dennis20 Fri Oct 31, 2014 4:23 pm
Dewell, I have an affinity for old barns. This poem was aimed at the shell not the guts and glory of what it meant through the years. Just merely what is left standing and huddles against the winds of time. Below is one I wrote which holds the feeling you want.
Finally Stable
Above the leaning double door,
a horseshoe clings to a bent nail—
an epitaph on a mausoleum.
A cracked collar hangs in the hall
like a sepia oval photo,
too dingy to reveal faces in the frame.
Weathered tin-roof creaks out and in
with moon and wind. Eerie voices
in the rafters echo laughter of yesteryear
and dusty straw holds children
looking out knotholes
into the future. There, the first kiss and
shared cigarette-on-a-dare still vibrates,
but only on spider webs.
Leather harness on the wall,
horse-shaped, throws up ears and listens
for distant hoof beats,
ready for “Ole Dan” and work time.
Clip-clops answer to “giddy-up”
as summer breeze stirs sweat and horseflies.
The brawny chest of an anvil in a dusty corner
awaits ringing strokes of a heavy hammer
shaping sharpness to shoes and plow
while the oil on farrier’s workbench,
stains oak in dank and musk.
A treasure tin holds arrow heads,
an agate, and a tiny, frazzled trout hook
open to the air of suggestion of its owner.
The swaybacked barn makes its bed
with the rest of the dead in the bone yard;
the spine of the falling fence, the dry throat
of the loading chute, and the ribs of the hay rake,
all buried in tall, brown grass
that waves goodbye.