[stylist] Ghosts of yesterday poem
Ashley Bramlett
bookwormahb at earthlink.net
Thu Jan 12 02:11:04 UTC 2012
Hi,
Was this about a school for the blind that closed? It says its an empty
building now.
-----Original Message-----
From: Barbara Hammel
Sent: Monday, December 05, 2011 4:26 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Ghosts of yesterday poem
Okay, here’s a poem I wrote earlier this year. After I get done reading the
last book in The Earth’s Children series, I intend to try writing more
poems—I have my seasons sestinas to finish up—and maybe I can be taught how
to write better by taking criticism and change things before I consider it a
final draft.
Here goes:
GHOSTS OF YESTERDAY
These hallowed halls are haunted
By the ghosts who, yesterday,
Were the life and breath of Iowa Braille
But now have gone away.
You can hear their footfalls echo
Off the sturdy limestone walls,
And if you listen closely
You can hear their childish calls.
Almost a century and a half
Of memories linger here.
As I roam these silent hallways
On my cheek there falls a tear,
For in the utter stillness
All those children hold their breath,
Their ghostly hearts are terrified
Of their forever death.
But sometimes in the silence
All those sunny smiles of old,
Overwhelm my heart with gladness
And more joy than I can hold.
These hallowed halls are haunted
And if you can walk on by
Without hearing or seeing those darlings
Then you haven't ear or eye
For the history that lingers,
Which we wish to not let go.
But the times they are a-changin',
And you new folks just don't know.
To you it's just a building
That was built in days of yore
To house and teach blind people,
Nothing less and nothing more.
The facts of its existence
You can hold inside your head:
What classes were taught and where,
And when and what was fed.
There are piles and piles of pictures
Of people you never knew,
And lists of names not familiar,
So don't know which goes with who.
And, frankly, in your forward-looking,
Futuristic sight,
You don't want to think of haunted halls
When you turn off the light.
You don't want to walk by daylight
And glimpse a little shadow pass,
You don't want to, in the quiet,
Hear light tread of lad or lass.
You don't want to sense the presence
Of the children we used to be,
All our talk of ghosts that haunt here
Is making you feel creepy.
But these hallowed halls are sacred
To us oldtimers of the place,
We don't find it creepy to meet
Ghosts of our childhoods face to face.
Those piles and piles of pictures
Of people you never knew
Have names we find familiar,
We know which goes to who.
And we know when they attended
And friends they might have known,
And friends of friends who knew them
Till our web of connection has grown.
This isn't just a building
That was built in days of yore,
To house and teach blind people.
It is ever so much more.
It was home away from home to us,
This Braille Jail, some would say,
But the grown-ups owed our parents
Safety for us to learn and play.
These limestone walls and hardwood floors
Hold precious memories
You new folks just can't grasp because
They're not your used-to-bes.
You never saw it thriving with
The clamor of children at play,
Or with classrooms of children learning
Or large and small kids bowing to pray.
For you this is an empty shell,
The life has ceased to be,
So you're filling it with strangers;
Crowding out its history.
Those little lisping whispers
And the steps upon the floor
Are our imagination
That you wish you could ignore.
But these hallowed halls are haunted
By the ghosts who, yesterday,
Were the the life and breath of Iowa Braille,
But now have gone away.
Let every nation know whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay
any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose
any foe, in order to assure the survival and the success of liberty.--John
F. Kennedy
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