"farmhouse" poems
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
38.2k
~-English-~
The Beauty Of Flowers (Multiple Tankas I)
A field of tulips
Is where I laid down to sleep
And dream a sweet dream
Dew sparkled on the tulips
And fell upon my fair cheeks
In the shady woods
Ladyslipper Orchids grow
Near a babbling brook.
Yellows and Pinks standing tall
With ferns spreading all around.
Beside the ocean
The hibiscus are blooming
Such a sweet perfume
Lingers on the salty breeze
Such beautiful rainbow hues
Snowdrops are the first
To appear blooming in frost
Pure white heads nodding.
Cold hardy and full of life,
They offer a hope of Spring.
Beside the farmhouse
Gardenias are blooming
White satin blossoms
Their perfume is breathtaking
Rain-washed petals of fragrance
~Timothy & Marian~
~-French-~
La beauté des fleurs (plusieurs Tankas je)
Un champ de tulipes
Est où j'ai prévue de dormir
Et un doux rêve
Rosée brillait sur les tulipes
Et tomba sur mes joues justes
Dans les bois ombragés
Ladyslipper orchidées poussent
Près d'un petit ruisseau.
Jaunes et roses debout
Avec fougères répand tout autour.
À côté de l'océan
L'hibiscus sont en fleurs
Tel un doux parfum
S'attarde sur la brise salée
Ces teintes belle arc-en-ciel
Perce-neige est les premiers
À comparaître fleurissant en gel
Têtes blanches pures hochant la tête.
Résistantes au froid et pleine de vie,
Ils offrent un espoir de printemps.
À côté de la ferme
Gardénias sont en fleurs
Fleurs de satin blancs
Leur parfum est à couper le souffle
Pétales restés du parfum
~ Timothy et Marian ~
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
*Down a peaceful, quiet lane
The two-story farmhouse awaits
Bathed in evening hues
Of rich lavenders, pinks,
And dusty apricot
The lilac scented breezes blow
Whispering stories of summer
Let me dance in pastures
Of buttercups and wild daisies
Where horses graze contentedly
And Virginia bluebells sway
Where time becomes stuck
And lets me live this golden moment
Just once more*
~Marian~
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
The Kurds live
In parts of Syria, Iraq, and Iran
As well as Kurdistan
Kurdish groups such as the KCK and PJAK
Seek democratic autonomy for Kurds
And democracies in Turkey, Iran and Syria
Aposim is a grassroots socialist movement
That promotes gender equality
Apo is the political founder of the PKK and PJAK
The female fighters of PJAK
Don't have families
Because this will weaken their commitment
To the organization
Thomas Morton
Host of this Vice documentary
Stays in a farmhouse
He headed up to meet the fighters
The PJAK division he met with
Fights for women's rights
Around the Iranian border
They tell Thomas
Women are being killed in Iran
It is a mental persecution of women
The PJAK representative says
It is about the right to democracy
Freedom, Equality, and education
The woman explains that
The Iranians use Sharia and Islam
For their own purposes
It is not true Islam according
To the PJAK representative
In true Islam there is equality and equity
Thomas
That really was priceless
Watching you line dance with them
Really funny
I think the women of PJAK
Got a kick out of it too
God bless the women of PJAK
Such beautiful smiles
Full of life
Standing up for women's rights
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
Woke on a white blanket today.
Looking at the blue sky above me.
Turning I see;
A strange looking farmhouse at the bottom of a hill,
A fence of split logs,
Mountains were rising up, like giants through a misty morning.
Two glasses of red grapes sitting on the blanket,
No one else around...
Plates made of paper filled with cherry pie,
No one else around...
Suddenly, from behind I hear!
A quiet voice was singing words I could not understand.
I turn to look,
No one else is there...
Copyright © Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
Time collapses between the lips of strangers
my days collapse into a hollow tube
soon implodes against now
like an iron wall
my eyes are blocked with rubble
a smear of perspectives
blurring each horizon
in the breathless precision of silence
one word is made.
