~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rugged
Kansas prairie
Her hands rough with dawn tasks
His fingers trace Braille on table
Austere
Schoolhouse
ink and sweat smell
of small hands learning Braille~
a language pressed on waiting skin.
Alive.
Fifteen
Scrappy children
Clarabel, Dulce, John~
syllables hauled up* from the well
sweat, tears
Drought years
Calluses, sweat,
Stiff-backed, and obstinate
Heavy with weight of wheat and words
Courage.
At dusk,
they counted heads
and sang hymns of harvest~
Only thirteen grew tall as wheat.
Strength, faith
*hauled up from the well refers to both a physical action of rescue as well a metaphorical expression of support or accountability.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The windmill groaned before the dawn,
her hands already chapped with dawn-tasks,
his fingers practicing Braille lessons on the kitchen table~
both stiff-backed and deliberate,
both heavy with the weight of wheat and words.
Fifteen names,
each one dug into the earth like fence posts:
Clarabell, Dulce, John, Stanley,
each syllable hauled up from the well
with aching shoulders.
The schoolhouse smelt of ink and sweat,
of small hands learning Braille and
the shape of silence,
while their own children ran wild
between rows of corn,
half-feral, half-holy.
Drought years gnawed at the ledger,
but the well never ran dry~
only deeper,
only darker.
At dusk, they counted heads by lamplight,
his thumb brushing her cracked knuckles,
her voice a rasp of hymns and harvest.
They buried two.
Thirteen grew tall as sunflowers.
The Kansas prairie took what it was owed~
calluses, sweat, sleep~
but left them standing,
left them leaning into each other
like split-rail fences
in a wind that never stills.
Pumpkins are made
For pies
And pies are made
For jack-o-lanterns
To
Please little girls
Who ride swings high over the city on
Cold
Mornings when others
Have found the schoolhouse
Under the ghetto waiting to transform the little leftovers
Into Wallstreetbogeymen scaring the country into
Unwanted
Growth claiming ‘More Pumpkins Are Better.’
The swing's chains are cold in late October
The seat can be wet
She
In her own glory does
Not
Notice the silence. Dreaming of
Dancing at the Met exposing truth to the music of Mendelssohn.
We linger
On the damp cool October morn
She peruses the skyline looking for the
Spot she might run to
As the swing finds a higher plane.
Winter brings cold
Demands respect
Its word is bold
Best to protect
Fall offers thrills
Tree colors change
Nights bring sharp chills
Gusts spin windvanes
Spring brings new birth
And sparks new dreams
Birds sing their worth
Bright sunshine beams
Summer brings heat
Strong storms and rain
Vacations beat
The schoolhouse strain
My daddy—he once told me
don’t ever play with nuns
they’ll hit you with their rulers
it won’t be any fun
I snuck out of that prison
and now I’m on the run
Once freed from that schoolhouse
I sunbathed in the sun
I stayed out late, I went on dates
looking out for number-one
When I think of what I went through
of all the tired repressive lies
I keep running wise, in slick disguise
my purpose is renewed
Don’t ever let ‘em tell you
you can’t have any fun
If they preach that hackneyed drivel
grab some things and run
.
.
Songs for this:
Cold Heart (PNAU Remix) by Elton John & Dua Lipa
I'm Still Standing by Elton John
Webster: hackneyed = uninteresting, unfun, dull and unoriginal.
*stolen almost directly, in spirit anyway, from that freewheeling rebel, Johnny Cash
**My first 8 years of school were parochial
When it is too late
When I was twelve I lived at a farm milking and looking after cows, but a war had ended and the impression it made stayed with me and nothing could change the imprint of my mind
I lived a good life herding sheep and milking cows and my best friend was a little horse called Dolly and she loved me, she never had a foal, and in her mind, I was
a good substitute mind, I spent hours brushing her and trimming her horse mane
Idyllic, wasn't it? Worth writing poetry about the bumble bees and hens finding worms in the dark soil
Despite this, I missed my old life the fear the uncertainty
of sitting in a bomb shelter, the one under the schoolhouse
listening to the worried voices of the adults, waking up going back to our flat where my mother's brother had secured a loaf and margarine and the happiness the meager offering brought, it was all too late I had been conditioned to a life where tomorrow is not an extension of today. I left the secure life.
From a life of turmoil to the risk of violence by the mob in the knowledge that my mother loved me, for this, a son can endure the hard time.
Memories of those who passed,
fading faces in the mist.
The ruddy flesh of the youth,
Who have just been first kissed!
The old schoolhouse still stands,
the students are all ghosts.
Those I didn't think I'd miss,
are some I miss the most!
Tyrone and sweet Jessica,
oh how we laughed and cried.
Then sometime last December,
I heard his sweetheart died!
The drama we call our lives,
disappointment and pain.
But then there are the nice times,
like the sun after rain!
For life is but a pan's flash,
with barely enough time.
