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Bright Yellow Morning
by Wayne Thomas (Age: 58)
copyright 04-12-2007


Age Rating: 10 to 127

 
Back in the 'fifties it was,
two kids on the coast of Maine.
Best friends we were,
and being best friends, we played.
Not with electronic doo-dads,
(for the most part, except for
Lionel trains, they hadn't been
invented).
And we played:

Down to the harbor,
a ten-foot skiff could serve
as a yacht or a battleship,
depending on our whim.
Tie a bed sheet to an upright pole
and that little boat became
a dreaded pirate ship,
terror of the Spanish Main.

Back home, in the back yard,
a wooden ladder on two sawhorses,
crossed with a pine board,
add a couple of kitchen chairs,
and we had us an airplane
that could take us dang near
anywhere,
from the bleak beauty of the Yukon,
to the steaming Amazon rain forest,
or the front lines of World War,
along our own scenic New England coast,
wherever we wanted,
anywhere.

On Grandpa's farm,
with another friend or two,
we'd roam the woods
armed with our little hatchets,
and with saplings and pine boughs
we'd make us a wigwam,
snug as you please,
and we were mighty Iroquois warriors.
We taught ourselves how to track deer,
and how to get so close to a doe
we could pat her on the rump.

And at Auntie's with the cousins,
we'd make wonderful tree forts
in the big pine across the dooryard.
We had to wash our hands in turpentine,
but who worried about that.

Or the schoolyard games, ah, yea:
baseball,
football,
dodge ball,
kick the can,
a rousing game of tag.
(soccer was still foreign in those days.)

One way or another, being kids,
we played,
and everyone, darn it, had fun.
And if some girls snagged one of us off
into playing house,
the rest of didn't know whether
to hoot or be jealous.

Those are more or less fine times
to remember,
but then we grew up,
and our kids don't know how to play.




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