Once the renegade flesh was gone
fall air lay against my face
sharp and blue as a needle
but the rain fell through October
and death lay a condemnation
within my blood.
The smell of your neck in August
a fine gold wire bejeweling war
all the rest lies
illusive as a farmhouse
on the other side of a valley
vanishing in the afternoon.
Day three day four day ten
the seventh step
a veiled door leading to my golden anniversary
flameproofed free-paper shredded
in the teeth of a pillaging dog
never to dream of spiders
and when they turned the hoses upon me
a burst of light.
7k
In the slant of the sun on the country-side,
Cattle and sheep trail home along the lane;
And a rugged old man in a thatch door
Leans on a staff and thinks of his son, the herdboy.
There are whirring pheasants, full wheat-ears,
Silk-worms asleep, pared mulberry-leaves.
And the farmers, returning with hoes on their shoulders,
Hail one another familiarly.
...No wonder I long for the simple life
And am sighing the old song, Oh, to go Back Again.
4.7k
Elan that lifts me above the clouds
into pure space, timeless, yea eternal
Breath transmuted into words
Transmuted back to breath
in one hundred two hundred years
nearly Immortal, Sappho's 26 centuries
of cadenced breathing -- beyond time, clocks, empires, bodies, cars,
chariots, rocket ships skyscrapers, Nation empires
brass walls, polished marble, Inca Artwork
of the mind -- but where's it come from?
Inspiration? The muses drawing breath for you? God?
Nah, don't believe it, you'll get entangled in Heaven or Hell --
Guilt power, that makes the heart beat wake all night
flooding mind with space, echoing through future cities, Megalopolis or
Cretan village, Zeus' birth cave Lassithi Plains -- Otsego County
farmhouse, Kansas front porch?
Buddha's a help, promises ordinary mind no nirvana --
coffee, alcohol, ******* mushrooms, marijuana, laughing gas?
Nope, too heavy for this lightness lifts the brain into blue sky
at May dawn when birds start singing on East 12th street --
Where does it come from, where does it go forever?
May 1996
4.6k
Saturday afternoon
cycling up a 1in 6 hill
then along the road
toward the farmhouse
you dismounted
and laid your bike
against the fence
and waited
to get your breath back
the farmhouse door opened
and Mrs Putt came out
and said
Jim and Pete are out I’m afraid
her daughter Monica
appeared by her side
they’ve gone out
with their older brother
Monica said
ok
you said
tell them I called
sure I will
Mrs Putt said
I can go on a bike ride
with you if you like
Monica said
Benedict won’t want to have you
to drag along with him
Mrs Putt said
Monica pulled a face
and pouted her lips
I don’t mind
you said
better than riding alone
well if you don’t mind
Mrs Putt said
mind you behave
yourself young lady
she said
and went indoors
and closed the door
just get my bike
Monica said
and went back behind
the farmhouse
you looked around
the farmhouse
and the surrounding fields
and trees and waited
after a few moments
she was back
riding her bike toward you
where we going?
she asked
lets go see the peacocks
along Sedge lane
you said
and so you got on your bike
and off you both rode
she beside you
in her summery dress
and sandals with her
brown hair tied
in bunches
you in jeans
and open neck
white shirt
the sun bright
and hot above you
the birds flying
and calling
the clouds puffy
and white
I’ve always wanted to go
bike riding with you
Monica said
but the boys don’t let me
but I am now
you nodded and smiled
wondering Jim and Pete
would say if they knew
she’d got to go
bike riding with you
she chatted on about Elvis
and the film in town
and how she’d like to go
but no one would take her
and how her brothers
teased her
and her mother
nagged her
after a while
you came to the peacocks
in a wire cage
by a large house
just off the lane
aren’t they beautiful?
she said
peering through the wire
her fingers holding on to
the cage
standing beside you
yes they are
you said
but of course
the **** bird
has the beauty
the hen
is just dull
and ordinary
odd that
she said
wonder why?