To finish what we came for,
and then get home by nine~!
date: 02/03/23
How did it get late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon? — Dr. Seuss
REMAINS OF TIME
the moment i landed,
time, my time, started.
meant nothing when i cried,
when i babbled,
when i fell,
when mom kissed my un-wells.
then i was educated
and time moved slowly
as i stared out the schoolhouse window,
waited for Pavlov’s bell…
in time,
time was fun,
floating on a ship—
friendship, kinship,
proverbial ship.
time took a turn
as kin withered
and stoned
or decomposed in windblown ashes…
time taps me in places—
head, nose, shoulder bones.
i shudder…i shun,
in wonderment i run.
time finds me
in tears…on my knees,
beholden
to clarity.
i stare in its face—
its remains.
11/7/2021
“T” Contest new or old
Sponsor: Constance La France
I think of you now and again
Out half a world away
On the other side of the globe
Here it’s midnight and for you midday
Somewhere on a Himalayan mountain
How can I possibly relate to your reality
Far from anything resembling a city
With no infrastructure of any kind
No cars no shopping centers
No electricity no electronics
None of the luxuries I take for granted
How can I relate to your reality
Your wealth is a goat some seeds and hope
A little schoolhouse relatively close
As your best prayer for a better future
The gap between the haves and the have-nots
Is nothing less than astronomically absurd
And there’s no trusting the middlemen
Greed keeps robbing those who have less than nothing
Seems there’s fewer godfearing people left on earth
Not many believing in justice and universal equity
I can’t relate to corruption
Concepts of karma swirl through my head
Death remains the greatest equalizer
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
I.
Higgledy piggledy
Roger de Coverley
Fonder of hoofing it
Than of romance
Found himself typified
Characteristically
King of the Reels and the
Lord of the Dance.
II.
Willety wallety
William the Conqueror
Wanted his subjects to
Quail at his power,
Crowing to Londoners
Hyperdespotically,
“Look, everybody, I’ve
Built me a tower!”
III.
Rickety tickety
Wolfram von Eschenbach
Sought for a subject to
Fashion a tale;
Tiring of writing so
Eschatologically,
Rather, he turned to the
Quest of the Grail.
NB. The nonsense opening of a Double Dactyl was originally, and is still most frequently, "higgledy-piggledy", but it can be any alliterative pair of dactyls. Here, the opening of the second is from the adapted version of the Scots folksong "Wee Cooper o' Fife" in the schoolhouse sequence of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds-- though some postings online mishear it as "willaby wallaby" or "willicky wallicky". The nonsense opening of the third is from Tom Lehrer's "The Irish Ballad".
She never knew she had them
that the basket had been placed
upon her past and future
by the color of her face
He gazed upon the sunrise
at the shadows walking thin
entering the schoolhouse
but they wouldn’t let him in
She had no shoes – no fancy dress
could not read the hymnals prayers
sat outside as music played
a welcome to soothsayers
He wore a ring of ever-dirt
from which he sought release
razor eyes forever searching
bringing hunger to the feast
Their talents were the seeds that fell
upon harsh and bitter ground
gifts that withered on the vine
a talents loss forever bound
contest - The Parable of the Talents
sponsor – Holly Hippocampus
©10/5/2018
Born in the gullah cypress shade
of South Carolina
Dirt poor
Rich coffee bean skin
Teardrop-shaped pearl eyes ...
midnight black forest feminine
Uneducated and illiterate ...
Living swamp school books
was her God-given natural wit
Wisdom which breathed from the dark soil
Trampled upon by educated elephants
with lazy literary tusks,
whom never once had to truly toil
Pay the peons in euro peanuts
was the turn-of-the-century attitude
Race the stallions and mares
without benefit of schoolhouse shoes
Granny love
how often was
the horse buggy whip laid upon you
Uneducated and illiterate ...
opposites were u and i
Born of the same branch,
my soul extend to her an olive leaf sigh
Uneducated and illiterate
was you,
but papa swore
it would never be I
Granny you were the wisest woman
I ever knew
for twenty four years til the day you died
She was wonderful
In fact, she was a fool
Because she played the fool
In her school play "The Fool"
Now she is wonder fool
Because she acted cool
When schoolhouse was cram-full.
Dixieland Ghost
In the South. Deep in the hills.
There is a forgotten town. Of a war past.
On a clear night you can see an old schoolhouse.
Next to a grave yard of soldiers from the past.
When the moon is full and all is still.
A light appears From a window in the old school.
At the stroke of midnight you hear a scream.
One that could curl your toes.
Then on a Whitehorse in the grave yard.
A soldier dressed so proud.
the school he did go. Riding fast as he could go.
In the window, you could see him as he rode the halls.
A scream once more and then a yell
The South will rise again and God blesses dixieland
This poem is in the semi-final round of Poetry Nation's Amateur Poetry Competition for 2016 .
Children in the schoolhouse
Chant a structured, uneasy song
“Risseldy-rosseldy
Mow-mow-mow"
Monkey Bars behind a bench...
She nervously lights a cigarette
Something is about to happen
A single crow lands.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydLJtKlVVZw
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