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Kenneth Bartlett Poem
Our outhouse was attached to the rear of our home.
In times of foul weather, negating any need to roam.
It was all about convenience. Never heated,
permanently air conditioned, and two seated.
It was one of the best and quiet thinking spots.
Because the door lacked a lock or handle slots,
there were occasions when interruptions occurred,
encouraging one to butt out of there inured.
Winter weather could be nasty and cold,
causing meditations to be short, thus quickly unload.
Summer was warm with breezy invasions,
entertaining lingering and tingling sensations.
There was never a need to waste water and flush.
Spreading lime was used to keep nasty fly's from us.
Outside and behind was a sliding door,
Where once a year I was 'encouraged' to explore
and clean our outhouse with pail, rake, and shovel.
A chore that trained me to write poetry and grovel.
Copyright © Kenneth Bartlett | Year Posted 2026
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Details |
Kenneth Bartlett Poem
One by one leaves drop, curl, and mix on the spot.
When left unattended, their bodies slowly rot.
Nature recycles them for purposes man forgot.
Ashes get poked and release wood smoke that furls,
twists and glides aloft to reside. Residual wisps curl,
stings eyes, produces tears and evokes emotions that whirl.
Crickets stridulate seeking mates then sneak inside to hibernate.
Night football games yield cheers, groans and rivalry debates.
Hot cider, sipped and swallowed helps the blood to circulate.
Hayrides get cozy while fingers and toes, turn numb.
Pumpkins get carved, cooked, smashed and become;
pies, cupcakes, cookies and bread, leaving trails of crumbs.
One morning early still and bright before the sun came into sight,
a clean white sheet of frost glazed the remains of night.
Folks start this day viewing an awesome autumn delight.
Copyright © Kenneth Bartlett | Year Posted 2026
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Kenneth Bartlett Poem
The ginkgo tree stood proud
with glorious golden foliage on display.
It rippled and fluttered like a crowd
shivering on a cool and frisky autumn day.
Last night she shed her shroud when no one could see
the wafting flagrant communal striptease.
Today we stare at a nude, barren, cold ancient tree
waiting for Spring to entice a reprise.
Copyright © Kenneth Bartlett | Year Posted 2026
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