don’t know
you said
I’m not dull
and ordinary am I?
she asked
looking at you
sideways on
no
you said
you have
your own beauty
do I?
yes you do
and she blushed
and looked away
and the peacock
called out
and moved off
opening its colourfulness
and Monica did a twirl
making the patterns
move
on her twirling dress.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
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*"Veuve Clicquot" is French for
"The Widow Clicquot".*
They say that Madame Clicquot would dance in the vineyard,
They say she would run and jump and crush grapes
Under her pale, white, aristocratic feet,
Then one day she came back home,
Pale feet stained red,
Ivory robe stained red
And she saw her husband,
Red face drained white.
They say Monsieur Clicquot became an alcoholic,
And she came back and saw him hanging from a vine.
He let it grow in the farmhouse for two years,
It climbed, it climbed,
He climbed at tied a noose,
Made a sickly green, thorny loop.
The Veuve Clicquot gave up red wine,
Moved South,
Remarried,
Started growing champagne--
You can't tie a noose with champagne vines.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
talent --
that double edged sword or
sleepless dove with derringer wings
the ability to break yourself open
let others look inside your chest
and find the notorious self-doubt
pimpled succulent you keep fertilizing
because old habits never actually die
and the huge romantic idealism
of the old farmhouse heart
with crooked creaking screendoor
white paint chipped windowsill
the enduring softness of eyelashes left there
flies gorging themselves growing fat
from the dishes in the sink and
prickly leg hair still clutching the drain
sentimental tractor asleep in the barn
next to the weak ego rusted crowbar
the ivy-moss growing thick out there
perfect nostalgia really misplaced for
sepia tone memories i was never part of
a heart full of tongues and cute thighs
and backs of knees that i've never seen
lungs under clavicles filled with patient
lovers breaths never breathed
digging deeper with small fingers
for smooth freckled scapula flesh
that has never found warm pink rest
inside my cheap cotton sheets
-- i know that i have some
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
I imagine my happy place,
I picture it in vignette taste.
Like looking through colored glass,
There's a sepia quality to its grasp.
Like wading through a dream,
There's a vagueness to its every gleam.
Everything's the same yet different here,
A constant familiarity hangs in the air.
The picture varies from time to time...
Always it would be a house of some kind;
The edges forever unrefined,
Be it a cabin, a mansion, a farmhouse or two or three
Every ***** nook and cranny this mind could carry
Always it would be somewhere remote;
By the sea, the countryside, by a cliff, or under trees,
Sometimes in an open clearing of endless green grass swaying in the breeze.
... Home.
Though every version varies,
One thing's for certain in this house of made-up stories.
Always, always, and always a thousand times more,
You'd be there standing by the door.
Now I never questioned this part somehow
Cause here's the truth of the matter in tow:
This place could be a garbage dump for all I care
But I'd still call it heaven so long as you're there.
And I find that it's the only thing that matters;
To have your figure carved into this place's corners
I'd gladly let this place take your shape
The smell of warm bread and books here you shall drape.
This landscape is treacherous and ever-changing.
But I know as long you're there in my dreaming,
These childish mock-ups of reality
Shall remain my favorite moments of clarity.
It is my piece of heaven on earth,
My secret happy place while I'm on this dirt.
Heaven don't have a name
But God forbid I find it fitting
That if it did, of course
It would be yours.
Jan 18, 2022
Jan 18, 2022 at 6:25 AM UTC
Tottering across her farmhouse floor,
Fixing breakfast,
Baking muffins,
Frying liver and onions,
Caring for her "boys";
Sitting on her purple walking chair,
Asking how the cattle are,
And what I'm going out today to do;
She's crippled up, but she's not through.
She barely has the "oomph" these days
To lift her legs into the truck,
Her body hunched over,
Head barely at the window level,
To ride to town to see the doctor
Or go to church and wait
While I shop and run my errands,
Before we head back home again.
