Crayons in the Sun

Halloween 2011

Harold Boulette Jr — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 11:43:24 GMT

To things that go “THUMP!”
And rattle and bump
And “thipt-thipt, thipt-thipt”¹ in the night,

To spooky, old houses
And noisy, grey mouses
That give us a wonderful fright,

We give you our thanks
For whistles and clanks
And barks so much worse than the bite,

'Cuz scary is fun
On more days than one,
But especially Halloween night!

Comments by ZingerBug.com

1 - My idea of the sound a bat makes when flying.

The Door

Harold Boulette Jr — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 12:16:49 GMT

He knocked and he knocked and he knocked at the door
but nobody came to let him in.
So he knocked and he knocked and he knocked at the door
and he knocked at the door again.

He wouldn't give up, he knew a great treasure was known
to be hidden beyond the door
So he rubbed his sore hands and rested, then he knocked
and he knocked 'til he could knock no more.

He sat down to rest and he started to think
“perhaps the great treasure is really quite small.
I've done without it 'til now after all;
we have all done without it since the great fall.”

But he'd been there so long, he just couldn't give up
So he stood and he tried it once more.
He knocked and he knocked at the great wooden door.
He knocked and he knocked 'til his hands were too sore.

Than he sat and rested and racked his brain: why is
no one coming to let me in?
Surely there must be someone inside to guard a treasure so Great?
If I can't get inside, how can I possibly win?

So he stood up again and wiped blood from his knuckles
and knocked on the door once again.
He knocked and he knocked and he knocked at the door,
still nobody came from within.

This place is abandoned, the treasure now gone
that's the only solution I see.
If no one will come to answer the door, than there must
not be anything in there for me.

So he walked away sadly, giving up on the dream
there was nothing inside like before.
And he never noticed the small sign that read:
“Turn the latch and come on in” that had fallen off of the door.

This poem still needs work, but I decided to go ahead and post this version since I haven't posted anything on this blog for quite a while. I can always add an updated version later.

Marching off to War

Harold Boulette Jr — Thu, 28 Apr 2011 13:39:00 GMT

Marching, marching, left and right, left and right
Red, bricks, red bricks, off to war. Win the fight! Win the fight!
Marching straight and so in step, they only know one way,
Bricks cannot bend, or see a path beyond the one today.

Who to fight? Who to fight? That remains the question.
For we cannot have an army if they never face aggression.
So let us fight the river rocks, their roundness so offending,
And then we can assume control of all the water vending.

Marching bricks, marching bricks, cannot bend or weave,
But maybe they could do it once, if they could just believe.
Marching bricks, marching bricks, let's pitch them in the sea
And let the waters round them off until they learn to be.

My Poetry eBook

Harold Boulette Jr — Sun, 27 Mar 2011 12:29:00 GMT

I have published an eBook of my poetry. It is available on Amazon for Kindle and compatable devices and on Barnes & Noble for Nook and friends. For more information, and links to purchase, go to my authors web site.

Pebbles

Harold Boulette Jr — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 10:41:00 GMT

How many pebbles on the beach? One million, maybe two?
Yet the only one that matters is the one inside my shoe!

How many fish are in the sea? One million I would bet.
But the only one I care about is caught inside my net.

How many olives grew on that ancient olive tree?
Yet the only one that matters is the one that's choking me?

The Glass

Harold Boulette Jr — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 11:26:00 GMT

Sometimes, the glass half empty,

Sometimes, the glass half full,

And sometimes, though quite rarely,

We realize both are true.

The Weekend Before Christmas

Harold Boulette Jr — Sat, 18 Dec 2010 10:18:00 GMT

'Tis the weekend 'fore Christmas and all through the mall
It's more hectic then a game of peewee football.
The jeweler is trying to unload more bling
With a hunky-boy Santa and angels on wing.
The clothing store offers discounts galore
On the rest of the sweaters, and very much more
While out in the center, there arose a great noise
When the toy store announces a raffle of toys.
So we buy and we buy, 'til our credit card dies,
Then head back home to bake fresh pumpkin pies.
Then wonder why we fall into this trap
As we head to our beds for a long winters nap.

