 |
Poems On Site: 198,500+ Comments On Poems: 427,000+ Forum Posts: 105,000+ |
Custom Search
|
|
|
||||
| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 16:43:45 AEST | ||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
Array
(
[sid] => 166109
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Mr. McCready's Boy
[time] => 2011-04-30 16:41:22
[hometext] => Just A Bit Of A Ghost Story
[bodytext] => ..................................... The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts. -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .................................... Mr. McCready's boy, The one with the lisp And the cow lick And the black thick rimmed glasses And curious fascination With dinosaurs Is outside again, Standing by the side of the old highway, Near rusty mailboxes Long forgotten by time, And a willow older than the sky, Waving at all the big rigs That occassionally amble up the road. He smiles like a five year old With a new toy, His wide and wild eyes Moist and alert and hoping. Barefoot And in tattered over-alls Torn at the knees He waits, He watches, He listens. He can hear them coming from a mile Or two away, Big silver sun-baked monsters That say hello to him As they rattle on by, Because for some reason or other They know him. He is always there, Always ready to flail Thin arms, And wave a greeting. He is the boy with the ratty blue cover-alls, That always seems to be there, Rain or shine, Snow or sleet. 'That's the McCready boy, ' they say. More to themselves Than to anyone else. As they thunder past, Sometimes saluting him With a wave of the hand, Or a tip of the hat, Or a blow from the diesel horn. He's been there for so long Even the old timer's remember him. Old timers who no longer make The two-hundred mile run through The mountain passes, On their way to Cedar City And points beyond. Sometimes, when it's just right, And the sun dances over the tree tops Like a golden firefly, And the crickets begin their Evening serenade, And the breeze is so soft Coming in from the south That it's like a gentle kiss Against the cheek, He is there, Standing in the soft grass, With his eyes bright And his mouth open and grinning, Showing crooked teeth, With his right hand high up in the air Waving wildly, And the truck drivers with their East-bound loads nodding Some recognition to him. And this puzzles poor Mr. McCready. He doesn't understand Why they blow their horns At such odd hours, Waking him up in the middle of the night At the most unpleasant moments. He sometimes wonders If he may have Done something That offended them. But he isn't quite sure. Sometimes he'll be out in the field, Out of sight of the old highway, And they will blow their horn, And the lengthy salute will go on Until the sound of the horn Is swallowed up into the forest. Other times he'll see them amble Up the old highway as he chops Wood out on the hill. And he'll watch, Wondering who they're waving to As they rattle through. Maybe they're just happy To see some small semblance of life Out here in the middle Of nowhere. Because For a hundred miles in either direction There is absolutly nothing. No gasoline stations. No restaurants. No people. Nothing but endless trees And hills And a green That goes on forever. But it wasn't always like this. And Mr. McCready kind of smiles When the memories ease In with their gentle flood.. But his smiles seem to come With a greater distance Between them Each time. He can almost see the old tree, Can barely catch sight of the rusty mailboxes That bear the family name. And he remembers a time when they were new, When he had painted an American flag On the side so the people who used the highway Could see he was a proud American, That he wasn't afraid to show his true colors. His boy would be out there every day After chores, Standing under the shade Of the old willow And waving at all the cars and trucks That went on by, Cars that were headed to Crescentville, And Cedar City, And Oak Wood, And Castle Ridge, Most of them ghost towns now, With more dust than life. His boy was eight, Just had a birthday When it happened. A truck had come up the highway At dusk, And its driver was fighting sleep. He didn't have a heavy load, But he was late And making up for lost time. The truck driver had fallen asleep, First clipping the old willow, Taking a chunk from its side, And then he hit them. He never even saw them. They had tried to get out of the way. But the truck was too quick. And by the time anyone Realized what was happening, The damage had already been done. It's been forty years. He doesn't really mind the trucks That haunt the old road, Nor the drivers who wave from time to time At the old tree, Who tip their hat And then move on into the night... But he sure wishes They would stop blowing their horns. ................................. Copyright © 2011 Richard D. Remler All Rights Reserved [comments] => 1 [counter] => 192 [topic] => 39 [informant] => NightOwl61 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Grief )
|
Menu
· 
Poetry
Community
Members
Areas
Reference
Search
Top
Others
Poetry is much like a great photo, a single "moment in time" capturing many feelings and emotions. Yet, they are very alive; creating stirrings within the readers who form visual "pictures" of the expressed emotions within the Poem. ©
Opinions expressed in the poetry, comments, forums etc. on this site are not necessarily those of this site, its owners and/or operators; but of the individuals who post items to this site.
Frequently Asked Questions | | | Privacy Policy | | | Contact Webmaster
All submitted items are Copyright © to their submitter. All the rest Copyright © 2002-2050 by Your Poetry Dot Com
All logos and trademarks in this site are property of their respective owners.
Script Generation Time: 0.052 Seconds. - View our Site Map | .© your-poetry.com