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Best Poems Written by Thomas Pitre

Below are the all-time best Thomas Pitre poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Thomas Pitre Poem

Purple Majesty

We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
To insure that his family would produce the best wine.
Grandpa, tho’ as straggly as his grape
cleared trees and topped them to admit the sun.
He would not purchase plants for his soil
and dug the trenches wider and accessed our water.
He was self sufficient and he propagated vines by his hand


We prevented winds from whipping vines out of hand
to best grow and mature the soul of our wine.
The vines followed the contour of steep site which brought the water.
The rows ran north and south to suit the grape - -
this presented light while drying and controlling the soil
allowing the plants to follow the eastern and western sun.


We placed much faith on the drying done by the sun.
We had one to backfill. We wished we had more willing hands.
We had two to dig holes, and one to hold the vine and tamp the soil, 
as the fruit began to ripen to marry our precious wine.
A crew of four was used for setting the grape.
The Vines should not be sprinkled with too much water.

We made plans to prevent soil erosion and loss of water
to the harden the wood and expose it to rays of the sun.
The Niagra White and Riesling grape.
Both needed pruning and the waste hay cut our hands.
We made sure our methods were best for the wine.
They would mature late, even in warm soil.

We found that more humus was wanted by the soil.
Some magic was performed to deliver more water.
alas, for the reward of a not so remarkable wine.
Again the wait, the prayers, the morning dew and sun.
More work, more time, sweat and callused hands.
The next year we tried a grafted grape.

We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
Our final wine was surrendered by the sun.
We captured the prize from our water and our soil.
My hands, today, still stained with the color of the grape.

Details | Thomas Pitre Poem

Haiku

Quietly filling
 deep cups of the red blossoms.
 The morning sunrise.

 The rock bowl is full.
 Filled by the rain for the birds
 and for my quiet mind.

 Dried stalks of rhubarb
 turn brittle in the summer.
 Born again next year.

 The sparrows come back
 to say thank you for their home
 I lovingly made.

 My red dogs eyes gleam.
 Before eating, her eyes ask
 is it OK Dad?


 HAIKU; MEMORIES AND OBSERVATIONS and EXERCISES


 Archery
 The strong bowstring sings.
 My arrow will find its home
 I turn to sip tea.

 First Love
 How reluctantly
 the shy, young man moves forward
 toward the full, red lips.

 First

 In the maiden’s bed
 He found his heaven and hell.
 Such was his first love.


 Alone

 Small favor to ask.
 Please spread my ashes on the sea.
 No wife, no roommate.


 Who is Buddah

 She poured my green tea
 Until the cup ran over.
 Now, I know Buddah.



 Memory

 Cousin Roni was loud.
 Married a Samoan man.
 They both ate roast pig.



 Memory 

 My old friend, Bucky.
 Carried a gun in his boot.
 Afraid of himself.



 Old Friend

 Alvin slapped his first wife
 and then he married a man.
 I don’t know him now.


 Exercise I


 Diagonally
 he crosses the wide, busy street,
 to catch up with love.


 Exercise II

 Vociferously,
 she announces her mistrust.
 Not Republican.


 Exercise III

 She knew the problem.
 Incompatibility.
 He had to learn it.


 All his writing was
 autobiographical.
 He was egocentric.


 SEASONS

 The autumn raging
 I am blinded by red leaves.
 Too many to count.


 Surf crashes fiercely.
 Shadows lessen, skies turn gray.
 Winter storm moves near us.

 This Spring, my house burned.
 I now have a better view
 of the blue mountains.

 Fresh ink on blue lines
 the words come like hungry bees
 to form my Haiku.


 Synch

 Summer. I feel strong.
 Equal to birds in the tree,
 and pebbles near feet.

Details | Thomas Pitre Poem

A Sign

The madman chalked red X’s
on the sidewalks of the houses 
if he suspected 
or had evidence
that people there 
were unkind to each other, 
or their dogs.

When he was a young man,
he studied hobo signs 
chalked on railroad cars, mailboxes, fences, 
buildings in barn yards, 
in towns he probed.
Signs that said “doubtful”, “mean dog”, 
“be ready to defend yourself”, 
“dirty jail”, or “nothing doing here” 
sent him away
or might draw him closer 
to investigate.

He was a harvest hobo, 
following the crops in the West.
Once beaten senseless, and left to die in a Fresno alley. 
They laughed when they punched and kicked him, 
stealing his knapsack and his kit. 
The beating injured his brain.
He was never the same. 
He lost all inhibitions and good judgment. 

He couldn’t remember what rows to pick
when he picked grapes in Visalia 
and oranges in Porterville. 
He lost track of time, and had to write everything down. 
He made little sketches so he could find his way 
back to his box under the railroad bridge. 
At night, he played his harmonica 
until he dropped into dreams of his days as a boy 
or his job with the city.

He dreamt of the beautiful woman that gave him
a whole pie when he begged for food at her door. 
He dreamt of the old, black man that looked into his eyes for a long time before tears 
came. 

The old man saw himself in his eyes. 
He saw a man with even less than himself, 
and it was more than he could endure. 

The hobo impressed the dirt path 
in front of the man’s simple cottage 
with a new mark – a mark never seen before. 
It was an austere eye, 
a large tear in both corners, 
made with polished pebbles 
and shells he carried in his pack.

Details | Thomas Pitre Poem

The Old Blue Chair

The big, old chair
smelled of dust and food and sweat.
Full of peanut shells, dog hair and
spider webs, I set it out on the curb with a 
FREE sign on it.

