Stomp The Yard Poem by devon da poet

Stomp The Yard



Wake up early darling, don't let the sun rise on you in bed.
For it's already morning, the moon is already dead.
There is work to do, stop yawning, lift your sleepy head.
Get dressed quickly for the yard is calling, the sky is getting red.

Every day it's summer, it's always hot, but there are too much work to do.
Out wearing boots and jumpers, the hard work began.
Muscling the yard, mowing the lawn,
Cleaning the barn, molding the corn.

All of a sudden, as we stomp the yard, we sang songs.
The kids across the road were playing skipping ropes, and they also sang along.
The sheep and goats made their sound.
The donkey brayed and the cattle's moo-d.
Then came the mail man and the dogs got rude.

Joyous and peaceful, it's our family ritual,
Every Saturday morning stomping the yard.
It's the way we grew up in the Caribbean.
Our grandparents taught us such traditions.
We had no televisions nor play stations.
We made fun with nature and all of God's creation.

We stomped our feet as the drum beat boomed.
And listened to the conch shells as the jacks van drove on,
Slowing down at everyone's home just checking to see who is buying.
The jacks were laid down on banana leaves in the back of the vehicle,
Creating easy access for the people.
It was good food back in those days.

With battery lead and match sulphur, the kid made bombs.
Bursting bamboos in the peach road was really fun too.
Mangoes and oranges dirtying clothes but the kid never really noticed.
After a belly full it was time to block the road.
Wood, stones, brick and even buckets.
I watched them ran as the vehicle drivers chase them through the bushes.

At the end of a tiring weekend was time to rest.
All the parents came outside searching and claiming their innocent little angels, as they stomp the yard retreating to their homes.
Our heart were filled with joy.
The old days of togetherness and love, these days are really over.
These were time when money didn't matter and jobs were easier to find.
Now it's "yours is yours" and "mine is mine".

Saturday, August 9, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: childhood
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devon da poet

devon da poet

Sauteurs, Grenada
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