Gnome

 

Gnome.

There’s a gnome in the woods below my house.

He stands by a stump as quiet as a mouse.

He’s solid as rock, short and firm

Below the hill beside a berm.

He has a basket on his shoulder 

And a warm overcoat as the air grows colder

He leans his back against the wood

Looking like all the world is good.

His warm knit cap is pointed and red

And rests upon his dwarven head

Hair and beard wave and flow

On shoulders and chest as white as snow.

His boots have sunk into the loam

From standing still for oh so long

His belt is black around his waist

To hold his jacket in its place

Pants of green look worn but still

Weather storms and wind and chill

He looks content as there he stands

He seems to have no other plans

A clutch of flowers in his old left hand

Seems out of place in the wooded land.

But he’s stood there and held them for so long

It would seem strange if they were gone.

He watches the woods with stony eyes

As slowly the days have drifted by

Seasons come and seasons go

Summer sun and winter snow

I wonder what goes through his mind

As he stands in the woods lost in time

As his brilliant colors fade with age

Each day turning like a page

He’s seen the years both day and night

As squirrels, and deer, and time pass by

He doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak

He has no vision to go and seek

He spends his years quite alone

But doesn’t know how they have flown

Only I have seen those years

That he has stood in silence here

I sometimes pass him as I go

He doesn’t hear and doesn’t know

His smile is always there for me

But his ears can’t hear and his eyes can’t see

There’s a gnome in the woods below my house.

He stands by a stump as quiet as a mouse.

I say hello as I wander by.

And smile at the humor in his little eyes

© October 20, 2022

James L. Frady

 

The Old House

 

The windowpane of dirty glass

Kept the cold from getting past

The snow outside lay cold and still

On ground and tree and windowsill

The neighbor’s house not far away

Was alive with the sound of children’s play

But this old house up on the hill

Stood silent in the winter’s chill

 

One small chimney in the back

Puffing out a plume of black

Against the sky of cloudy gray

The only sign of life this day

Nothing stirred on porch or yard

Life itself seemed frozen hard

Inside the house though, anger raged

Within a man trapped by his age

 

No one stopped to say hello

They passed his drive and on they’d go

To town or visit with some friends

He wished someone would visit him

Day turned to dark and then expired

Still he sat beside his fire

Never came that friendly knock

Only the toll of the mantle clock

 

Why is it that no one cares?

To go and see who’s living there

When they pass, they sometimes slow

Then reconsider and on they go

“Much to busy, he won’t mind

if I come back some other time.”

Other times are busy, too

Soon enough it will be you

Shut in and so all alone

Trapped by age within your home.

 

©1990 James L.Frady

Note:  I wrote this 31 years ago and it still crosses my mind when I see an old house where someone appears to be still living.

Lonesome Music

 

Lonesome music.



The sound of wind whispering

through barren trees.

The far off cries

Of crows in flight

Trees rattling their limbs

against each other,

in the frigid air,

creaking as they sway.

A squirrel barks

and digs in fallen leaves,

Looking for a nut

That may have fallen there.

From a lofty hickory

Or an old majestic oak

The soft whistle of the wind

blowing down the mountain hollows.

Moaning an old, cold song

From the dawn of time.

Leaves rattling along the ground

seeking a resting place

where the air is still.

Chords of nature, mellow

And softly playing

To the listening ear.

Living breathing music,

Lonesome music from the ancient hills.



© James L Frady

November 14, 2021

Note:

It's not very often that I write a non-rhyming poem, but this one just fell into place this way after reviewing some thoughts from a trip into the woods on a cold and windy day.