Two Poems Inspired By Photographs

Recently Uncarved Wood posted on his blog, From The Call Center, two photographs that he had taken. One was of a barn in a cotton field in South Carolina, and the other was taken from inside an abandoned carpet plant. His photographs inspired me to write poems about them. He has encouraged me to post the poems here and has graciously allowed me to post his images to accompany the words that I wrote. Many thanks go to him for sharing these with me. Click on the pictures for a bigger view. Visit his blog to read the many poems he posted last month for National Poetry Month.

MEMORY OF A BARN DANCE

She sat waiting, waiting,
anticipating,
while her cotton field skirt swirled in the gentle breeze.

She was waiting for them to return:
the shy farmers in their freshly washed flannel shirts
and denim overalls,
the primped up ladies in ruffles and gingham.

She wanted to hear the sounds again...
the music of the fiddles,
the banjos, the harmonicas,
the boots stomping,
the hands clapping,
the rhythmic chant of the square dance caller,
the soft giggling female voices,
the loud male guffaws.

She wanted to smell the smells again...
fresh bales of hay brought in for the dancers
to rest on in between songs;
the food they brought for the dinner before the dance--
fried chicken, homemade bread, corn on the cob,
and cherry pie;
bouquets of just-picked flowers
arranged in mason jars and coffee cans
as cheerful table centerpieces;
lavender water dabbed gently on the wrists
and behind the ears
of the ladies,
cheap cologne on the men
splashed in haste on the way out the door--
both with hopes of impressing someone.

She wanted to feel alive.
She wanted the love and the joy to come back.
She wanted to throw open wide her red doors and be hostess once more
to the folks gathered from all around
for a frolicking barn dance like those of times now gone.

She sat waiting, waiting,
anticipating,
while her cotton field skirt swirled in the gentle breeze.

A LEVEL OF COMFORT

A clock on the wall still tracks the time
but the keepers of time have gone.

The Shadows are stacked deep in the corners,
spilling out and creeping over the edges of the walls,
and high into the rafters.

Once brightness, softness, and renewal were kept here
in color-coded aisles and neatly piled rolls.

Nothing but darkness and ruin are stored here now.

The eerie, shape-shifting blackness
offers a protective arm
to a small creature,
concealing it and granting it safety.
It scurries, heard but not seen, into a hole.

The oppressive remnant smells
of stale dust, old metal, and the sourness of failure
sit heavily in the air.

The concrete floor is dirty and littered,
hard and unforgiving.
It mocks what once was sold here.

Orders, measured in kilos or nickel and dime bags,
rather than square yards, feet and inches,
are now taken and filled
in this vast emptiness.

Homeowners seeking a floor for their feet
have been replaced by the homeless
seeking a roof over their heads.

Both came here searching for a higher level of comfort
(as we all do).

Each to his own, both found what they were looking for here.