Elderberry Wine

Harold Boulette Jr — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 10:35:00 GMT

Elderberry wine, take a sip of mine,
It will bring you back to a simpler time.
When man would tip their hats when walking past a lady
And lady's didn't go to a place that everyone called shady.

Elderberry wine, take a sip of mine,
It will bring you back to a simpler time.
A time when entertainment meant gathering with friends
To discuss news of the day or latest fashion trends.

Elderberry wine, take a sip of mine,
It will bring you back to a simpler time.
When meals were ate at home, and afternoons for tea
At least that's how it's pictured by nostalgia fans like me.

I Wonder (a list Poem)

Harold Boulette Jr — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 08:15:00 GMT

I wonder why the bread from the supermarket is double wrapped but the meat only once.
I wonder what anyone would even have a barrel full of monkeys.
I wonder: how exactly do you worry a wart?
I wonder if my watch sometimes plays tricks on me by jumping forward when I'm not looking.
I wonder if people who mysteriously disappear end up in a place full of mismatched socks that disappeared from dryers.
I wonder what becomes of the great ideas that pop into your head in the middle of the night and can't be remembered when you get up in the morning.
I wonder why we listen to demons who want us dead and ignore angels who want us to live.
I wonder why we buy things we don't need, then complain that we're broke.
I wonder why the earth doesn't move out from under me when I jump up into the air.
I wonder what pepperoni would do for a living if pizza hadn't been invented.
I wonder what kind of fertilizer you use at a fish farm.
I wonder if you can do crop sharing at a fish farm.
I wonder: If water can burn (very polluted water), then can fire get wet?
I wonder if the people who work on cruise ships go to an office building for vacation.
I wonder why I wonder at all instead of just going with the flow like a piece of driftwood.

List poems don't look like traditional poetry, but they are fun to do.

A Puppy's Life Pantoum

Harold Boulette Jr — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 10:23:00 GMT

Bark and chase the kitty.
Have something to eat.
Chew on a squeaky toy.
Now take a nap.

Have something to eat.
Lick the skinny kid's face.
Now take a nap
Before dinner.

Lick the skinny kid's face.
Chew on a squeaky toy
Before dinner.
Bark and chase the kitty.

Chew on a squeaky toy.
Run from the skinny kid.
Bark and chase the kitty.
Take another nap.

Run from the skinny kid.
Chew on a squeaky toy.
Take another nap
On the skinny kid's lap.

The repetition of a pantoum seemed a perfect format for describing the life of a puppy.

I Remember (A List Poem)

Harold Boulette Jr — Fri, 24 Sep 2010 10:57:00 GMT

I Remember when penny candy really did cost a penny.
I Remember when cars had tail fins the size or airplane wings.
I Remember when black & white television was a fantastic new invention.
I Remember when cats and dogs ran loose all day and night and nobody complained about it.
I Remember when it was safe for a kid to walk to a friends house alone, even if it was a mile away.
I Remember when a cloths dryer was a piece of rope strung between two trees.
I Remember when you walked to school unless it was more than a mile from your house.
I Remember when a busy weekend meant swimming in the lake then a movie at the drive-in.
I Remember when parents had to yell at the kids to get them into the house.
I don't remember exactly when it all changed.

This is actually the first list poem I wrote, but I decided to post the other one first because this one is so short. I may add to it in the future.

Greek Garden Pantoum

Harold Boulette Jr — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 21:44:00 GMT

Vine ripened tomatoes
Perfect for Greek salad
With large, yellow onions
To add a little zing.

Perfect for Greek salad:
Cucumbers and peppers
To add a little zing
Along with feta cheese.

Cucumbers and peppers
With onions, large and yellow
Along with feta cheese
And vine ripened tomatoes.

I'm not sure, but I think this is my first pantoum.

