willow branches with
graceful touch, you are, with wind,
my grandmother’s hand.
-
awakened house (Alice B. Johnson)
The house was strangely still —
Forgotten for so long —
Until we gave it laughter
And a child’s gay song.Tall weeds grew in the yard;
We dug them all away
And, bathed in summer sun,
Roses bloomed today.How nice it must have seemed
For rooms to come awake
And smell, instead of dust,
A baking angel cake.Had we not passed this way,
We never would have known
The way a house can smile
With folks to call its own.[Taken from “Where Children Live” by my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson, 1958]
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going back to the beginning
poems for my new readers who may not have ventured back to the first several posts…. enjoy!
Short and Sweet (Norwegian Wood)
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/short-and-sweet.htmlEdits
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/edits.htmlSong of March (2003)
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/song-of-march-2003.htmlJanuary (Outside My Parent’s House)
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/january-outside-my-parents-house.htmlRows of No Smoking Lights
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/rows-of-no-smoking-lights.html
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apocalyptic clouds
who am i to tell you to
cheer up?outside apocalyptic clouds
gather for a Socratic meeting
debate a prophetic vision
in fluffwhen butter melts
on sidewalks
it’s a harbinger for__________who am i say?
-
battlefield glory orange
oh! how my heavy bones
trudge the hall
with the defeat of
an apparition
who, in death, has
accepted a weary
soldier’s marchat 3:39 a.m. the
house instead
settles down to
a definitive rest
and basks in the
battlefield glory orange
of streetlights
-
when memories are scraps
scraps of our life together
scattered on the floor
tossed repeatedlywhen our life becomes
junk hoardedeach crystal figurine
seems to, in a dusty coat,
frown
and shake a fingereach newspaper, one
on another,
screams a headline of
warwhen the dog sniffs out
an old banana peeldrags it along
thinking, one day, this will be
useful.
-
Gardenias in New Orleans
we labor
up the medium
with a speed befitting
Spanish moss
languishing
in the steam of a summer
day dripping with
Gardeniaif i should
succumb to the
scent —
some parade might
saunter by
toss beads
round my skull
round the bend
drifting
as slow as
eddies on the great
Mississippi
-
hit a low note (a regular ol Johnny Cash)
one un-
intended
bend and
the blinds give us
passer-bys
a distorted
view
of a man
in black
cork bottle glasses
fancing himself
a regular
ol’ Johnny
Cash
and all
around him
green house plants
choke piles
of life
as
silent chords
hit a low
note.
Poetry by JC Snyder 