Thursday, January 22, 2009

407 South

Beyond the desert’s
painted sand
the Rockies held
an outstretched hand

before the
undulating plain
perfumed with cornsilk
earth and rain
towards the little white house
on sixth street.

The valley’s rich
and steady slope
bore sugar beets
and cantaloupe,

and a small town
in a copse
of sorghum and
alfalfa crops
with a little white house
on sixth street.

There was chicken
on the fry
as the mijos
pedaled by

there was peach pie
on the sill
as lark buntings
chirped and trilled

there were roses
on the trellis
as the afternoon
befell us

we’d get kisses
on the stoop
homemade noodles
in the soup
at the little white house
on sixth street.

Took us to
the five and dime
paint by numbers

or the fort
built wide and low
for St. Vrain and
Jean Charbonneau

we’d climb on
his lap to drive
in the weathered

or we’d simply
tour a past
in the little white house
on sixth street.

There were letters
bronzed with age
from a father
seeking wage

carbon paper
fountain pens
penny knives
tobacco tins

ration books
left in a drawer
dated nineteen

a Silvertone
and pork pie hats
a pocket watch
and canvas spats
in the little white house
on sixth street.

There was comfort
there was ardor
cricket singing
in the larder

there was kindness
there was order
pinwheel cookies
for each boarder

there had been
a son and daughter
who grew fast and
true as water

and the two
who had remained
in their temperance
were sustained
by the little white house
on sixth street.


One by one
we buried three
still my mother
sits with me

recalling Rockwell’s
Evening Post
and plum butter
spread on toast

and for all
our souvenirs
and photographs
throughout the years

we’ve found nothing
quite akin
to walking back
through memories in
to the little white house
on sixth street.

[2 of 2]


-confessional- said...

truly beautiful

K.Lawson Gilbert said...

Excellent companion poems... 1 & 2!

Joaquin, you share many warm memories, through your poetry, that illustrate an idyllic childhood. This is sweetly reminiscent of a bygone era.

The striped shirt?

Blessings -

joaquin carvel said...

keen eye, k. - but no, the photo is long before my time. i just think it is very representative of them - modest means, but always room at the table for one more.

last unicorn said...

so many small words,
but full of warm memories
all wraped around
"the little white house
on sixth street."


K.Lawson Gilbert said...

Well, I *thought* you were only in your 30's - so it is probably one of your parents who is a child here. Oh, my gosh.... Forgive me Joaquin, I am intruding. I love the picture and the poem that is all that matters!!!!! :D

Julie said...

I love how your words always take me to another time and place, one that is so good. Excellent details. I can smell the peach pie and the chicken. I can even smell the rainwashed earth. I can feel the happy aura of the people in the little white house on sixth street.

Excellent poem. It's such a treat to read your beautiful poems.

Charli said...

I just wanted to tell you real quick... I love the title of your ballet. I'd like to see it. Have I told you this already? Maybe in a dream?

Linda S. Socha said...

Beautiful caringly lovely. I like your work and your blog. Thank you
Come and say hello at Psyche Connections. I enjoy sharing ideas and memories....

Anonymous said...

Wonderful - and the picture it is if I were there, I remember many of those things --- the rhyme is great, I love rhyme - so much poetry today has no rhyme, yes I do love the rhyme.

Your daydreams served you well --


Jannie Funster said...

I am usually not a fan of rhyming poetry but this has won me over 100%.