Sometimes I Feel Like

Harold Boulette Jr — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 07:23:00 GMT

Sometimes I feel like a half eaten blueberry muffin.
Sometimes I feel like giving up and doing nothing forever.
Sometimes I feel like running and running until I collapse.
Sometimes I feel like painting everything purple. Then blue. Then red...
Sometimes I feel like bombing my house so I won't have to clean it.
Sometimes I feel like driving off with no idea where I'm going just to see where I end up.
Sometimes I feel like I haven't got a friend in the world.
Sometimes I feel like I have too many friends.
Sometimes I feel like running through a forest naked.
Sometimes I feel like hiding under the bed until everything goes away.
Sometimes I feel like buying something I don't want just so I can send it back.
Sometimes I feel like an apple in an orange juice factory: unwanted, but happy about it.
Sometimes I feel like screaming until somebody really listens to what I'm saying.
Sometimes I feel like a fly that's enjoying a pizza that was just put in the oven.
Sometimes I feel like staying at a hotel and leaving them some tiny bars of soap.
Sometimes I feel like taking off my shoes and running through puddles.
Sometimes I feel like climbing high up in a tree, then calling the fire department to come rescue me.
Sometimes I feel like painting polka dots on my dogs so they can ride on the fire truck.
Sometimes I feel like eating whatever tastes good without worrying about calories.
Sometimes I feel like calling my home number and leaving myself a message.
Sometimes I feel like actually listening to the message I left. And sometimes not.

My first list poem. I will be doing more in the next few weeks.

Dancing on the Moon

Harold Boulette Jr — Fri, 21 May 2010 11:18:00 GMT

Sometimes, dancing on the moon is something we must try
To keep the rust of everyday from sending us to die.
So mix up a new color to paint those graying cellars,
And discover beauty hidden in songs of unknown colors.
Then sing the songs found in your heart, and dance a little more
Before your life has ended and your gravestone reads: “A Bore”.

This poem still needs work, but I decided to post it anyway and I can post an updated version in the future.

The Metamorphosis of Snow

Harold Boulette Jr — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 14:12:00 GMT

So gentle does the snowflake fall
Like the smallest downy feather
Yet when I need to shovel
It's tough as rhino leather!

On Writing Poetry

Harold Boulette Jr — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 12:54:00 GMT

Just grab a pen and scribble down all thoughts inside your head
Then worry them and mangle them until they're nearly dead
Then find the ones that still show life
And teach them how to sing.

The Moon Came out on Sunday

Harold Boulette Jr — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 09:48:00 GMT

The moon came out on Sunday
But the clouds did hide his shame
For rising on the sun's day,
He really was to blame.

“Just a minute” said the moon,
The sun offends me too
By shining forth on Monday
The day that I shine true.

So moon and sun agreed to share
The sky on every day
Until the time of Great Change comes
And one will melt away.

Christmas Bell

Harold Boulette Jr — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 11:53:00 GMT

Its Just a Christmas bell
From an old time Christmas tree
Yet when it starts to ring
My soul will sing to me.

It isn't made of gold or silver,
Just brass with a tin clapper
But the heavenly sound it makes
Defies it's mortal wrapper.

I don't know where it came from
Or how long it's been around,
But I will have it 'till I die
And leave it to be found

By someone else who's ready
To fall under it's spell
And let their soul start singing
When they hear the Christmas bell.

This poem was previously published on my spiritual blog.

Autumn Haiku 2009

Harold Boulette Jr — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 08:25:00 GMT

cold autumn day
leaves fallen from the trees,
purple asters.

piles of wet leaves
under naked trees--
box turtle sleeps

the autumn trees
stripped of leaves--
hard to tell apart

through naked branches
on an autumn morning--
bright sunlight

One Show Ballerina

Harold Boulette Jr — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 21:45:00 GMT

A one-show ballerina,
She twirls and spins and glides,
Colors flashing in the light
She shows her many sides.

But now her dance is over
She’s landed in the grass
To be racked with other leaves
Her first show was her last.