Tremble
don’t tremble (you see) everything
is set the way it’s intended
to be everything we wish it—
to be how it exists
There is something in the air today.
Is it the humidity–that thick Kentucky vapor? Or is
it my own exhaustion, filling the space with a
weight that demands I stay low. A day
to stay close to the earth, where the weight of
gravity is strong, and grounding, and dark.
True, there are days meant for clouds.
Days meant for standing tall, tiptoes and
all, but that day is not today. Today is for slow
heartbeats and listening to the rain.
A golden shovel poem using a line from Today by Mary Oliver.
like Picasso’s “Blue Guitarist”
bony liimbs and clawlike fingers
lurching over a purple cane
surreal ghost of himself
Today is a thundery day
rainy with rumbles and grumbles
making me want to stay
inside where it is dry and less loud
Hopefully, it will dry up and the sun
will come out to play and spread
cheer while the children run
and expend their energy
until another Summer day is done
but so far, the wet darkness rules the day
I imagine OnlyFans is a lot like publishing your writing.
We strip down expecting some return,
vulnerability plastered across a page for all to see
spread wide and fragile.
Zero views on your first iterations,
No reactions and a shame creeps in
Why did you bother baring it all to strangers on the internet
Your senstive insides exploited for what purpose?
Until you find peers, and your shared experiences
become the peace you were looking for.
We take classes on craft
we sharpen our skills
until there’s a trickle
of souls that you’ve touched
or have touched themselves.
“to dress a nude” was a writing exercise in high school
and it’s an exercise in adult content.
we press our fingers between pages of open
books and legs
and wonder if anyone will see it
if anyone will treasure what they find there
and it must be like that for everyone
who dares to expose themselves to the world
The morning broke in silver mist,
With clouds hung low on pine,
The ridges wrapped in ghostly shawls
By hands no man could find.
The creek spoke soft through laurel roots,
Its voice both old and wise,
While gentle rain stitched earth to sky
Beneath the mourning skies.
The tin roof sang a steady hymn,
A rhythm slow and true,
Like Mamaw humming by the stove
While coffee softly brewed.
The woodsmoke curled in sleepy rings,
The hound lay by the door,
Content to hear the rain recite
Its thousand tales and more.
Each hollow wore a deeper green,
Each mossy stone would shine,
The ferns stood tall like churchyard choirs
In cathedrals built of pine.
The whip-poor-will held back his song,
The hawk stayed tucked away,
For every soul within the hills
Knew rain had claimed the day.
Old wagon ruts became small streams,
The gravel roads turned clay,
Yet no one cursed the weather’s hand
Or wished the clouds away.
For every drop that kissed the fields
Would feed the corn and beans,
Would wake the sleepy mountain roots
With promises unseen.
The fog climbed slow through chestnut oaks
Like spirits dressed in white,
It veiled the peaks from wandering eyes
Till nearly came the night.
Some swore the hills breathed easier then,
Their scars washed clean awhile,
As though the rain remembered them
And lingered with a smile.
So let the cities chase the sun,
Their hurried hearts made dry;
I’ll take a porch, a rocking chair,
And thunder rolling by.
For nowhere else does heaven seem
So close to earthly clay
As where the ancient mountains bow
To greet a rainy day.
Her wedding remembrance did not focus on a fancy dress
made of satin, lace, pearls, brocade woven fabric.
It was not rooted in a fluffy veil with an elegant train
that swept down the aisle of the cathedral.
Her remembrance was a pair of boots, lush leather
the brown of milk chocolate, inside zipper slipped up to her knees,
the softest touch, hugging her legs as an embrace much like his.
The boots, an unexpected gift from him.
She mentioned she always wanted to get married in riding boots,
described the brown expensive leather, sweet earthy smell,
an ankle buckle, the tightness of the fit.
They appeared one day as if made just for her.
Those brown treasures stayed with her for many years,
worn through mud and rain, snow and sap from the pine trees
that circled their cabin. She tried to patch them with each crack,
each split, until they fell apart like his love for her.
To A Deer On My Farm
I watch you as you gracefully glide,
‘Round my growing fields,
With a look of mock innocence,
As you survey my yields.
I know you to be an errant thief,
And trespasser on my lands,
And it’s war I declare on you and yours,
My success here so commands.
Sure, I’d think you have some claim,
As your clan they were here first,
But you’ve plenty growing beyond my fence,
To feed and slake your thirst.
I’ve watched you grow from your spotted pelt,
To the grand form I know see,
And I’ve seen the damage so oft you’ve done,
As you go out on your spree.
When in the rut you rip and tear,
As though you have no sense,
And you and your lady loves,
Play havoc with my fence.
You come and go just as you please,
With no thought of my sweat and toil,
And survey all you see as yours,
To have or hold or despoil.
I spy you through my iron sights,
With thoughts to take you down,
As you lightly trip through my corn,
“Neath your stately branching crown.
But shall I couple one waste with two?
In truth I need no meat,
I’ve beef and pork in the freezer at home,
Plenty enough to eat.
And I do admire your regal state,
’Tis true. I can’t deny.
I shake my head, and think to myself,
What a foolish fool am I.
And it seems a shame as I predict your end,
On some other person’s wall,
A trophy, (but to what?)
To show and tell of your fall.
Over Christmas Day dessert, our daughter
handed us the sonogram. Our first grandchild
would be due in June and be a boy.
We began riffing through names
but our top five appeared
on all the recent lists of popularity –
so, no, we had to keep digging.
What’s more, our daughter had requirements:
the name must resist being shortened,
should flow into the one-syllable last name,
cannot shimmer with religious vibes
nor possess literary, cinematic, or Disney ties
nor be unisex or the name of anyone in their circle.
I presented the sonorous names Django, Jasper, and Orlando,
each with a short “a” rhyming with the last name,
and the trochaic Lonzo.
All choices were considered odd.
I suggested playground names, like Nico and Leo,
workspace names, like Hamilton and Sebastian,
names that roll softly from the tongue like Elias.
Elijah in conjunction with the clipped last name
recommended itself for the musicality
of a pair of iambs, matching short A sounds,
a consonance of Ls,
and the way the soft J and hard K
in the surname balanced each other.
Elijah was not an option.
Then I consulted the alphabet,
offered names with ancient energy like Quentin and Merlin,
lyrical names with a gentle masculinity:
Ezekiel, Hugo, Micah, Hosea, Ezra, and Luca.
I considered player names from World Cup rosters
and pulled the entertaining Cocanut from last month’s local primary ballot.
You can guess our daughter’s response.
Having emptied my stash
of impeccable names,
I stepped back, finally.
The future had already chosen.
