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Unriled Joy after James Whitcomb RILEY When the Frost is on the Punkin

Unriled Joy

When the current links computer screen to internet online,
when the 'Royal Crown' is fairly set upon fair features fine,
Then her sweetness sempiternal needs no coffee to invent
pure parody from paradise, no syllables misspent.
Far from ice and snow know Florida is haven of the Gods -
It even switched Obama which upset some Harris clods,
and all praise her peerless poems their true laurel leaves assign
When the current links computer screen to internet online.

4 January 2009

after When the Frost is on the Punkin James Whitcomb RILEY 1849_1916
and My Life of Riley Joy BURKI-WATSON 1950_20xx

When the Frost is on the Punkin

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here —
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock —
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries — kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below — the clover overhead! —
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse saussage, too! ...
I don't know how to tell it — but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on ME —
I'd want to 'commodate 'em — all the whole-indurin' flock —
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

James Whitcomb RILEY 1849_1916

RILEY James Whitcomb 1849_1916 rile1_0004 PXX_NXX When the Frost is on the Punkin_When the Frost is on the Punkin

My Life of Riley

When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face,
I am adding cubes to coffee as I dream of breathing space.
‘Cause I know I’m in the tropics and it’s time to plan my day,
‘Fore the sun gets any hotter, with its radiant display.
There is somethin’ quite instinctive ‘bout the way I just accept
How my mind slips quick to thinkin’ ’bout that place that’s cool and wet.
It’s a Southern sort-of posture that is met with Southern grace,
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face.

There’s a beach that’s surely waitin’ with white sand and standin’ seas,
Where the wind is surely playin’ in the arms of swayin’ trees.
So I’m packin’ up my cooler, with six-packs of Royal Crown
Stackin’ up the bread with fixins’, then I’m icin’ them all down.
Grab my beach bag from the table, where it parks right handily
Grab a towel, and grab some lotion - don’t forget the MP 3.
I can leave behind my troubles - send my frown to outer space,
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face.

There is somethin’ kinda steamy ‘bout the weather we have here,
Not exactly like a sauna - ‘cause it’s saltier than there.
All the orange trees seem to love it as do lemons and key limes,
And the many bloomin’ flowers - Spanish moss and clingin’ vines.
At the beach the coolin’ breezes tease my senses all day long,
While I sit ‘neath my umbrella with my too-cool Raybans on.
I can dream that I am sailin’, leave behind that old home place,
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face.

There’s no point in belly achin’ ‘bout the rain that’s overdue
I just wipe my brow and ponder all that Northern folks go through.
They’re shovelin’ snow and scrapin’ ice - and a’missin’ all this bliss
Where warmin’ winds kiss cooler seas, there is naught to find amiss.
I can think of nothin’ finer than the joy of surf and sand,
All my senses stand elated - sated by this promised land.
Florida the land of sunshine - holds me in its warm embrace,
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face.

http: //allpoetry.com/poem/4891765

poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
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