NPM 2010: Prompt 8

barn blues
Creative Commons License photo credit: Seattle Miles

I think I heard something.  Did you hear something?  I .  .  . I’m not going in there.  You?

9 thoughts on “NPM 2010: Prompt 8

  1. (I didn’t take the bait for seriousness today, Bud, but instead, went with foolishness, spurred on by the census form on my table and your picture.)

    No one’s here
    but me and these chickens,
    plus a few sheep and, of course,
    the pigs, and I suppose you could count
    the carpenter ants, if you catch them resting,
    but please don’t bother with the flies,
    or so says the lazy horse in the corner,
    and — wait, don’t go — I forgot all about
    the herd of goats up on the hill, up near where the
    cows parade about,
    so don’t forget to mark them down, too,
    in your official United States census.

    http://vocaroo.com/?media=v49wAJbQ8u2ns6KxJ

  2. Cock-a-doodle-doo!
    Hustle and bustle
    Cows are fed, horses brushed
    Eggs are gathered, quilt is mended
    Baking bread, washin’ clothes
    Porch is swept, potatoes peeled
    Harvest in, truck is warm.
    Cock-a-doodle-doo?
    All has past like the clouds above

  3. Maybe you’ve forgotten
    the cool grass tickling
    your bare feet early
    on a summer’s
    morn.

    Maybe you’ve forgotten
    goosebumps, gifts to
    skinny-dippers
    from the cow’s pond
    down in the pasture.

    Maybe you’ve forgotten
    to dream and to play…

    To swing on tires and
    to chase frogs.
    To watch tadpoles
    and catch crayfish
    in the creek.

    Maybe you’ve forgotten
    listening to the crickets’ call
    while fireflies dance
    you to sleep.

    Sad, ain’t it?
    Forgetting to live.

  4. Kevin,

    What’s impressed me the most all month is your ability to write with an incredible range of styles and moods.

    No two of your poems ever sound the same and that’s cool. (I get stuck in the same wheelhouse way too often!)

    Rock on,
    Bill

    1. I get stuck, too, but one of the joys of what Bud the Host does here is that I don’t know what to expect when I come here, and I find that sort of freeing as a poet.
      Kevin

  5. Here are a couple of submissions by my kids.

    The old truck sits under a dark sky.
    Beneath it, summer grass sways in the soft wind.
    Behind it, the barn moans.
    Clouds swarm into the black sky.
    Then, everything is still.
    -Margaret Walker (10)

    Dusk.
    Gray shaddows ripple and spread across the sky.
    A battered pick-up sites on yellowing grass and seems nostalgic over something…What?
    The paint on the barn it guards is fading.
    Is the truck missing it’s former owner, perhaps?
    Who can delve into the minds of machines? Who will ever know?
    -Evan Walker (11)

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