Two Poems

a song in the front yard
by Gwen­dolyn Brooks

I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life.
I want a peek at the back
Where it’s rough and untend­ed and hun­gry weed grows.
A girl gets sick of a rose.

I want to go in the back yard now
And maybe down the alley,
To where the char­i­ty chil­dren play.
I want a good time today.

They do some won­der­ful things.
They have some won­der­ful fun.
My moth­er sneers, but I say it’s fine
How they don’t have to go in at quar­ter to nine.
My moth­er, she tells me that John­nie Mae
Will grow up to be a bad woman.
That George’ll be tak­en to Jail soon or late
(On account of last win­ter he sold our back gate).

But I say it’s fine. Hon­est, I do.
And I’d like to be a bad woman, too,
And wear the brave stock­ings of night-black lace
And strut down the streets with paint on my face.


The Wid­ow’s Lament in Springtime
by William Car­los Williams

Sor­row is my own yard
where the new grass
flames as it has flamed
often before but not
with the cold fire
that clos­es round me this year.
Thir­ty­five years
I lived with my husband.
The plumtree is white today
with mass­es of flowers.
Mass­es of flowers
load the cher­ry branches
and col­or some bushes
yel­low and some red
but the grief in my heart
is stronger than they
for though they were my joy
for­mer­ly, today I notice them
and turn away forgetting.
Today my son told me
that in the meadows,
at the edge of the heavy woods
in the dis­tance, he saw
trees of white flowers.
I feel that I would like
to go there
and fall into those flowers
and sink into the marsh near them.

Cur­rent Mood: 🙂con­tent
Cyn is a proud Mommy & Mémé, professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
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