A Few Halloween Pumpkin Poems

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,

And the clackin' of the guineys and the cluckin' of the hens,

And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,

With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to fed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer's over and the cooling fall is here-

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;

But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of he corn,

And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

The stubble in the furries-kindo' lonesome-like, but still

A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below-the clover over-head!-

O, it sets my heart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

Then your apples is all gethered, and the one's a feller keeps

Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;

And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through

With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!-

I don't know how to tell it--but ef sich a thing could be

As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me--

I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock--

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

James Whitcomb Riley (1849 - 1916 )

A queer little pumpkin, a jolly fat fellow,

Stood close to his mother so rotund and yellow.

"What a stupid old place! how I long to aspire,"

Cried he, 'I was destined for something much higher."

'My son," said the mother, "pray do be content,

There's great satisfaction in life that's well spent!"

But he shrugged up his shoulders, this pumpkin, "tis true,

And acted just like some bad children will do.

With a shout and a whoop, in the garden they ran,

Tom and Ned, for they'd thought of the loveliest plan

To astonish their friends from the city, you see,

With a fine Jack-o"-lantern--"Ah, this one suits me!"

Neddie seized the bad pumpkin, and dug out his brains,

Til he felt so light-headed and brimful of pains;

Then two eyes, a long nise, and a mouth big and wide,

They cut in a minute, and laid him aside

Until night, when they hung him upon a stout limb,

With a candle inside; how his poor head did swim,

As they twisted him this way, then twirled him round that,

Till at last, with a crash, he fell on the ground flat.

A wreck of the once jolly, fat little fellow,

Who stood by his mother so rotund and yellow.

Just then a lean cow, who was passing that way,

Ate him up, just to finish HER "Thanksgiving Day."

           Author Unknown 

The butcher knife goes in, first, at the top

And carves out the round stemmed lid,

The hole of which allows the hand to go

In to pull the gooey mess inside, out -

The walls scooped clean with a spoon.

A grim design decided on, that afternoon,

The eyes are the first to go,

Isosceles or trapezoid, the square nose,

The down-turned mouth with three

Hideous teeth and, sometimes,

Round ears.  At dusk it's

Lighted, the room behind it dark.

Outside, looking in, it looks like a

Pumpkin, it looks like ripeness

Is all.  Kids come, beckoned by

Fingers of shadows on leaf - strewn lawns

To trick or treat.  Standing at the open

Door, the sculptor, a warlock, drops

Penny candies into their bags, knowing

The message of winter, only the children,

Pretending to be ghosts, are real.

        Mac Hammond  (1926 - 1997 )  

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