Selected Poems of Terry a. O'Neal
selected published and unpublished work
my backyard
in my backyard
green grass grows
and flowers bloom in spring
and little black girls sing
freedom ring…freedom ring…
in my backyard
tip toe to full blown
the mind’s eye wanders
to places unknown
and little black girls sing
freedom ring…freedom ring…
in my backyard
fluffy dandelions blow
linger in the air
then fall like snow
and little black girls sing
freedom ring, freedom ring
​
in my backyard
weeds sprout year ‘round
golden strands sway like hips
to the Moroccan drum sound
and little black girls sing
freedom ring, freedom ring
​
in my backyard
long thorns shoot
from berry bushes closing in
with poison at the root
and little black girls sing
freedom ring, freedom ring
​
in my backyard
stretching tall i stand
in search of the promise land
(i peek through cracks; stare through holes
beyond the fence where nobody knows i exist)
and little black girls sing
freedom ring, freedom ring
the impatient reader
she wasn't the prettiest story
​
fear and bitterness pushed her through the climax
peeking ahead, she knew what awaited her on the other side
though the road ahead would be thorny
the promise was well worth her pain and suffering
and, so, the pages turned
as she journeyed down the falling action
toward the horizon
Doormat
birds sing to the wind chimes
hanging from the limbs of a tree
while the neighbor's dog cries wolf
through gaps between the pickets.
it's that time again.
sweetness is filling the air.
I stared from an open window
through tiny holes in the screen
as she rough-handled it like a disobedient child--
shaking vigorously,
she battered it with the handle of a feeble broom;
to chase away pesky dust mites
that gathered last fall.
after hours playing tug of war
they had enough,
to a truce, they came.
both lose, again.
and so, she hung it out on the line to rest;
absorbing the freshness of outdoors
and the energy from the sun.
well-worn with smudges and soiled boot prints,
the stench of fried fish
and the soot of drunken tales
slowly ripped away,
floating in the wind by pollen
drifting from one shrub to another
to the next--
only to reproduce a brand-new crop
next spring.
tomorrow is
made for those to discover what yesterday
held close to her bosom beneath a blue cloth
wailing chants flutter on moth wings to the moon
a mystery left unsolved to bygone days
and unpaved shallow roads bearing the raw truth
masked dance on dormant dreams
weep a lowly croon
a folktale adorned with obscure reflections
in murky waters at the edge of a creek
wailing chants flutter on moth wings to the moon
blind to the twisting, turning, spiraling storm
ripping through the heartbeats of promise unseen
masked dance on dormant dreams
weep a lowly croon
awakened and wandering in pitch blackness of day
balancing a tightrope wearing lofty hope
wailing chants flutter on moth wings to the moon
a thief out to satisfy his thirsty soul
bearing no mercy for what is destined near
he basks in contentment and reverie while
wailing chants flutter on moth wings to the moon