The following is a poem that began when I was a junior in college taking creative writing with Tom O'Grady at Hampden-Sydney. From time to time I have taken it out an tinkered with it. I think it's getting there....but really not sure. Such is poetry, I guess. Let me know what you think.
Sprouse's Farm, After the Rain
Rusty tendrils of honeysuckle
weave their way up the pickets
of the front yard fence fashioned last May.
Sparkling refugees from a late summer shower
hang patiently off of bedraggled yellow petals
as if anticipating their release when I shut
the gate behind me to take my nightly stroll.
Thunder smudges pass on in the distance,
and a calm blue sky intercedes overhead
soft and agreeable in the twilight.
A solitary robin and a few vesper sparrows
stroll the wet firm grass, intently
searching out their evening meal.
Frantic squirrel dashes from tree to tree, and
an orange-tinted cloud ambles distractedly
overhead, as if tethered to the chimney
of the tidy brick bungalow next door.
A gaggle of children go back to their swing sets
for one last game of hide-and-seek,
as I whistle my way down Lucerne Drive --
Tripped over a dog in a choke-chain collar
People were shouting and pushing and saying...
Steam lifts lazily from half-cooled streets,
disrobing that familiar workaday exhaustion.
I wave hello to the old couple on the porch swing
and they nod in return--
lift up their countenance to me.
At the end of the subdivision,
where the permits and concrete curb ran out,
Sprouse’s farm --
the man who wouldn’t sell --
stretches back to the pine forest
beyond the praying mantis limbs
of the high voltage towers
that curve away in the distance.
Windows smashed out and paint peeling,
the old house sits there, remembering --
the wild eyes that turned a shotgun
on the upturned hands, the gingham apron,
then tossed a lantern into the hayloft
before one last trigger pull to the head.
Barbed wire on a half-rotted fence post
and a string of Confederate Jasmine
breaking free-- rambunctious,
tangled messily, but perfect
for the empty pebbled milk glass vase
on the kitchen window sill.
About face -- cracked black asphalt stretches on
as the sun begins its disappearance.
Vagabond children run for home
at their parents’ call;
crickets chirp in response
as the first evening stars begin their watch.
I walk on, no longer whistling,
attempting to outpace
nighttime's descending drop cloth.
weave their way up the pickets
of the front yard fence fashioned last May.
Sparkling refugees from a late summer shower
hang patiently off of bedraggled yellow petals
as if anticipating their release when I shut
the gate behind me to take my nightly stroll.
Thunder smudges pass on in the distance,
and a calm blue sky intercedes overhead
soft and agreeable in the twilight.
A solitary robin and a few vesper sparrows
stroll the wet firm grass, intently
searching out their evening meal.
Frantic squirrel dashes from tree to tree, and
an orange-tinted cloud ambles distractedly
overhead, as if tethered to the chimney
of the tidy brick bungalow next door.
A gaggle of children go back to their swing sets
for one last game of hide-and-seek,
as I whistle my way down Lucerne Drive --
Tripped over a dog in a choke-chain collar
People were shouting and pushing and saying...
Steam lifts lazily from half-cooled streets,
disrobing that familiar workaday exhaustion.
I wave hello to the old couple on the porch swing
and they nod in return--
lift up their countenance to me.
At the end of the subdivision,
where the permits and concrete curb ran out,
Sprouse’s farm --
the man who wouldn’t sell --
stretches back to the pine forest
beyond the praying mantis limbs
of the high voltage towers
that curve away in the distance.
Windows smashed out and paint peeling,
the old house sits there, remembering --
the wild eyes that turned a shotgun
on the upturned hands, the gingham apron,
then tossed a lantern into the hayloft
before one last trigger pull to the head.
Barbed wire on a half-rotted fence post
and a string of Confederate Jasmine
breaking free-- rambunctious,
tangled messily, but perfect
for the empty pebbled milk glass vase
on the kitchen window sill.
About face -- cracked black asphalt stretches on
as the sun begins its disappearance.
Vagabond children run for home
at their parents’ call;
crickets chirp in response
as the first evening stars begin their watch.
I walk on, no longer whistling,
attempting to outpace
nighttime's descending drop cloth.
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