“Olsen’s Pond”

Some great poetry over at dverspoets.com.  Come read and enjoy!

–

Returning to the old house,

now still, vacant,

staring with unshaded eyes

upon a snowy front garden,

shrubs overgrown with the

lustiness of summer

now split to the ground

taxed with a heavy snow.

 

I tried to light the parlor stove,

cranky old smoker

clanking and rattling

in the best of times

now given up the ghost,

cold metal unyielding to wadded paper

and an old mouse nest.

 

Now the silence of the rooms

broken by hissing wind

whipping around  eaves

rattling old bones in the attic,

stirring the haunts asleep in  corners.

 

It took time for twigs to catch

water turn to coffee

bacon, eggs brought from the city

cooked in an old iron skillet–

tasting far better in the country air.

 

I looked down at hands cracked

in the brittle winter light,

moisture gone,

hair static with electricity,

feet numb from the cold

the woodstove not giving

more heat than an ice cube.

 

Walking down to Olsen’s pond,

Looking through the glassine surface

remembering the boy who had fallen

through while playing hockey

slipping under thin ice,

disappearing without a sound,

only noticed when our puck flew

High in the air
and he, the guard, missing.

 

We skated to the edge, threw bodies flat

trying to catch him just out of reach,

crying like babies, snot running down chins,

knowing he was floating just under the ice–

silenced like the lamb he was.

 

Childhood ended that day.

We drifted away to the city,

our skates and sticks put up,

Olsen’s pond deserted like a haunted minefield.

 

Fifty years ago I still remember

stretched as far as I could

belly freezing on treacherous ice,

grasping to reach a life just out of sight,

his muffler and stick floating to the surface–

The boy, the important part,

gone for good from a chilly winter’s play.

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

 

 

 

 

“Olsen’s Pond”…..

 I start out the New Year with this poem for many personal reasons.  Some have found it too ‘hard’ to read for their own reasons.  And some have read it and found their own childhood in it.  Regardless, it remains my favorite poem.

Lady Nyo

–

Returning to the old house,

now still, vacant,

staring with unshaded eyes

upon a snowy front garden,

shrubs overgrown with the

lustiness of summer

now split to the ground

taxed with a heavy snow.

 

I tried to light the parlor stove,

cranky old smoker

clanking and rattling

in the best of times

now given up the ghost,

cold metal unyielding to wadded paper

and an old mouse nest.

 

Now the silence of the rooms

broken by hissing wind

whipping around  eaves

rattling old bones in the attic,

stirring the haunts asleep in  corners.

 

It took time for twigs to catch

water turn to coffee

bacon, eggs brought from the city

cooked in an old iron skillet–

tasting far better in the country air.

 

I looked down at hands cracked

in the brittle winter light,

moisture gone,

hair static with electricity,

feet numb from the cold

the woodstove not giving

more heat than an ice cube.

 

Walking down to Olsen’s pond,

Looking through the glassine surface

remembering the boy who had fallen

through while playing hockey

slipping under thin ice,

disappearing without a sound,

only noticed when our puck flew

high in the air

and he, the guard, missing.

 

We skated to the edge, threw bodies flat

trying to catch him just out of reach,

crying like babies, snot running down chins,

knowing he was floating just under the ice–

silenced like the lamb he was.

 

Childhood ended that day.

We drifted away to the city,

our skates and sticks put up,

Olsen’s pond deserted like a haunted minefield.

 

Fifty years ago I still remember

stretched as far as I could

belly freezing on treacherous ice,

grasping to reach a life just out of sight,

his muffler and stick floating to the surface–

The boy, the important part,

gone for good from a chilly winter’s play.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

 “Olsen’s Pond” was published in “A Seasoning of Lust”, 2016, Amazon.com

 

 

 

“Olsen’s Pond”

 

 

 

Returning to the old house,

now still, vacant,

staring with unshaded eyes

upon a snowy front garden,

shrubs overgrown with the

lustiness of summer

now split to the ground

taxed with a heavy snow.

