When I was a small lad
And I played until dog-tired
Sometimes I'd sneak into the woods
Not far from the back of our house
There was a little stream
Where I'd stop
To watch and listen
And harvest the sounds and sights
Into my thoughts
In the creek were tall reeds
Rising above the water
They bent with whatever wind
Blew that day
Transfixed I sat watching the reeds
Waving at me
As I stretched out my legs
In the background
Of this idyllic setting
A symphony was performing
In my ears
Frogs croaking
The cawing of a huge blackbird
Nearby
Every so often
Fish would leave the water
Do a summersault
And return to its environment
If it was late afternoon
A hoot-hoot from an old owl
Tuning up for its nightly hunt
At times such as this
I found a childish peace from
my turbulent world
You took me back with this one. To those idyllic days when I would go fishing along the stream or a pond and just enjoy the sounds and sights of creatures all around.
Just this morning, the first cool one this fall, I went out on the deck briefly and remembered when I used to sit up against the garage door in the early morning sun and chill air and watch my mother hang clothes on the line, just enjoying the warmth of the sun carefree from the cold and challenges of my young life.
That was a totally diferent world when kids did not have to worry about pedophiles. They could enjoy a much healthier lifestyle. Now the kids just got their heads down to look at their phones, or just stay home to play videos games. They don't even know the meaning of life. You were lucky to have known.
When I was a kid, I could and would spend all day in the woods behind our home. There was a very small stream which I built a dam across. It was amazing to watch the transformation, as all sorts of life took hold, where only a little grass had grown before. This has brought back many fond memories for me.
I wonder if kids even have that freedom today, they're not allowed to leave their yard. Those memories are precious and calming , a reminder the world is a beautiful place. One to be explored . Got me going here. Nice write.
Nostalgia is one our most real, as well as enigmatic tools for writing. You've penned some easily identifiable moments of many a boy or girl in their youth. Such memories relived are golden for the quill that needs to ground in order to fly free again. Good thought here, Jerry.
This book represents a thirty-day period of my poetry journal. Each poem addresses
the dominant thoughts occupying my mind during the early morning hours of a given
day.
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Just this morning, the first cool one this fall, I went out on the deck briefly and remembered when I used to sit up against the garage door in the early morning sun and chill air and watch my mother hang clothes on the line, just enjoying the warmth of the sun carefree from the cold and challenges of my young life.
Ron
Sandie