Earlier Poems
Summer of Whistles
We used to walk down the tracks
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484 poems and collection versions across 8 books and collections

484 poems and collection versions
Earlier Poems
We used to walk down the tracks
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We wrapped ourselves in
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You bought a new bike...
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The Spring is yours, my friend.
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In the bright midday,
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The skin of my temples,
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You are silent as a tumor
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They say, "The flesh is weak,
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It began with the woman in the commercial:
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I see you like this:
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I don't need poetry
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I took my grandfather apart
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My grandfather was a loving man:
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When fall comes to the hills
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My wife's handwriting
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We flip slowly through these brown pictures of you,
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Contract signed,
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our daughter has had her one more story,
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in the round house of apron hands the smaller wood still cedar smoke,
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I've been shuffling
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Morning,
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When my mother called and told me you'd been crushed
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Old is piled in the corner gathering
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The black boy's belly was round,
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He hung the hammer
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...the bones of this feeling
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and the music in my pocket
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This green that sinks down
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and then the one that follows
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"If we stay out here much longer we won't go back
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The boy's Great Aunt Dora planned a "cozy little gathering" of fresh-packed cousins, aunts, uncles and other strangers
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I
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colorless grass pressed,
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Below the plane, the houses make Monopoly
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Writing poetry at 2 a.m. is like
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Water seeks out vulnerabilities---
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unwrapped from the tomb
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They were getting old and they didn't even know it. Joe smiled like the crowsfeet and the false teeth and the double chin didn't show--- weren't there. Marge walked just like the base of her neck didn't bow up and hump down into her spine--- just like the index and middle fingers of her right hand weren't twisting slowly, year by year as the knuckles grew to the size of chestnuts. Joe held that hand when they strolled down the aisle to find their seats, bought popcorn that they put between them, placing their hands in the sack together, later, fighting playfully over the last kernels. And as the movie progressed, Joe slid his arm behind Marge's thin shoulders, resting the crook of his elbow around her crooked back like they were made to fit like that. At the end of the show Joe would grin big as a kid or maybe cry and, either way, Marge would stretch over with her tiny face and kiss his chin, the touch soft as the muzzle of a colt. They would leave slowly, reluctant as lovers at the end of a long-awaited first date, wanting to stretch it out, wanting it not to end, waiting to see all the credits, hear the very last
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Cafeteria
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Jay used to ride around Lincoln NE
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The tractor is big and carries its own atmosphere, complete with Dolby noise reduction.
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Joshua sat still.
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Back where I belong, people eat black-eyed peas and collard greens, they sit in fenced in porches and smell the neighbor's trash burning and hear the cicadas buzz out in the pines and watch the darkness of twilight seep down the long straight lodge-pole trunks like molasses until it pools along the ground to mix with the dry needles.
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It's a very small cafeteria, I'm thinking,
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White on white,
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Wide, blue---
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The Spiritual Freak Show occurs
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Under my breath, sometimes,
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My bed sheets are too short
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The loose ceiling tile is over
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I have other sheep that are not of this fold. I must bring them also. They too will
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Coming toward me is
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Ruby stood about five- foot; two feet flowed out of those scarlet- poly pant legs where she stomped hatred
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It's not that I ever really
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In 1967 I was two
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The missionary is only 20.
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after Williams
Read poemGone to Seed
These are places
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Died June 2, 1852 Age 34 years, 5 months, 12 days. Legend says that
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Catalpa, ash, Russian olive---
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Under the powerline supports
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Barreling through with its only good eye
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For Leo and Marie Durnal who took us to their back yard
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We've settled in on the plains, a spray of prairie sage clinging
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As America expanded westward, this outpost in the Wyoming
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R. Nesbitt- 1855
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One of the themes of the trip was storytelling. I suppose Glady was the
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I The moss campion
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Off the highland plateau
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The freight whistle sounds, clatters over the periphery
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Three inches above my right wrist,
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Poem found on a blackboard
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I look up
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Something in dirt,
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The birches' bones
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Be a man.
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my daughter's pink bike
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thick,
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in Iowa,
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They say the world
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And she said,
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Ice houses light
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pale, slate green
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Jack had all the equipment---
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pushes his wood-
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We told my parents
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She's said herself the name of God,
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strangers--
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has him
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smells of wet soil
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(for Mark and Norm)
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1 We have a secret place
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Uncle Cecil lived
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Over the fence
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The elk head is watching me
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horses are running
Read poemCompelled to Ascend
we sit silent
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Sneakers and jeans sweeping
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And highways pool
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March 1995
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1
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We were freshmen
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Black-eyed Susans
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1
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Cottonwoods split their skins:
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The barn used to be red
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Mother has a thing
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She makes the dolls from dry husks
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Now ya don't use mink-oil on suede,
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You'll know the poem I'm sure
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She began wearing
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My toes are tightly encased
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1
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1
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Near our woodpile today I see the first garter snake of the year.
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You're lying
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In late winter the skeletons of trees come up through the thinning snow
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I was twelve when we built
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Every year
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Get a good run;
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Here on highway 6, between my feet, they've marked with orange spray-paint, the spot where you
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The cliff yawns,
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"Men of Galilee, why do you stand
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planes flew south
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from Hopkin's Spring
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thirty miles from town
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open range
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he winks his one good eye
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1
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the fields
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I'm burying my head deep
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snow drifts against
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1
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out where the town
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the hills shake out into rolling plains
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for Nebraska Youth Camp
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among the stones are live slivers
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1
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your laugh
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the weeds are stiff how fragile the bits
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it's no accident
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at night
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I bought bulbs
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last year I was always
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here where rusted three-inch nails
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she peers into the river
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based on words from Philip Larkin's "Talking In Bed"
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cows are moving
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"I am a dance—play up there"
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they've made a new stream
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She had black hair
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The chair next to the desk
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Lumpy mashed potatoes
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The snow is melting now
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They never have snow in Abilene
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the log trucks
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We heard it at the clinic
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I. Leaving Home
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She couldn't see to put on her makeup
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hangs just past shoulder length
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Her hand is small
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April 24, 1999
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is the Indian-head nickel
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we stole
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is there in her hand
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another bone not yet so old
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The drill instructor frowns over each poem he takes
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From an outcropping of rocks at Sheridan Lake, I'm listen to cracks travel across the frozen surface. The
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Between Bear Butte and Pierre
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Watch closely as I
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In the center of the table,
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The mountain is a pile
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Fanning out from the
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On the ceiling Adam is naked
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The mannequins
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They say love
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is wool
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The old man
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The day
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from a photo
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The houses squat
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In this dream
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Too cautious
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It has eyes
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I found it in the path—
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I'm opening the blue box already torn at the edge
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The sparkle
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So much depends
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Against the wall
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She works the clay
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Though they had laughed
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Hot sun
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Grandma struck a match
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I know exactly
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They caught him with the pictures—
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He drove the sky-blue
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1
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Adam
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lying in her room wind- ows close-
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For Sheryl
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You know, Scott I'm a cigar man
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I watch the sky
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Wings open:
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Spencer seemed too cultured
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The eyes
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With selected words from Wallace Stevens'
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after Frost
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1
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for my students
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With words selected from Mark Strand's
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The water is murky below,
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I never know how old you'll be when you
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This novel stillness
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With words selected from Li Young Lee's
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With selected words from Cesar Vallejo's
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They're a different breed,
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With selected words from César Vallejo's
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Sprinklers have stitched
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With selected words from Cesar Vallejo's
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With words selected from Wendell Berry's
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Mars has slipped another several thousand miles
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The day I gave up teaching
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Forgive me—you were unable to sleep and I was
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7:00 am: Breakfast
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Poem for Chuck H.
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Today, I'm reading the future
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In the yard
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At times, we are stripped down
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That afternoon he'd been stripped
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The man's kneecap
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The shard I lift is shaped like the rear-end of one of those
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I am sudden sunlight blinding in the busy intersection
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No shadows yet
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So the bell rang and we all punched out, but it's hard being the American, so many third-world countries
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for Mark Baldridge, 12-4-2008
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Like some sort of Thoreau
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has bright leaves
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The retreat agenda told me
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I grew up within that particular brand
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Posturing's rarely
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The prayer of the mind
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The voice that speaks us into engagement names, and in so many words, creates us
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Jacob stole his birthright,
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It takes a quiet place
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I
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outside my window
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Any rockslide's bound to leave a mark.
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Is that the universe is more space
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The grass is cut, laid out upon the stubble
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Each song, an embryo
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Out across this wide expanse of moving
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You walked into the room without asking for shape.
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In the quiet between instruction and reply,
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A sparrow cuts the sky in half
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Today I am out of clever.
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We gather in a room,
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You said weirdness is a side effect of awesome,
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My daughter slept on my chest for hours—
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It’s not a perfect metaphor.
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The lie is:
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Not the answer.
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The burro leans into her work, a sag
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They will ask you to list
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In the crowded hall, a boy folds
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Who have you touched today
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They gnaw quietly.
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The doors breathe open each morning.
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You forget the name
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In the silence
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A mother calls,
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It's not the worksheet,
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There were too many
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Gratitude,
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The shelves
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It doesn’t erase pain.
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Change the world,
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In the quiet morning,
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There’s a photograph
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I always announce
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My aunt sends cards
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You don’t look
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You cannot wear them,
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She touches your face
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There were shoes
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You are the center
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Two trees,
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Your name appears in a box—
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Today, the teacher taught
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My day is crowded:
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Sometimes it feels
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It’s a kind of quiet joy:
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The music was never the notes.
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It’s not always
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Someone told me silence
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The day begins with a buzz,
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I once thought my worth
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He shaped a perfect circle
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This is not the Christmas
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There is a child
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Most things don’t stay.
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You don’t look like that photo
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It is not once. It is again.
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Buy yourself a latte—
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She knows you want cream, no sugar.
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You meant to send a card.
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We enter this season carrying
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It was not the music, though
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She learned rhythm to keep time.
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They rush through the worksheet
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The new teacher still feels
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We are afraid, but we try anyway.
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I make a list:
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Step outside.
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The dog leans in, head
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A belly laugh steals
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This is your permission slip:
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You moved left, your
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In Australia, she kept
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She grew up west
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You sit between communities:
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Treopia never shouted.
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Night came quiet, lamplight
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I asked her once, “What happens
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She was 33 when her mother died.
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They don’t rush. They don’t
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Connection is energy,
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It starts with beans and hands
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The bell rings and I am
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Think of the person you trust
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Evenings once meant apples
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Someone knows how to build
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We came for reflection, not
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I grip the wheel tighter
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Right in the middle of the song,
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Be impeccable with your word,
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Sometimes you just sit. You drink
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One house had gravel falling
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Like a fishhook, like a trap
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Is it a pattern or a moment?
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She brought me tea when I was
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I’ve always loved the idea
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The table is new, but it’s
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Perhaps the world ends here,
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Close the door.
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They stink.
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When the house is quiet, after
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It was falling apart anyway— those
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I hated it— resistors, current,
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Not the sage, not the answer-giver,
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At first, I followed the guide—
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We can do this by the book—
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You don’t even hear
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We trained ourselves
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I pulled fabric from a shelf—
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They said we lost it— our free time.
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The quote was short—
Read poemRestoration Blues
They said the questions weren’t about right or wrong—
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We knew the answers by heart—
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Thank you, God, for the house,
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He stood tall in the temple,
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The worst kind of creed
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Inside, we spoke of love—
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We measured in square footage—
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He said, "Eat me,"
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We paved the lot,
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and built monuments to their names,
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We smiled wide for the photos,
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Faith has to include the questions—
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Mark bent down once,
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Fake it till you make it—
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It goes like this:
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The questions they asked
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We rolled our eyes at the ones
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The ship was good—
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They wanted off the ship—
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The ship was supposed to sing—
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Jacob wrestled all night—
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I was nine when I put my sinful self to death—
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They called themselves the remnant—
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I’ve rarely been really hungry—
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The greatest threat to faith
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They said God had a plan,
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I have to believe He meant it—
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They thought Him a fool—
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We built doors everywhere—
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Be thankful for what’s unseen—
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We’ve spent centuries
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no hidden costs.
