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Poetry
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Slow Cotton Waltz
By bwoz
31 March 2007
It was an assignment, or exercise, to use the words 'blue', 'cotton' and 'glass' in a poem. This is my effort

One day became the next
when I was a kid running
on the wind, across forever fields

to my cousin’s house, and cotton fields
with people picking, singing in slow motion
not a hurry in the world then

The sky was always blue there,
even in the rain, I always saw blue
and I remember it that way

The sky was deeper blue
in the shade by cotton bales,
talking about Betty and Veronica

Until old men chased us away with words
and we’d run to Ferrero’s store
stare at all the sweet stuff for sale

Didn’t have a nickel then
but when I could I’d put my face 
low against the glass and breathe fog 

Reviews

Written by Lizzy (790 comments posted) 31st March 2007
Well done. It made me smile and think back. I liked 'running across forever fields' just how children see large spaces. 
You used the assigned words very well. 
Lizzy

Written by Phil (6681 comments posted) 31st March 2007
Forever fields - lovely. 
 
Not a fan of 'forced' poetry, but this is very good. It really appealed to the senses and left me with some clear images and emotions. Well done. 
 
Phil
it works
Written by mmSeason (32 comments posted) 1st April 2007
I too liked "across forever fields" and i picked up a sense of doing the same thing summer after summer - as well as the fields being wide. 
 
Maybe the middle could be tightened up, with the repetition of "the sky was" - sags a bit around there - but overall it's great, and i like the ending too. 
 
mand (whose "Missed" also began as an exercise in including certain words)

Written by ellipinnock (1753 comments posted) 1st April 2007
I found this really evocative. you could strengthen it but I got something out of it as is. 
 
Elli

Written by Mwils21 (2 comments posted) 4th April 2007
I liked it!!! Specialy the end, how you incorporated "glass" into the poem. Very creative
Slow Cotton Waltz II
Written by bwoz (125 comments posted) 21st November 2007
Based on much appreciated comments, here is a revised draft. Took a while. Sorry for that. 
 
BW 
 
Time was everything; when  
I was a skinny kid running across  
furrowed fields to my cousin’s house  
near Bo’mont. I can still hear the slow tempo 
of someone singing Too hot to fish,  
guess we best pick cotton.  
The world did not hurry then. 
 
The sky was always blue there,  
even in the rain, I always saw blue  
and I remember it that way.  
A deeper sea of shade filled the dirt lanes  
between tall cotton bales, stacked two high 
in two rows of ten.  
 
We sat in the coolness between the lanes, 
our own small Senate amidst Roman columns,  
and we talked about Betty and Veronica  
until Pete’s dad chased us away with false anger.  
We’d run to Ferrero’s store, sit on the curb  
and stare at all the sweets for sale.  
 
Didn’t have a nickel then  
but I don’t remember wanting, anything. 
I would put my face against the glass  
and breathe fog. That seemed to be enough. 
Now machinery is the master of those fields.  
No dirt lane, no tempo, no time remains 
only the asphalt and a weedy lot, 
a swap meet where we used to dream. 

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