The weeks are whizzing by, even with staying at home every day. At first the pace was slow, but now a rhythm has set in, and it’s hard to believe that Thursday is here again.
My husband usually has little to say about my writing life. But when we were canoeing on Mother’s Day, he saw an old cabin and commented, “This photo wants to be a poem.” Oh, yeah? I guess I better take the picture then.
Every time we go out on the bayou and paddle, something new draws our attention. I’m sure this old cabin, storage shed, whatever has been there a long time. We only just noticed. I’m inclined to think that this place may need a whole story, maybe even a ghost story. You can decide.
Leave a small poem in the comments and be sure to comment on a few other responders. Building a community of writers is a goal for this weekly prompt.
The place out back,
Margaret Simon, draft
one room,
wood-slatted floors,
straw broom for sweeping roaches…
home.
Reflections on the Teche 
one of my favorite words for ending any poem is home. It’s such a drawing to comfort, homebase, one’s one space. What an intriguing old structure. Off to write!
Thanks, Linda. I went back and forth with that last word. And finally decided to let it rest.
This reminds me of today’s tiny houses. An old broom sweeping, just the thing you’d likely find there. What is its story? My mother always loved recalling the poem she’d learned as a child, “The House with Nobody in It.”
Ack! I was with you until “roaches.” Shudder. One thing I do NOT miss about living in Florida, that’s for sure! I love that your husband chimed in. Randy suggested quite a few 15 Words or Less photo subjects for me over the years :>)
Roaches are a part of every day life here. I just pick them up, shudder, throw them away. Icky, but better than snakes any day.
Noooooooo. THose must be different from Florida roaches, which are, thank god, too fast to pick up. I’m still shuddering. Nope.
Oh I assure you they are dead before I pick them up.
When old Linc passed
he left the place
broomstick clean
key in a bowl
on the table.
Cypress and oak
congregated close
mourning sighs of kin
memorializing life
entertaining ghosts
I like the idea of leaving something “broomstick clean” and the personification of the trees. Nice!
Considering its rundown state and the open window, that image of the key in a bowl on the table is really strong, Linda.
“congregated” is the word that lifts this poem into something special!
“key in the bowl” creates a sense of absence. And I went with a ghost-like image too.
I imagine those loose boards at the base serve as a front door for some critters.Raccoons came to mind (had to look up the name for a group).
Once a home
for hard-working folk,
now a refuge
for a gaze of raccoons.
But no less hardworking, I’m sure. 😉 I had no idea a group of raccoons was called a “gaze”—it works so well in your poem, Rose.
Oh, love learning that a group of raccoons is a gaze. We have a gaze of them living under our deck. Ha!
I, too, did not know the word for a group of raccoons. We all need a refuge, don’t we?
Oh, that’s cool. Gaze is new to me….now I want to scamper off, wash it in a creek and nibble on it.
You captured this scene of coons well and with such brevity.
I love that roaches line, Margaret—it’s what makes the poem “real” to me. Your poem fits the photo so perfectly. Here’s mine:
no more
or less than she can handle
open window
Maybe not quite as perfect, but in my mind it works. 🙂
This is a poem of presence for me these days. I am balancing what I can handle. And that’s enough.
This speaks some honest truth!
once upon a time
someone thought to
add a brick walk
but time ran out
for anything fancy
This is such the way with left behind buildings, time ran out.
Ahh…I did not notice the bricks. I had to go back and look. Your poem reminds me a little of Abandoned Farmhouse.
Oh, that’s good…never saw the bricks. Perfect and not fancy
Your poem seems plucked out of an earlier time…
the faded notes
slip through the cracks
while the haunted lullaby
continues to play
on the bayou
oh, yes…. haunted for sure. I love the idea of music doing the haunting.
Ah, I love the idea of a lullaby playing. It must be a fiddle.
Leigh Anne,
I love the faded notes slipping through the cracks, like the old house yearns to tell us its story. A “haunted lullaby” captures the simple quality of this dwelling and makes us want to know more.
I love that your husband is spotting prompts for you! I think you’re right–there’s a story lurking here.
Ivy’s Home
Boarded windows,
crumbling walls.
Ivy grips and climbs,
staking her claim.
Perfect! Ivy is doing just that.
Ivy stakes her claim, and poisons any trespassers. Thanks for joining us!
staking her claim – great line!
Decades of family campouts were held here
With campfires and ghost stories shared and swapped
Like wampum between the cousins.
Papa’s gone now, and Granny, too
But their memories stand strong against
The seedlings that branch out and push against time.
Hi Barbara, Thanks for playing along today. Memories run deep in this place.
Wild Moments, Hidden Lives
Alone, the old cabin holds onto
musty laughter. Remembers
campfire chatter, broken windows,
broken lives.
Janet Clare Fagal
(draft)
I was drawn to wondering about the story the old cabin wants to tell. What are its memories, who loved it? How would they talk about the cabin.Thinking of rundown homes that were once beautiful in their new-ness always makes me wonder about how the place evolved, changed, provided solace to so many.
I love musty laughter and campfire chatter. It gives a sense of life to this old place.
Your last line, “home” erases all before and gives this old place dignity. Thanks for this provocative image Margaret, begging for story.
Old A-frame looms down
and warns from its blackened window,
Stay away forever, especially today…
Like a craggy old man, the cabin prefers to be alone.
Thank you, margaretsmn. I just happened upon this picture on Twitter, and it spoke to me.
I am thinking of this house and what it offers to the photographer. When in college, I had a photography assignment to create a spread. I traveled to the countryside to find the locale I needed to tell my story. There were many abandoned spots.
15 words or less / #PoemsofPresence
tucked in greenery
abandoned home nestles
quietly waiting
I get that feeling of waiting from the photo, too. As we are all waiting, it seems.