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.