CREEK ROAD GANG
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Joe Quinton: 5 Poems
copyright 2010
OCTOBER
It plays the role of halfway month,
Neither hot nor cold, torrid nor frigid.
A time to rest from the pleasures
Of summer and gather strength
For the blasts and cold of winter.
It has its joys, there is never a time
When we do not find pleasure in life.
The apples, crunchy bite of sweetness,
The leaves, colored variants surpassing
The artists palette with colors new.
We make preparations for the winter
Knowing from experience the chills
To come, yet there is always a chance
Sun warmth to remind us summer
Has yet to disappear in October.
[no title]
a first pumpkin, plastic
sits among blooming flowers
their summer show
pushed aside
pulling dark winter
too soon among us
THE VILLAGE
Stores were dotted near a crossroads
Remainders from horse drawn commerce.
One stood out - Manchester's -
"As old as the republic."
Its aged wood walls shadow rings showing,
A dark depth suggesting caves
Storing merchandise of fable.
They cellared cheese
Attaining a dry sharpness
That glorified milk.
Further along, past the weak pond,
A mill built of heavy beams.
Source of so many bushels ground
Their scent was built into the air.
YOU ASKED – HOW OLD?
bought my ticket with my tears that’s all I’m going to pay
few people know how to be old
you can only be young once but you can be immature forever
you cannot grow old till you grow up
growing old consists abundantly in growing young
nothing of the slightest interest happens to people, who for reasons
best known to themselves, have chosen to grow old
lived long enough don’t have to worry about dying
life becomes more and more an examination where you have to guess
the questions as well as the answers
BAYBERRIES
Once at an island by the sea
We lay on the rough growth.
The sun released fragrance
Of bayberries increased
The pleasures we were having.
There were few fond memories
From that broken life together.
She cried when I moved on,
Maybe she remembered
An island, the scent of bayberries.
Biographical Note: Joe Quinton settled in Chester County after various stops around the United States. He began writing poetry from a desire to make sense of the varied lives he has led in his eight decades. His poetry is both autobiographical and forward looking. Joe is a regular contributor to Creek Road Gang. See also the Author Index for Poetry and Author Index for Prose L-Z to find more of his work.
It plays the role of halfway month,
Neither hot nor cold, torrid nor frigid.
A time to rest from the pleasures
Of summer and gather strength
For the blasts and cold of winter.
It has its joys, there is never a time
When we do not find pleasure in life.
The apples, crunchy bite of sweetness,
The leaves, colored variants surpassing
The artists palette with colors new.
We make preparations for the winter
Knowing from experience the chills
To come, yet there is always a chance
Sun warmth to remind us summer
Has yet to disappear in October.
[no title]
a first pumpkin, plastic
sits among blooming flowers
their summer show
pushed aside
pulling dark winter
too soon among us
THE VILLAGE
Stores were dotted near a crossroads
Remainders from horse drawn commerce.
One stood out - Manchester's -
"As old as the republic."
Its aged wood walls shadow rings showing,
A dark depth suggesting caves
Storing merchandise of fable.
They cellared cheese
Attaining a dry sharpness
That glorified milk.
Further along, past the weak pond,
A mill built of heavy beams.
Source of so many bushels ground
Their scent was built into the air.
YOU ASKED – HOW OLD?
bought my ticket with my tears that’s all I’m going to pay
few people know how to be old
you can only be young once but you can be immature forever
you cannot grow old till you grow up
growing old consists abundantly in growing young
nothing of the slightest interest happens to people, who for reasons
best known to themselves, have chosen to grow old
lived long enough don’t have to worry about dying
life becomes more and more an examination where you have to guess
the questions as well as the answers
BAYBERRIES
Once at an island by the sea
We lay on the rough growth.
The sun released fragrance
Of bayberries increased
The pleasures we were having.
There were few fond memories
From that broken life together.
She cried when I moved on,
Maybe she remembered
An island, the scent of bayberries.
Biographical Note: Joe Quinton settled in Chester County after various stops around the United States. He began writing poetry from a desire to make sense of the varied lives he has led in his eight decades. His poetry is both autobiographical and forward looking. Joe is a regular contributor to Creek Road Gang. See also the Author Index for Poetry and Author Index for Prose L-Z to find more of his work.