 

I tried to light the parlor stove,

cranky old smoker

clanking and rattling

in the best of times

now given up the ghost,

cold metal unyielding to wadded paper

and an old mouse nest.

 

Now the silence of the rooms

broken by hissing wind

whipping around eaves

rattling old bones in the attic,

stirring the haunts asleep in corners.

 

It took time for twigs to catch

water turn to coffee

bacon, eggs brought from the city

cooked in an old iron skillet–

tasting far better in the country air.

 

I looked down at hands cracked

in the brittle winter light,

moisture gone,

hair static with electricity,

feet numb from the cold

the woodstove not giving

more heat than an ice cube.

 

Walking down to Olsen’s pond,

Looking through the glassine surface

remembering the boy who had fallen

through while playing hockey

slipping under thin ice,

disappearing without a sound,

only noticed when our puck flew

High in the air and he, the guard, missing.

 

We skated to the edge, threw bodies flat

trying to catch him just out of reach,

crying like babies, snot running down chins,

knowing he was floating just under the ice–

silenced like the lamb he was.

 

Childhood ended that day.

We drifted away to the city,

our skates and sticks put up,

Olsen’s pond deserted like a haunted minefield.

 

Fifty years ago I still remember

stretched as far as I could

belly freezing on treacherous ice,

grasping to reach a life just out of sight,

his muffler and stick floating to the surface–

The boy, the important part,

gone for good from a chilly winter’s play.

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

 

 

 

 

Olsen’s Pond

 

 

 

I returned to the old house,

now still, vacant,

staring with unshaded eyes

upon a snowy front garden,

shrubs overgrown with the

lustiness of summer and neglect

now split to the ground,

taxed with a heavy snow.

 

I tried to light the parlor stove,

old cranky cast iron smoker

clanking and rattling

in the best of times

now given up the ghost,

cold metal unyielding to wadded paper

and an old mouse nest.

 

The silence of the rooms only broken

by hissing wind whipping around eaves

rattling old bones in the attic,

stirring the haunts sleeping in corners.

 

It took a time for twigs to catch,

the water to turn coffee,

bacon and eggs brought from the city

and cooked in an old iron skillet–

tasting far better in the country air.

 

I looked down at hands cracked

in the brittle winter light,

moisture gone,

hair static with electricity,

feet numb from the chill,

the woodstove not giving

more heat than an icicle.

 

I walked down to Olsen’s pond,

looked through the glassine surface

remembered the boy who had fallen

through the ice while playing hockey–

slipped under the thin cover, disappearing

without a sound,

only noticed when our puck flew

Up in the air and he, the guard, missing.

 

We skated to the edge, threw bodies flat

trying to reach him just out of catch,

crying like babies, snot running down chins,

knowing he was floating just under the ice,

silenced as the lamb he was.

 

Childhood ended that day for most of us.

We drifted away to the city,

our skates and sticks put up,

Olsen’s pond deserted like a haunted minefield.

 

Fifty years ago I still remember that day

when stretched as far as I could

my belly freezing on treacherous ice,

grasping to reach a life just out of sight,

his muffler and stick floating to the surface–

The boy, the important part,

gone for good from a chilly winter day.

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2015

“Olsen’s Pond” was first published in “Seasoning of Lust”, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2009, by Lulu.com.  Later this poem was published in “Pitcher of Moon” also by Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2014, Createspace, Amazon.com

 

 

 

 

 

“Olsen’s Pond”, and an opinion concerning the tragedy in Paris this week.

What we have seen of the tragedy in Paris this week is heartbreaking.   The insanity of these Islamic terrorists is beyond anything imaginable.  It is the same Nazi mentality that tormented the world decades ago. How do we protect our freedom of speech and also artistic creativity?  And uphill battle to do so, but there is no choice except to continue to write, create and speak out. But with a higher purpose. 

