Poetry Jam - Stepping Out

All Souls Day – Jules Bastien-Lepage -1882

Stepping Out

Old Gramp blusters through the door,

Trailing sunshine and morning air.

“Come, sprouts! The day awaits!”

Eager, I bounce down off my chair.

Brown hands reach out, hard and soft

A chain of years go marching out-

Hair and collars meet the breeze

Footsteps staccato, strong and stout.

The hedgerows pass and nod our way.

Sparrows startle, flock, and chatter.

Not long, I flag and slow my stride.

Gramp turns, “Child, what’s the matter?”

“I need to rest!”, I whine and plop.

I land down on a sitting rock.

He stops and winks and hunkers down,

Settles for a morning talk.

He talks of times, when on the march,

He watched young families wave and smile,

Raise the flag, and urge him on

Each dusty mile after dusty mile.

Then, they were gone and others faced him,

Far across a field of gold.

That was when he knew for sure

This was a venture long and cold.

He carried on as soldier should, resigned

To do what must be done,

Took care to keep his comrades safe,

‘Til bitter victory could be won.

  

“You know, he says with serious tone,

My time is precious here and now.

I’ll have the time when I’m laid out

To rest with laurels on my brow.”

“I must keep on and move each day,

And so should you, my little one.

Grab all that you can hold and see

For life is short and is soon done.”

“All rested? Good ! Now, let’s keep on.

This golden day just seems to fly.

There’s coffee in the square for me

And cookies on the plate nearby.”

Perhaps some milk and chocolate too

I think, as we hop up and go.

His words stay with me as we stroll -

What did he mean? Where did he go?

I crane about and look at him.

His eyes look upward, far away

Then, he looks down and smiles at me

And we march off and through the day.

                                                    - 4/24/2013

UGH! To punctuate or not! Comma, commas, commas!

Stories as poems are a challenge … to rhyme or not to rhyme, how to handle dialogue, mixing imagery with story line without letting things get confused, so much to learn! This attempt is shared with other writers at Poetry Jam, a weekly writing share. Click over and see what others have contributed!

 

A Summertime Story ...

When I was a kid, I lived in a warren of a neighborhood filled with growing families. Mothers stayed home and tried to make their homes and yards unique, which was hard considering the houses all looked alike architecturally and sat on lots that were all exactly the same size. The streets were laid out in grids and filled twice a day with cars zipping to and from work ... fathers went to work, mothers stayed home, and kids ran wild in the back yards and woods that buffered the neighborhood from the state highway that ran adjacent to all this familial bliss.

During three quarters of the year, the neighborhood was set on a strict time table of work, school bells, shopping and errands, and the three meals a day at which every family gathered for a quick catch-up. When summer rolled around, though, things slackened up considerably. Backyard tents sprouted and kids had sleepovers, the screen doors slammed at all times of the day and night, houses would get quiet and yards would go untended for a week here and there, as families left for vacations. The locusts hatched out and climbed trees to whine and hiss in the heat, and we kids reigned like Viking hoards across the yards and paths of the King/ Merrit/Alden blocks.Those days of summer were filled with all sorts of small entertainments. The big ones were reserved for the holidays - 4th of July, Old-Fashioned Days, and Labor Day. Independence Day was the sweetest, though, because it was the first big holiday of the summer.

As the 4th of July approached, our bikes became the center of a neighborhood design competition. Old playing cards got clipped to the spokes of wheels so that they clacked and snapped as you rode up and down and all around the blocks. Crepe paper and tossed toilet paper rolls became red, white, and blue streamers that were slipped onto handlebars or propped upright on tail fenders so that they streamed out behind when you were riding at breakneck speed. Stuffed animals and dolls got dressed up in their finery to ride atop handlebars or bounce along in small wagons that got attached to the back wheel's axle.

Sometimes, inventive kids used cast-off cardboard boxes and constructed elaborate 'faux floats' that they lowered over the bikes and themselves. The straps holding the 'float'  would ride over the shoulders of the kid and made for interesting steering and control issues. The best one I remember was made by a kid from the Alden block. He made himself into the top of a skyscraper. The box was the building and his head and shoulders formed the pointed top a la Empire State Building . His hat was all silver aluminum foil and was topped with a lightning rod funnel top that sprouted red, white, and blue foil 'sparklers. He was fantastic! Most of the kids, though, had to make due with decorating hats to top off their bike theme. Straw hats were loaded up with flowers, pictures of sports and political heros, ribbons and bows and had to be strapped in place or risk getting tossed by the wind and flattened by other bikers. It was always such fun to, then, ride in the 4th of July parade right down the middle of Main Street Massena, New York.

By the time the evening approached, the barbeques and backyard fireplaces were reduced to coals, picnic tables were loaded with empty dishes, piles of soggy paper plates and tipped soda cans, mothers were wilting in their lawn chairs with well-deserved glasses of iced tea or something stronger. The sparklers and firecrackers would be doled out to the older teens by watchful fathers; bottle rockets and 'zippers' would shoot up from various backyards and the neighbors would take turns zinging hot colors and flashes of light up into the night sky. We kids ran willy-nilly around the yards waving sparklers and screaming or blowing whistles.  It was a glorious hour of flaming flashing phantasm, all orchestrated with the hoots and hollers and admonitions from mothers and the laughing of fathers and big brothers. And then, the noise of celebration would subside and we were left with the last crackle of coals in our backyard firplace.

Our family would toast marshmallows and quiet down from all the excitement. Quietly, we'd recount the highlights of the day and stop, now and then, to listen to other neighbor families doing the same thing. The buzz and whine of mosquitoes would begin to fill the air until, finally, we'd be driven into the house.  You could hear screen doors slam shut for the night, and we kids flopped like limp lettuce into bed to fall asleep to the sound of crickets chirping, Junebugs slamming their heads against the window screens and the occasional low chuckle from a downstairs bedroom. Another 4th of July was gloriously spent and the rest of the of the long hot summer lay ahead.

A Story About Paper ...

When I was young, I always wondered where all the paper came from to make so many books. My older sister, Donna would walk me to the small public library in Massena, New York almost every Saturday afternoon. I'd lounge around the Children's Room and read picture books, browse  the children's encyclopedias on the reference shelves, and look at the bulletin board that always displayed pictures and blurbs from the various events that happened in the library during story hours and school vacations. Then, it would be time to choose a stack of five picture books to lug home for a week's worth of bedtime stories. There were always so many from which to choose!



I remember asking my Mom one time where all the paper came from. She wrinkled her nose and pointed North. "Can't you smell where it comes from?", she asked.  She was pointing towards Cornwall, Ontario. Whenever we had a breeze coming from the North, our noses were clogged with the sulphurous fumes of the paper pulp plant. It operated there for years during the last half of the 19th century and well into the 20th. I always thought it was funny that my mother told me that they made paper for books and my brother pinched his nose and contradicted her. He said they made toilet paper with the stink already set in!

He always was a real smart ass ...

                                                                                                                                                                                               Image courtesy of Canada.com


Addendum:


Now that I'm grown, I know differently. Here's an interesting article on papermaking with much detail on the science and more than a bit of history ...