My Jouncing Gait During Boyhood

(an All Poetry feat to walk in
the poetic feet of Robert Frost)

Bucolic New England, circa

Early twentieth century New England

awash with dynamic harmonic leisureliness,

when much of North America favored rustic

visual whirled wide webbed watercolor

waiting afield at dusk, the thrum

of nature all abuzz didst feed thine

dizzily green jovial mien

unlike mean Gary Lewis

veritable innocence and naiveté

rollicked with mine lanky frame

relishing ambling into my own quietude

an infinite breadth, length and scope

of infrequently trammeled near virgin

woodland paths grown over with brambles

nonetheless a faintly trussed harbinger

marked by weatherbeaten

for sale signposts

with here and there an abandoned plow

long since given over

to rust when the pasture

seasons elapsed since

farmer(s) left unharvested

fecund fields absent

the cloven hoof,

and deprived enrichment

manure, sans ungulates

ceased sufficing healthy

free ranging bovines,

where etudes punctuated

the terribly gross fresh air,

now no longer audibly quickening,

snapchatting, nor twittering

with the last word of a bluebird

deathly silence now 'cept

the wind in the willows

whispering woebegone laments

tree tops pining to cradle

idle youthful dreamers

boughs devoid of

psalm quivering romantic songstress

clattering debris merely

delivering echoed whooshing refrains

continually disintegrating among

in a disused graveyard

prescient ken aches with nostalgia

hallucinogenic nightmare slams

irrevocably shut the door in the dark

closed for good upon the onset,

wrought genocide against

the vanishing Red man,

a ghostly scarification meaningless ritual

wrested, removed, and highjacked

from indigenous peoples

without rhyme, nor reason

as fraternities no

longer pledge allegiance.