I don’t think it prudent to pull the whiskers of extremists. These cartoons seem  to be not only vulgar, but jejune. That includes all other religions.  It is just tasteless.  Freedom of speech doesn’t include yelling ‘fire’ in a theater, and watching the stampede regardless what some may think. 

Hopefully  moderate Muslims  understand  the world will not tolerate the barbarity of violence much longer.   They also suffer from the savagery of  Islamic extremists, and need to unite with the world against this savagery.  They are also in peril.

Je suis Charlie, aussi.

Jane

–

Childhood in the country has special memories, good and tragic.  Perhaps today things are different, but when I was a child tragedies happened.  Just a part of life then.  We also rode our bikes without helmets.

Lady Nyo

–

Olsen’s Pond

–

I returned to the old house,

now still, vacant,

staring with unshaded eyes

upon a snowy front garden,

shrubs overgrown with the

lustiness of summer and neglect

now split to the ground,

taxed with a heavy snow.

–

I tried to light the parlor stove,

old cranky cast iron smoker

clanking and rattling

in the best of times

now given up the ghost,

cold metal unyielding to wadded paper

and an old mouse nest.

–

The silence of the rooms only broken

by hissing wind whipping around  eaves

rattling old bones in the attic,

stirring the haunts sleeping in  corners.

–

It took  time for twigs to catch,

the water to turn coffee,

bacon and eggs brought from the city

and cooked in an old iron skillet–

tasting far better in the country air.

–

I looked down at hands cracked

in the brittle winter light,

moisture gone,

hair static with electricity,

feet numb from the chill,

the woodstove not giving

more heat than an icicle.

–

I walked down to Olsen’s pond,

looked through the glassine surface

remembered the boy who had fallen

through the ice while playing hockey–

slipped under the thin cover, disappearing

without a sound,

only noticed when our puck flew

Up in the air and he, the guard, missing.

–

We skated to the edge, threw bodies flat

trying to grab him just out of reach,

crying like babies, snot running down chins,

knowing he was floating just under the ice,

silenced as the lamb he was.

–

Childhood ended that day for most of us.

We drifted away to the city,

our skates and sticks put up,

Olsen’s pond deserted like a haunted minefield.

–

Fifty years ago I still remember that day

when stretched as far as I could

my belly freezing on treacherous ice,

grasping to reach a life just out of sight,

his muffler and stick floating to the surface–

The boy, the important part,

gone for good from a chilly winter day.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2015, originally published in “White Cranes” by Lulu.com

“Olsen’s Pond”, a poem…..and Happy New Year To All!

Please bring in your cats and dogs, your pets.  The weather is fierce, and so many animals are killed by exposure. All over this country, dogs are chained to trees, or chained in kennels that have no real protection from the elements.  Here in the south, the brutality  and ignorance  towards animals is horrendous.  Even an official with the Atlanta Humane Society years ago told me that ‘dogs don’t mind sleeping on concrete, they don’t need shelter’.  The jackass.  I wish I could chain  him on concrete for a night.  He might reconsider when his joints freeze.

 We heat with a woodburning stove.  Our nine cats call a truce and all sleep on a wool blanket in front of the stove.  We are expecting some form of snow this Sunday night.  Tuesday we are expecting 6 degrees in the morning…and it’s not going to get beyond freezing for days.  Though I love Winter, and the possibilites of snow, it is hard on animals who don’t have proper shelter.  Make sure yours do.

Lady Nyo

OLSEN’S POND 

 

I returned to the old house,

now still, vacant,

staring with unshaded eyes

upon a snowy front garden,

shrubs overgrown with the

lustiness of summer and neglect

now split to the ground,

taxed with a heavy snow.

– 

I tried to light the parlor stove,

old cranky cast iron smoker

clanking and rattling

when heated in the best of times

now given up the ghost,

cold metal unyielding to wadded paper

and an old mouse nest.

 –

The silence of the rooms only broken

by hissing wind whipping around  eaves

rattling old bones in the attic,

stirring the haunts sleeping in  corners.