Tim, who took his own life last year,
bought it during one of his
visits to my little town. 
He needed a chair he could
sleep in.  He was no longer able to sleep 
laying down.

Tim's VISITING chair
came from the local
store that has a perpetual SALE sign
painted on their window
in giant, orange, gaudy script. 
Overpriced, low-end
furniture, but free delivery.

I wrestled the chair from the living
room and drug it to the curb
in the rain. 
It was gone in three days when
the person made sure 
no one was watching
and took it away, 
soaking wet,
to its new home.

Tim and the chair
had things in common.  
Both were too large 
and
both grew 
too uncomfortable
after a time.

Details | Thomas Pitre Poem

Yard Work

Yard Work

I worked with stern and determined face
attention on the end of the rake
the fresh grass and orange leaves.

Out of the corner of my eye
I saw a small bird huddled 
fixed against the drain pipe, 
its wings tight against its body. 
It didn't stir. 
I bent closer and
saw the milky film over its dark eyes.

A drape of sadness
was thrown callously over my morning.

I buried it quickly and carefully.
Time to take care to scrape away
the sharp rocks and hollow out a little place
deep enough to keep the dogs away and
with such care 
as I chose the final
home for this tiny thing.

It may have been taken away
to make room for another.
While I write this, several
months have passed and my throat
still tightens from the memory.

Sadness and loss is still with me
and with me for all the birds 
that fall
from their nests 
or the sky
every day 
from now until eternity.

Details | Thomas Pitre Poem

About Me

I am a grossly overweight midget 
of later years.  

I have a penchant for funny women, 
the absurd, 
and baked goods.  

I have 826 thousand dollars in the bank 
and a dose of psoriasis. 

My personality is that of a freight train
with two, loose wheels.

I must use bag balm 
on my undercarriage and 
moisturizers on my elbows.  

I burn with barbaric breathing and sweat. 
My reptile heart is that of a porkyitalian lover.
  
I can beat out a double-paradiddle on a snare drum, 
or compose electronic pieces.

My time is best passed writing, 
and romping 
with my 4-legged friends.

-----------------------

If you don't already know, ABOUT ME
usually refers to a section of a web site or
BLOG that tells about the author.  This is
parody, BTW.

Details | Thomas Pitre Poem

Reading Simic

I tried balancing a bowl of hot oatmeal on my lap and reading his poems in my tired and
worn, green chair.  

On the back cover of a collection, a reviewer wrote “Simic may end a poem with a kiss 
or a bludgeon. “ 
The reader will never know. 

Blackjack Fresno Johnny sent me a big box of books of Simic’s poems. The books were  sent
in a cardboard box inside of another cardboard box, thoughtfully packed. The address label
read:  
To Tom Pitre, Poet. 
It is my first affirmation as a poet.

I am always surprised when I read his work.  Sometimes I think I have my finger on his
secrets, and then it slips away when I read another one.  They are simple. He can write
about an earthworm in the mud, and you will be enchanted.

Details | Thomas Pitre Poem

Pastor Allbright

Pastor Allbright 
- a man the community knew as
a pious man
diddled his niece
under the Thanksgiving table
testing her leg with his 
salad fork
and inching his 
bulbous thumb
across her thigh.


Slipped out back 
through the screened porch
out of sight of the family
lit a smoke
and stepped into the 
starry, autumn night.


A sixty pound ball 
of frozen waste
- a blue ball of doom
dislodged from the belly 
of a passing airliner
struck the pastor square
in the center of his baldpate
killing him instantly
his  cigarette still
burning in his mouth
as he lay across the
kid's red wagon,
not to be found
until everyone
had their pie
and 
coffee.

Details | Thomas Pitre Poem

Snakes of Summer

Snakes of Summer
 
All summer I saw them
as they scurried in front
of my whirling mower blades.

Some of them evaded the
metal blades. 
The slower ones were halved
and quartered. 
The first time this happened, 
I was shocked and saddened. 
The second time
angry at myself 
remorseful
for mowing the fields 
I called home 
and thought of as my private park.

I made adjustments.
I walked the field with my dog
before I mowed, chasing the
gopher snakes ahead of me to their dens. 

These slow moving, diurnal creatures 
usually sunned themselves in my field, 
readying themselves for active nights 
hunting lizards and rodents.

Their prey is suffocated by the
constriction of loops of their 
chocolate spotted body, and
then they dine, shyly, 
maybe a little remorseful
about what they’ve done.

Details | Thomas Pitre Poem

The Red Blanket and the Rubber

Two blankets on the dry grass
at the far side of the open field.
One red one and 
one small, pink one 
off a girl's bed.

Off to the side, a ball cap,
a knapsack, and a sad, empty, bottle of root beer.
One pocket of the knapsack 
held one Durex, latex condom. 
In Spanish, on
the side of the foil packet, “1 condon de latex”. 
the other pocket – a large tin of Tea Tree , water-based, pomade
nearly gone.

inside the knapsack
in the big pocket -
school books, notebooks
pens and pencils.
The front of the math folder read “math blows”.

Last night, little Johnny
met his girl at the park for
some  love making.

The left hurriedly, or were scared off
by a coyote 
or deer in the tall grass.

Little Bobbie went home without
his school books and his hat, but
left with pomade in his hair
and the smell of his girl 
on his clothes
and her taste in his mouth.