Writing Journal (Day 27)

I was listening to Pink Floyd, and the song "High Hopes" came on. Which I describe as a song about the reminiscenes of childhood. Got me to thinking about the 7 kids I grew up with. Man, we had some good times! I could write an entire book of poems about it...hmm...add that to my list of books to write! Here's the start of it: (although, if I do compile a chapbook, I'll probably want this title for the book and not any individual poem.)

Averbeck Alley
The black ants crawl
In large quantities
Over the peonies in the
Tractor tire that tried to be a sandbox.
It managed to succeed
In giving us a place to play chicken
And stir up Stink Soup.
Popcorn kernels, old rain water,
Random berries, greens, tree bark, and
Dirt in a pickle bucket.

I wonder if words
Under rotting stairs get faded.
Sitting on cemented gravel,
We wrote things unmentionable.
In black, permanant marker.

The mulberry tree that was
So easy to climb
Still bears the summer-long jump rope scar.
The snow bush, love pines, and yellow worm tree
Have all been ripped out by the roots.
As has the black walnut tree.
We used to climb high
Up that one on Friday the 13th,
Jumping down, tempting fate.

Thought most of the five wire lines are gone,
The crossbars to the clothesline pole remain.
Are there any footprints
One the side of the garage
From any recent flippers?

It's still a clear shot between those garages
To the hill of horse bones.
Strange that we never found any while
Digging to China.
That homemade ditch-hole made a sweet jump.
The grass grows greener over The Pit.
______________________________
This is pretty closed to being finished! Go me! I still want to work on that last stazna, though. I am absolutely in love with that last line, not only because it's true but because it pays homage to the inspiration. And symbolizes how the evidence of 8 childhoods is still slightly visibile to those who know it was once there.