 –

It took a time for twigs to catch,

the water to turn coffee,

bacon and eggs brought from the city

and cooked in an old iron skillet–

tasting far better in the country air.

– 

I looked down at hands cracked

in the brittle winter light,

moisture gone,  

hair static with electricity,

feet numbed from the chill,

that woodstove not giving up

more heat than a miser.

– 

I walked down to Olsen’s pond,

looked through the glassine surface

remembered the boy who had fallen

through the ice while playing hockey–

slipped under the thin cover, disappearing

without a sound,

only noticed when our puck flew

Up in the air and he, the guard, missing.

– 

We skated to the edge, threw bodies flat

trying to reach him just out of catch,

crying like babies, snot running down chins,

knowing he was floating just under the ice,

silent as the lamb he was.

 –

Childhood ended that day for most of us.

We started to drift away to the city,

our skates and sticks put up,

Olsen’s pond deserted like a haunted minefield.

– 

Fifty years ago I still remember that day

when stretched as far as I could

my belly freezing on treacherous ice,

grasping to reach a life just out of sight,

his muffler and stick floating to the surface–

The boy, the important part,

gone for good from a chilly winter ‘s play.

– 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009, 2012, 2014

“Olsen’s Pond” previously published in “A Seasoning of Lust”, available at Lulu.com

 

“Olsen’s Pond”, a poem answering Victoria C. Slotto’s prompt

 Victoria C. Slotto over on dversepoets.com has issued a prompt on Place and Setting in Poetry.  Below are her words, though she goes on to describe other devices answering to this intriguing prompt.  They can be found on today’s dversepoets.com.

Place and Setting in Poetry

“As writers of poetry, I believe we have the opportunity to allow readers to travel places they have never been, to revisit places that are familiar or to share experiences they may never have, thus evoking memories or heightening awareness.
Today, I’d like to consider how we, as poets (or writers of prose) use setting or a sense of place as a poetic device.”

(quoted from Victoria Slotto, on today’s prompt at dversepoets.com)

I am submitting my poem “Olsen’s Pond” written a few years ago, because I believe it does answer to one or probably more of these devices Victoria mentions.

Lady Nyo

  

Olsen’s Pond 

 

I returned to the old house,

now still, vacant,

staring with unshaded eyes

upon a snowy front garden,

shrubs overgrown with the

lustiness of summer and neglect

now split to the ground,

taxed with a heavy snow.

–

I tried to light the parlor stove,

old cranky cast iron smoker

clanking and rattling

 in the best of times

now giving up the ghost,

cold metal unyielding to wadded paper

and an old mouse nest.

–

The silence of the rooms were broken

by hissing wind whipping around  eaves

rattling old bones in the attic,

stirring the haunts sleeping in  corners.

–

It took  time for twigs to catch,

water to turn  to coffee,

bacon and eggs brought from the city

 cooked in an old iron skillet–

tasting far better in the country air.

–

I looked down at hands cracked

in the brittle winter light,

moisture gone,  

hair static with electricity,

feet numbed from the chill,

that woodstove not giving

more heat than a miser.

–

Walking down to Olsen’s pond,

I looked through the glassine surface

remembered the boy  fallen

through the ice while playing hockey–

slipped under the thin cover, disappearing

without a sound,

only noticed when our puck flew

Up in the air and he, the guard, missing.

–

We skated to the edge, threw bodies flat

trying to reach him just out of catch,

crying like babies, snot running down chins,

knowing he was floating just under the ice,

silent as the lamb he was.

–

Childhood ended that day for us.

We started to drift away to the city,

our skates and sticks put up,

Olsen’s pond deserted like a haunted minefield.

–

Fifty years ago I still remember that day

when stretched as far as I could

my belly freezing on treacherous ice,

grasping to reach a life just out of sight,

his muffler and stick floating to the surface–

The boy, the important part,

gone for good from a chilly winter ‘s play.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009, 2012