Things move slowly now as time grows short;
The walker crawls across the floor;
Simple tasks become her tedious chores,
But still she cooks and cleans between short naps.
She worries more, but I have watched her praying,
Sitting by her bed, hair up in a cap,
Squinting hard to read her Bible,
Lips moving as she goes to prayer...
My name and many others whispered there.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
The peacocks were behind wire
the sun warm
cloudless sky
and Monica had ridden
beside you on her bike
knowing her brothers
were out with the older brother
you not knowing had gone
to the farm house
to meet them
o they’re out
their mother said
didn’t they tell you?
no they‘d not
you walked to your bike
and got on
where you going?
Monica asked
don’t know now
you replied
I can ride with you
wherever you decide
she said
her mother
hands on hips said
don’t go bothering Benedict
he doesn’t want no girl
hanging on his tails
he don’t mind
Monica said
looking at you
her big eyes pleading
don’t mind if she comes
you said
giving the mother
a smile
if you’re sure
she said
and walked back
toward the farmhouse
her backside moving
side to side
in her flowery dress
and you watched
until she had gone
sure you don’t mind
me coming?
no I don’t mind
you said
where we going then?
the peacocks again
o I like them
she said
climbing her bike
foot on the pedal
ready for the push off
her sandals open toed
bare feet
the off white skirt
contrasted
with the mauve top
her hair dragged
into a bow
at the back
ready?
sure am
and you rode off
along the track
from the farmhouse
into the lane
between trees
and hedgerows
she followed at your side
keeping up
her eyes seeming
on fire
her hands gripping
the handlebar
white and pink
and the small fingers
holding on for dear life
her legs up and down
pedalling
you felt the wind
in your hair
through the open neck
of your white shirt
pushing down
the jean covered legs
up and down
the lane narrowed
then widened
there they are
she called
the peacocks
she dismounted
and laid her bike
against a tree
and ran to the wire fence
and peered through
you put your bike
by the hedge
and walked over
to where she stood peering
her eyes bright
and fiery
how comes the *****
are bright and colourful
but the hens are so dull?
she asked
that’s how it is
in the bird world
you said
hens are just dull
I’m not dull
she said
holding the wire
with her fingers
making noises
at the birds
am I?
she said
looking at you
beside her
no you’re not
you said
nothing dull
about you at all
I’m like a peacock
she said
bright and beautiful
aren’t I?
sure you are
you said
you peered
at the strutting peacock
nearest the wire
out of the corner
of your eye
you saw Monica
nose inches
from the wire
call to the bird
her lips pursed
and opening
and closing
her arms soft
and reaching up
I’m a peacock bird
she said
her arms in motion
like wings
her hands flopping
above her head
her feet in dance
stepping
and dancing in turn
you watched her dance
and twirl
Jim and Pete’s sister
the peacock girl.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
THERE was a high majestic fooling
Day before yesterday in the yellow corn.
And day after to-morrow in the yellow corn
There will be high majestic fooling.
The ears ripen in late summer
And come on with a conquering laughter,
Come on with a high and conquering laughter.
The long-tailed blackbirds are hoarse.
One of the smaller blackbirds chitters on a stalk
And a spot of red is on its shoulder
And I never heard its name in my life.
Some of the ears are bursting.
A white juice works inside.
Cornsilk creeps in the end and dangles in the wind.
Always-I never knew it any other way-
The wind and the corn talk things over together.
And the rain and the corn and the sun and the corn
Talk things over together.
Over the road is the farmhouse.
The siding is white and a green blind is slung loose.
It will not be fixed till the corn is husked.
The farmer and his wife talk things over together.
1.9k
Birdhouses and farm bell gone , garden spot now a tangled field of grass and small trees . Farmhouse , empty and dying from top to bottom , flower gardens missing , iron kettle hanging by rusted chain . Clothes line , henhouse and both red barns are at the ready, but sadly , empty as well . Logging chains , bale hooks , pitchfork and weathervane , put away forever most likely along with lifetime memories , good and bad.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
God, I hate 3am!
