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Down on the Farm with Sue Glasco

Poetry from Woodsong

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Circles of Lace
Circles of lace are in this place
As I walk down my road.
Pink of bloom, the rose too soon
Will fade to greener mode.
Beyond a valley of white fog
I hear the turkey's call.
Overhead the line of geese flies north
To wait for fall.
Cream and white, the suckle gleams
Giving fence rows sweet perfume.
Enjoy it now my heart exalts
For dank will be the tomb.
Wild asparagus with fern-like fronds
Reaches to the sky.
Past its prime it's growing yet.
And so, I hope, am I.
 
 

Jimmy Was A Wishing
 
Oh, Jimmy was a wishing that he could go a fishing!
 
He found some string, he found a pole.
To look for worms he dug a hole.
Oh, Jimmy was a wishing that he could go a fishing!
 
Soon two fat worms were in his hand
He asked his mother for a coffee can.
Oh, Jimmy was a wishing that he could go a fishing!
 
He got a hook and sinker form his brother Joe;
He fixed them on his line just so-so!
Oh, Jimmy was a wishing that he could go a fishing!
 
He took two dimes and a quarter too
To buy a bobbing cork that was shining new.
Oh, Jimmy was a wishing that he could go a fishing!
 
Jimmy sat all day beside his plastic pool.
He caught no fish, but it sure was cool.
 
Written for my son Gerry and read to him when he was a little boy. 
 
 
All poetry on this page has been published in the anthologies called Stories and Poems by Members of the Southern Illinois Writers Guild.  All rights reserved.

Pain
 
Life handed me a bucket
That was full of pain.
I kept wanting to put it down.
But I could not.
It had my name on it.
 
 
Moment in Concrete
 
Two grand little girls
Play on the concrete parking lot
With a miniature Frisbee
Purchased for ten tickets
Inside the pizza pleasure palace.
Watching, my husband and I
Whisper silently over their heads:
Don't grow up.
Like their parents, they don't hear us.
 
 
Full Moon
 
The moon is full tonight.
So is my heart.
My heart is hurt full.
The moon will change.
So will I.
 
 
His Rose
 
The rose grows.
He planted it last year this time,
Covered its roots,
Stomped the sod.
Watered and wished it well.
It seems odd it is alive
And he is dead.
I wish I could wish him well.
 
In answer to your question, no the above poem is not autobiographical.  In one way or another, the other poems on this page are.