Poetry from Joan Beebe

The Waking of Spring

Today seems different as we venture outside
And a lonely shovel lies on its side.
There is a fresh and scented wind today
And I see many children out to play.
What is that coming up from the ground
With pretty little flowers I have found.
I hear sweet chirping and their songs fill the air,
There are melodies of joy for all to share.
The green grass is soft and beautiful to see,
And there is no other place I would rather be.
There is work to be done in the days to come,
Planting, watering and our chores have begun.
We smile and we’re happy to see the beauty of spring
And our days will bring pleasure for the gifts it brings.

Shadows can surprise you as suddenly they appear and you take a close look,
Now you stop to gaze at the shadows so strange yet drawing you ever near.
You can’t help but wonder and take another look but there is no fear.
They fall softly in a light so dim and the shadows are big as the night begins.
When they appear on the wall of your home, your imagination takes flight
So the images you form seem to never end and are a wondrous sight.
There is the morning sun when shadows are shorter where they fall,
How beautiful they are as they reflect life’s images though they are small.
The leaves and branches of trees spread lovely patterns without a sound.
And slowly they sway as they fall in a canopy of color upon the ground.
Those shadows start changing as the sun slowly fades away,
And you wonder if those shadows will come at the start of a new day.
The scenes of life are growing as night’s journey begins
This pallet of a new day’s story starts over again.


Memories in a Shoebox
Shoeboxes are meant for shoes
Or pictures you don’t want to lose.
My shoebox is filled with stories of old
The pictures are warm with memories untold.
When I look at those days of youth and fun
The memories for us have just begun.
The years fly by and we don’t think of time
Until we find that shoebox of mine.
Those precious memories are like gold
And bring smiles and tears from those days of old
So don’t throw away that shoebox of yours,
It may bring you comfort from days gone by
Because that shoebox is where those stories lie.

Life On A Farm
(A child’s remembrance)

I was born about a week before Thanksgiving to older parents. Dad was a farmer and this was an original homestead for his family. Mom was a city girl who lost her first husband at the age of 33. Meeting my dad at a party with mutual friends, mom said dad’s smile was the first thing that she liked about him. It couldn’t have been an easy transition for my mother as she now had big dinners to make for all of us plus those who, at any time, were out in the fields helping my father. She canned, baked , cleaned the farmhouse (with the help of my older sister when she wasn’t in school). When I was old enough to go to school, my father drove me to the bus stop in the city and I would get on and be let off at the stop near my school. I started first grade when I was five years old. Perception of arithmetic (as it was called then) was a little difficult for a 5 year old. Never did like it. The days were long and fun for myself and my younger brother. There were barns to explore, hay loft to climb the ladder and jump in the hay. Too bad my brother jumped on a skunk one time and mom took him to the back of the barn outside, scrubbed him and buried his clothes. What fun it was to get inside the chicken coup and crawl out through their small opening to the barnyard. We always had dirty knees. Mom told us never to do that again because we would get chicken pox. Of course, in the normal course of events, we actually did get chicken pox but not from the chickens! There was a big corn field next to our farm and we would play hide and seek among the tall rows. There was an older couple living on the next farm and we knew when she baked bread. We would run through that corn field to her back door where she would give us warm bread with butter and sugar on it. What a treat for small children. Then, Christmas would come and mother would be bathing us in the country kitchen by the stove. We would see part of a beard hanging down from a trap door in the ceiling. Mother would tell us Santa was waiting for us to go to sleep and then he would come down and put presents around the tree. What a great way to get your children to go to bed. Summertime would arrive and again, what fun we had catching fireflies in jars and watch them so mysteriously light up on and off. There were apples to pick, grapes to eat, wild strawberries which mom would fix with cream and sugar for us to eat. My brother and I, at times, would go up the lane, through the orchard and lie on the grass near the fields to watch the clouds and try to figure out what images they looked like. We also would walk up the road to look at the bull in a neighbor’s pasture. We were also warned to never go into that pasture. Good advice. There was a cannery near and we would walk there and put our hands under a chute to catch the raw peas and eat them. To us that also was a real treat. We learned about horses, cows, pigs and chickens. Living on a farm was an experience that one could never forget and be so grateful at the same time. Here is a simple thought that came to my mind.
There was a little girl who lived on a farm
And she played all day and jumped in the hay.

7 thoughts on “Poetry from Joan Beebe

  1. What wonderful poetry and i can just see you on that farm.Living on a farm must have been a experience you will never forget.one that was clean and fresh and a happy place.thank god that you lived it.may god bless you.

  2. To our very close friend Joan..You said that you have no talent….your poetry proves you wrong! I enjoyed it very much. also your remembrance of life on the farm is very enjoyable to read. Thank you for sharing.

  3. Hi Joan,

    Nice writing! Very visual! I hope you continue to explore your writing talents.

  4. Thank you, George, Ken and Beth. Your wonderful comments on my work is so encouraging. I appreciate your support.


  5. Hi Joan, I just now read your poems and article about the farm. They were wonderful. Keep writing!

  6. Joan,
    I love this essay, Life on a Farm as well as The Boarding House. The history is so interesting.

  7. Joan,
    I love Memories in a Shoebox. It’s reminiscent of Billy Collins.

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