You make me late for work and grind my mind into bite sized peanut butter cups.
My thoughts are not a drill,
but they ***** me like Debbie did Dallas.
*really? You're doing ****
references now? *
**** off!
YES, I said **** in a poem!
*who are you talking to? *
YOUR MOTHER!!!
always voices at 3am!
Voices like shadows barely perceived on the edge of your ear.
*you can't hear shadows *
No one ******* ASKED YOU!
Sleep is a midnight UFO hovering behind an old farmhouse.
You may have seen something... once, but you can't prove it really exists.
Not at 3am when shadows walk like peeping Toms passed your window.
Not at 3am when your eyes are shot and your skull tingles like peppermint body wash on a squeaky clean ********
What the **** am I saying?
I don't even know anymore.
©Nathan A. Brock 2022
Oct 6, 2022
Oct 6, 2022 at 6:00 AM UTC
Milka sat on her bicycle
looking at you
the Saturday morning sun
was warm
you'd just finished work
and had met her
by the bridge
where we going?
she asked
we could leave the bikes
at my place
and go into town
to the cinema
you said
what just sit there
in the dark
and not be able
to see each other
or such?
she said
we could ride
to where I used to live
and see the pond there
where I used to fish?
you said
is it far?
she said
not too far
she pulled a face
can't go to my place
she said
my mother's home
as she usually is
no chance
of being alone
with you there
she said grumpily
mine is no good
at weekends
you said
she looked at you
her eyes gazing
the old pond then
it is
she said
and you began to cycle
with her beside you
back up the hill
and by the farmhouse
where she lived
and along narrow lanes
between hedgerows
and birds flying out
and the occasional
car rushing by
she beside you
talking all the way
about how her mother
moans about her
not doing this or that
or not doing
the chores properly
and how her two brothers
tease her
about going out with you
and how you needed
to see a shrink
and you smile
knowing her brothers well
then you're on the main road
and a mile or so
and you are there
and go in
by the back way
along a narrow lane
and into the woods
behind the cottage
where you used to live
and along the narrow ride
through the woods
to the field
and then the pond
which is peaceful
and the water is still
and a few ducks
swim there
and birds sing
from tall trees
you rest the bikes
against trees
and sit on the grass
by the pond
quiet here
you said
we used to call this
the lake
who's we?
Milka said
my old girlfriend and I
you replied
where is she now?
we don't see
each other any more
you said
Milka said nothing
but gazed at the water
of the pond
at the ducks there
and looked
at the fish
just beneath
the surface
did you make out here?
she asked
now and then
you said
why bring me here?
she said moodily
it's quiet
and we can be alone
you said
is that all?
not wanting relive
old memories with me?
she said
you gazed at her
no of course not
that was a different thing
different love
so you say
she said
should we leave then?
you said
she stared at the pond
at the ducks drifting
and the sunlight
through the branches
of tall trees
no
she said
I like it here
she lay down
on the grass
sunlight on her face
her hands resting
on her abdomen
you lay beside her
did you really
make out here?
now and then
did no one see you?
not that we ever knew
you said
she smiled
risky
what if someone had?
we didn't think of that
at the time
bet you didn't
she said
what was it like
the first time?
it's history
you said
we're what matters now
she nodded
yes I guess we are
she said
and the sun shone bright
through the tall trees
and a bird flew by
over head.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 6:33 AM UTC
I have an old farmhouse inside my chest,
wooden siding rotten in places and windows
fractured from too many winters,
the roof of which sags near the chimney--
faint smoke-clouds rising, and a light
glowing yellow inside the kitchen, a beckoning
invitation into the faded blue walls
full with portraits of four--my mother, father,
and little sister--brassy frames hung close
together above the wooden table,
nicks and scratches connecting each placemat
like dots of the coloring book page left
magnet-stuck to the refrigerator.
