crows cawing
a chatter of secrets
quietly rehearsing a staged assault
like the release of dreaming
feathered intrusions from an other worldly out of doors
twitching whiskers to alarm
her presence
cheekily visible
fur soft, a sheen that elevates her
like the gentle soothing scrub of "purrs"
added to my comfort
a shared commitment
our glue
Poem written March 31/2022
Revised January 5, 2023