MY MAMMY’S POND
Those were the nights
Hounds bayed in the distance,
A coon being hunted in the yellow moon lite.
Bullfrogs gathered for a summertime opera
Baritone groans alive come twilight.
The rain had just passed
The old grey board farmhouse
And sang in the hay.
Opposite the right bank
A night owl beat cool winds
Rushes whistled, past cattail cotton
That springtime evening at my Mammy’s place.
Just like a snare drum in a jazz tune from the ’50s,
Cicada would soften,
A distant train’s roar
Way off in the night,
A Gator croaks loudly as he sits on the levee,
In search of a mate,
The love of his life.
Treefrogs chirped softly in a breeze filled with wildlife,
The night now alive in winds from a storm,
Beatdown and blew in the fast-moving rains,
That springtime evening at my Mammy’s farm.
Tonight, was a night where tales would be answered,
In wildcat screams and mule deer calls
A midnight serenade, of sorts from the hoot owls,
High and far out on beams top the barn.
Moonlight danced brightly along glistening streams,
Ducks would be calling in whistles and quacks,
And way in the distance rumbling thunder as the serenade blossomed from memories way back.
These were the sounds heard in the spring nights,
A childhood remembrance of which I am found,
No place have I ever recalled or cherished,
No place like those nights on my Mammy’s pond.