The countertops have grown dusty.
fruit-bowl collecting gnats and mold,
but the zinnias over the sink flourish, replaced
daily and blooming red as the teakettle
rusting on the only remaining stove-top burner,
the others broken, tossed into the garbage
beside the back door, which leads to a forest--
rib-like oaks bent and bowed
over the farmhouse, ivy vines coiled ‘round
each trunk, stretching limb to limb, weaving
webs tangled as the unruly branches from which
they hang, caressing the slumped rooftop
as if to remind the battered, tired building how,
despite everything, the hearth still smolders.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear
A number in. But what about the brook
That held the house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass could be cemented down
From growing under pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No longer needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown
Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run—
And all for nothing it had ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran water. But I wonder
If from its being kept forever under,
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.
1.8k
the brook wanders by the farmhouse,
an animal falls in, and cannot swim,
the brook does not know this,
the brook lets the animal struggle, it is tiring
the farmer sees the animal tumble in,
he checks to see it is not one of his, poor animal weakening
he knows he does not have to save it,
he too has more important things to tend,
a person in an ocean of people, (two or more)
wears masks to make them seem to belong,
they hide their struggle, from the closest ones
to them and from their co-workers, and family
as well,
all of who do not want to notice the battle,
they do not look beyond the mask,
it is not their business,
it would be rude,
it might take too much out of them,
that is right,
just ask the
brook and the farmer.
©ClemC072013
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 3:09 AM UTC
If I had not met the red-haired boy whose father
had broken a leg parachuting into Provence
to join the resistance in the final stage of the war
and so had been killed there as the Germans were moving north
out of Italy and if the friend who was with him
as he was dying had not had an elder brother
who also died young quite differently in peacetime
leaving two children one of them with bad health
who had been kept out of school for a whole year by an illness
and if I had written anything else at the top
of the examination form where it said college
of your choice or if the questions that day had been
put differently and if a young woman in Kittanning
had not taught my father to drive at the age of twenty
so that he got the job with the pastor of the big church
in Pittsburgh where my mother was working and if
my mother had not lost both parents when she was a child
so that she had to go to her grandmother's in Pittsburgh
I would not have found myself on an iron cot
with my head by the fireplace of a stone farmhouse
that had stood empty since some time before I was born
I would not have traveled so far to lie shivering
with fever though I was wrapped in everything in the house
nor have watched the unctuous doctor hold up his needle
at the window in the rain light of October
I would not have seen through the cracked pane the darkening
valley and the river sliding past the amber mountains
nor have wakened hearing plums fall in the small hour
thinking I knew where I was as I heard them fall
1.8k
We gathered our water
and packs at daybreak
to hike hand in hand
toward the distant ruin—
a tall stone chimney planted
on otherwise empty acreage,
a kudzu-covered tower,
the ghost of a farmhouse
now a home to field mice,
black beetles and bats,
with bricks the color
of weathered blood,
vertebrae stacked
a century and a half ago
by a stonemason’s craft,
still solid and bonded
despite the slow decay
of arthritic mortar.
How long have we
walked together?
The morning
is all we have
left to ponder.
We walk for hours;
the chimney grows
larger at our approach.
I want to ask you
a question about
the night we met,
what you said
just before I held
you for the first time,
but then I catch sight
of my hand and realize
I am walking alone,
moving inexorably
toward a ruination
of my own making.
How could I have been
so careless? Unable
to stop, every step
strips something away:
my hair thins and falls,
as white and weak
as sickled wiregrass;
another step and my
body atomizes into
the stuff of stars,
pollen scattered
on a rising wind.
So this is what it
feels like to decay.
By the time I reach
the ruin I am mostly
cinder and ash,
a sorry vestige
sown in a quiet field,
a forgotten landmark
that strangers will visit,
if only to contemplate
how the evening fog
spindles like smoke
along the enduring
column of my spine.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC