Poetry in the Parks Poems
Poetry in the Parks is a project I initiated in the town of West Hartford; it blends poetry and art within the natural environment of our parks.
The poem "Lady Slipper" by Sherri Bedingfield is shown here.
Other poems can be found below.
Again
It follows me,
out the back door
or down the street.
The moon,
with its pitted face,
its wide leer.
This morning it waited
at the end of my road,
as if it could open its mouth
and swallow me whole.
—Melody Moore
Other poems can be found below.
Again
It follows me,
out the back door
or down the street.
The moon,
with its pitted face,
its wide leer.
This morning it waited
at the end of my road,
as if it could open its mouth
and swallow me whole.
—Melody Moore
Concert
I lie on a grassy hill and experience the concert that is
directed by the sun, and watched by the clouds.
People come to see the lead singers:
the green grass, grand trees, and the children laughing,
the playgrounds and the ponds.
And the people come to hear the percussion and the guitar:
the rustling of tree leaves, and the footsteps on the pavement;
the rising and falling of ceaseless conversation.
The concert starts with the opening of blue curtains,
with the director taking her spot on the east of the stage,
and it ends with her bowing on the west.
One last song of singing birds and whispering wind.
Then the people leave.
—Naomi Perry
I lie on a grassy hill and experience the concert that is
directed by the sun, and watched by the clouds.
People come to see the lead singers:
the green grass, grand trees, and the children laughing,
the playgrounds and the ponds.
And the people come to hear the percussion and the guitar:
the rustling of tree leaves, and the footsteps on the pavement;
the rising and falling of ceaseless conversation.
The concert starts with the opening of blue curtains,
with the director taking her spot on the east of the stage,
and it ends with her bowing on the west.
One last song of singing birds and whispering wind.
Then the people leave.
—Naomi Perry
Grandchildren
Often I have been lost on the sea,
As I am lost in the hearts of certain children
--Frederico Garcia Lorca
As waves pitched me once,
now children carry me above them.
I who look down and wonder
how this could happen.
I who would have been a hermit,
instead became a sponge for their souls.
Their little fingers tickle like a purring,
and there in the middle of a field
I sway like wheat to their voices.
They are like trees in a forest
where wind gives them speech.
Always, always I hear it as love.
—Bob Jacob
Often I have been lost on the sea,
As I am lost in the hearts of certain children
--Frederico Garcia Lorca
As waves pitched me once,
now children carry me above them.
I who look down and wonder
how this could happen.
I who would have been a hermit,
instead became a sponge for their souls.
Their little fingers tickle like a purring,
and there in the middle of a field
I sway like wheat to their voices.
They are like trees in a forest
where wind gives them speech.
Always, always I hear it as love.
—Bob Jacob
Grandfather’s Girl
From the low vantage
of my sled I watch the trudging
of your legs, the rise of snow
inside the boots you’ve cavalierly
left unhooked. And wrapped around
the red, red roses of your ungloved hands,
the taut, ice-tempered line you use
to pull me close behind.
—Patricia O’Brien
From the low vantage
of my sled I watch the trudging
of your legs, the rise of snow
inside the boots you’ve cavalierly
left unhooked. And wrapped around
the red, red roses of your ungloved hands,
the taut, ice-tempered line you use
to pull me close behind.
—Patricia O’Brien
Heron
in memory of Tirzah Gerstein
The Great Blue Heron
perched on the park’s
rock island opens broken
umbrella spokes
crashes branches
extends strong wings wide
lifts and launches out
smoothly trailing
two slim white soles
holding beautifully together
as it glides straight
over glittering black
water and ever deeper
into the pond-scape
—Marilyn Johnston
in memory of Tirzah Gerstein
The Great Blue Heron
perched on the park’s
rock island opens broken
umbrella spokes
crashes branches
extends strong wings wide
lifts and launches out
smoothly trailing
two slim white soles
holding beautifully together
as it glides straight
over glittering black
water and ever deeper
into the pond-scape
—Marilyn Johnston
Remember that time
Remember that time
So long ago
We were children then
Innocent and free
No worries to be bothered with
Laughing at life’s mishaps.
Sometimes I wish I could relive those days
Your hand in mine, best friends forever
As we run towards the swings.
Now they’re empty
With only the wind to push them
Back and forth and back and forth
As I watch from afar.
One day you’ll come back
I know it
And then, we’ll swing.
—Daisy Li
Remember that time
So long ago
We were children then
Innocent and free
No worries to be bothered with
Laughing at life’s mishaps.
Sometimes I wish I could relive those days
Your hand in mine, best friends forever
As we run towards the swings.
Now they’re empty
With only the wind to push them
Back and forth and back and forth
As I watch from afar.
One day you’ll come back
I know it
And then, we’ll swing.
—Daisy Li
The Violet
To my little sister, Violet, prettier than any flower.
Upon the bronzing hill:
a patch of green,
a flash of elegant purple,
A violet.
Alone, bringing drops of color,
to a bleary scene.
Proud as a lion, king of the jungle,
A violet.
A darkening sky,
Upon the bronzing hill,
It slowly, softly, fades,
A violet.
̶ Samuel F. Frank
To my little sister, Violet, prettier than any flower.
Upon the bronzing hill:
a patch of green,
a flash of elegant purple,
A violet.
Alone, bringing drops of color,
to a bleary scene.
Proud as a lion, king of the jungle,
A violet.
A darkening sky,
Upon the bronzing hill,
It slowly, softly, fades,
A violet.
̶ Samuel F. Frank
What Roses Know
Beginning in water and ending in ice
what starts with spring closes with snow.
So in terms of wisdom it would suffice
for us to learn what roses know.
Springing forth in open air,
and climbing high without a care
to bloom, then wither, old and empty
lacking petals, but thorns a-plenty.
But then again, roses
with their grasping roots
never last as buds and shoots.
They sleep through winter and never know
what life is when the cold winds blow.
—Alice Fraioli
Beginning in water and ending in ice
what starts with spring closes with snow.
So in terms of wisdom it would suffice
for us to learn what roses know.
Springing forth in open air,
and climbing high without a care
to bloom, then wither, old and empty
lacking petals, but thorns a-plenty.
But then again, roses
with their grasping roots
never last as buds and shoots.
They sleep through winter and never know
what life is when the cold winds blow.
—Alice Fraioli