Poetry by JC Snyder

This is the house where shades
Are never straight,
And children swing upon
A broken gate,
Whose groans beneath the weight
Of bodies, three,
Are lost in childish shouts
Of wildest glee.

When autumn comes to call,
And summer’s gone,
Then piles of dusty leaves
Lie on the lawn,
While parked against the steps
A bat and bike,
And all the countless things
That children like.

I’ve often seen the folk
Who pass this way,
Raise eyes and noses high
As if to say,
“This sort of place is just
No earthly good,
It spoils the looks of all
The neighborhood.”

The house may look a wreck,
The yard forlorn,
The awnings on the porch
Be sadly torn,
But if folk should become
Inquisitive,
Just say, “This is the house
Where children live.”

~title poem from Where Children Live by my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson