Posts for June 5, 2019 (page 9)

Consolidation closed it. Two rooms, a privy,
Water pump with basketball goal hung
On the Water Maple, clay dirt pounded
Into stone by boy feet. Girls not allowed.  

Farmer Florence volunteered the land
Way back, knowing kids need to read.
School  reverts to him after they bused kids
Miles away. Tenants came, settled in.
   
Two rooms lent space for tiny kitchen,
Water by hand pump, Warm Morning
In a corner, tidy, snug shelter for farm
Hand, his woman and kids that came.  

Measles pounced first on one then another.
All took it well but the baby. He would never
Hear another word. A sight how loud he cried
Soon his mother took to leaving him outside.  

Deaf and dumb went hand in hand. the shame
Fell on their little house. Billy left with scant hope, 
But was best at tobacco cropping back then 
When good hand skill was enough to save him.

Holds a teacher now, transformed, cute. Fits
For walls missing readin’ ritin’ rithmatic, kids. 
Oiled floors now covered with fancy tile, newspaper
Wrote it up, yet schoolhouse look lingers still.

I almost called headquarters
because I couldn’t understand

the Hispanic installers
but then decided I didn’t want

to be that person.   I kept checking
on them although I had no clue

what I was checking on.
White lady suspicion.

In a final storm, water coated the snow
leaving a slick glossy surface
You could walk upon it, the ice
holding your weight
We watched from the kitchen window as
the yard grew bright, reflecting mellow beams
from the porch lamps  

You could slide down fast,
contours of the land taking
you where they wished
The lowest point was near a stream
black trees encircling its deep banks
We sat and gazed up at the signs
I had seen these before, and here they were
again- Orion, the dippers
The house was now far away, a temporary arrangement
Its light brought out imperfections,
little melting streams
on the marbled surface  

I am far out, drawn up to a place where
warmth and heaviness seem unnecessary
I grasp for answers
as my space expands, as frozen ground
meets the sky, 
there is only blankness
something uncontainable
I realize that I am like the structure
built on the hill above us, small and rigid
The stellar expanses surround it, but
can never
enter      

Nothing’s finer than a gentle breeze
on a Sunday under black gum trees
in an outdoor café where I smell meat
and a blue-haired girl gives me a treat
while the guitarist playing the blues
kissed by the girl with loud tattoos
pays forward her largesse
by calling me over for a caress
as he sings “Walking the Dog”
treating the crowd to an epilogue.

she was all alone standing by the road
down there at that stop sign
where three counties meet
and nobody ever stops.
she had a high ponytail and freckles
and a little bit of a sunburn
and a bulging black trash bag

and a bulging pregnant belly
pushing her daisy dukes down low.
she couldn’t have been fifteen.
i hollered to ask if she needed help
and she looked up at me
and she said through a smile-
“i think it’s gonna be alright now.”

i didn’t have the heart to tell her
i didn’t believe her a bit.

(Found Poem
sourced by Bianca Spriggs’
urban legend fan fiction)

They keep knocking down buildings
I used to hang out in. Or changing them
into businesses where there’d
been a bar before. Or vice versa.

She had long, dark amber hair
and a star tattoo on the side of her neck.

I heard her laugh once in the middle of a crowd.
I don’t know her— I’m looking.

And that’s the last I remember of anything really.

Young lovers, swinging
in a blue hammock, hearts full
of desire: fresh, blind.

                                  for Stevie Nicks  

like a bell as forest crowns rock
and the ceiling of the sky unravels
with cats gathering in sacred séance
to call home all witches flocking
from love’s incense for the fondness
of darkness, for starless dream-dipping
while the mind unwinds and you see
them, rowdy skylarks, dusk-bathing
in the indigo bowl of night, reminding
you that your life knows no answer.

I
resist the urge
to  toss
everything from the shelves

I work myself
in a frenzy
and cry out
to the dark clouds
demanding the eye of the storm
to hover over me
to provide clarity

a brief moment 

where the wind is still
where the earth pauses
where the rain drops stop falling
and I stand
at the center
of everything
and nothing
to regain consciousness
and shelve
my passing rage
between worlds
bound in fiction
resting comfortably
in a sunlit room.

The infinite void grinds its teeth
BIG BANG!
Two old farts
Hike up to state rock
Big ass-grins

[the poem is dedicated to Jim Lally dear friend, hiking buddy,
and one awesome old fart]