Read poemRestoration Blues
They built Him tall,
Read poemRestoration Blues
Twenty years gone,
Read poemRelational Landscaping: The Human Terrain of Organizations
Someone knows how to build
Read poemRelational Landscaping: The Human Terrain of Organizations
In the breakroom,
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Shall we begin not with you
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We’d been at it again,
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She said “I’m fine”
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It isn’t the quarterly report,
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One tells of a grandfather’s hands,
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He set a small bowl
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I watch the neighbor step
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May your work be steady,
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The room is empty now,
Read poemRelational Landscaping: The Human Terrain of Organizations
For years I tried to set things right—
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Not all beginnings are loud.
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The shears are sharp,
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Two rivers meet—
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Not all that came before
Read poemCircleBridge: How Stories Bring Us Together
How shall I learn to treat you
Read poemCircleBridge: How Stories Bring Us Together
a story may rest
Read poemA Hush Between Seasons
This is where
Read poemA Hush Between Seasons
When fall comes
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This green
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White on white—
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The tractor hums
Read poemA Hush Between Seasons
There are stories
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What people forget
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Water
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For Kirk Miller
Read poemA Hush Between Seasons
We pulled old wool
Read poemA Hush Between Seasons
I see you like this:
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In the place where the water bends
Read poemA Hush Between Seasons
The bones
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“If we stay much longer,
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No one ever asked
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In the morning,
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The house cools early.
Read poemA Hush Between Seasons
I used to stand straighter
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Across the wide sweep
Read poemA Hush Between Seasons
Let the wind
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
I'm burying my head deep
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
most books begin
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
It has eyes
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
early childhood is a time of story-making
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
I’m opening the blue box
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
box
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
smells of wet soil
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
Living things and things
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
I see him there,
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
I’m that guy—
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
I know exactly
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
I’ve been colonized
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
It takes a quiet place
Read poemWhere the Growth Begins
I want you to tell me a story,
Read poemThe World We Mean
Nothing means anything.
Read poemThe World We Mean
The frame did not place meaning
Read poemThe World We Mean
Bees move through clover fields
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Sometimes the work begins
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Most days
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At first
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We like to imagine
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My friend called them
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A real conversation
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Assembly is fast.
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At first
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Most interpretations
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We talk about authenticity
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The first draft
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Working with a machine
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So who is speaking?
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Once you notice
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Over time
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Every morning
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I think of it sometimes
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Now language arrives instantly.
Read poemThe World We Mean
Surrender is not disappearance.
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Meaning does not stay put.
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Every word arrives used.
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Two people leave the same conversation
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Most participation is small.
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Now meaning moves faster.
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What changes most
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There is no final answer waiting.
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By the time the machine enters
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Speed changes attention.
Read poemThe World We Mean
The system feels intelligent
Read poemThe World We Mean
Calling it collaboration
Read poemThe World We Mean
Coherence is not the same
Read poemThe World We Mean
The old image
Read poemThe World We Mean
Meaning can be made badly.
Read poemThe World We Mean
In the theater
Read poemThe World We Mean
The machine speaks fluently.
Read poemThe World We Mean
A sentence is never finished
Read poemThe World We Mean
A simulation is useful
Read poemThe World We Mean
Far away
Read poemThe World We Mean
So attention returns again.
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The archive brings together poems from Scott Simpson’s books and collections. Collection-specific versions remain distinct so their wording and lineation can be preserved. The original anthology also retains its six section labels. Themes are discovery tags, separate from the poems. Prose, exercises, commentary, and quoted poems by other authors are excluded.
The poems are presented as selectable text in DM Sans, the website’s main body font. Original line breaks, stanza spacing, indentation, and placement are retained. Copyright footers, page numbers, and empty page margins are separated from the verse. Page continuations remain identified.