I rake dried grass
place it around flowers,
free mulch
and I am detached.
Seasons end,
flowers die
and I
feel alone
in this alien world.
A tug inside pulls me
home
and I think
not one person
among us knows
how to love.
We scurry like
roaches in light
hiding
from creatures
bigger than
ourselves.
We clang like
shutters in
hurricanes
unable to speak
what our spirits
know
as zoo animals
we are bound
in the cages
we are born to.
Parasols in sun
beside a fountain
encircled by red
geraniums
deaden my senses,
momentarily,
to earthquake cries,
gulf oil crisis,
disappearing reefs,
suicide bombings,
this whole mad, mad world
and my dad’s cancer.
I fold my napkin,
smooth my white sundress,
pay a ticket, leave
a tip, then step back
into time on earth.
Rocky snaps at dragonflies
who find warmth on blacktop.
Then we meander to the hayfield,
where grasses rustle in June wind
and my dog, tail wagging,
paws prancing, pulls the leash.
My gait wide, awkward,
my mouth, open, laughing.
He pulls me like an Alaskan sled.
We run.
Night is a repose
from daylight scrap scurries,
heavy loads carried
over trap-laden trails;
moonlight is a firefly
spotlight, leaving the rest
of us in obscurity,
free to sort
acquisitions gathered
at our queen’s will
for the collective
survival of our
unborn.
emotions, like a con artist, look
a person right in the eye, and lie.
they’re pushy, too, always trying
to force me to make decisions now.
if I let them have their way, just a little, they act like a trash fire gone wild,
out of control, leap out of the barrel and consume the whole hillside,
weeds, flowers, strawberries, trees,
outbuildings, everything in their path.
like those flames, they could lay my life to ashes, if I let them out without
the garden hose in my hand, always
pointed and my eyes forever in their direction.
I have so many more, but these will do for now. I wanted to show a dear friend of mine what the country side near my home looks like. I admit to taking most of the pics on top of a hill. Standing high on a hill seems the best place for picture taking and we have so many hills.
Also, the header at the top of the page was taken in Appalachia, about thirty minutes from my back door.
Savannah, I hope you like them!!!
I had the most amazing weekend
at Penn’s Store in Gravel Switch,
Kentucky. Heard beautiful words,
enchanting songs, met kindred spirits,
angelic voices, barefoot poets,
down home hearts and warm friendship.
I so plan to go again next year.
http://www.pennsstore.com/events/2010WDperformers.htm
Not all of Appalachia is coal miners with gaunt faces or
dirty babies with saggy diapers. It’s not all Dianne Sawyer’s
television special. Much of it is dogwoods in bloom,
morels on the mountains, laurels in spring.
It is willow trees and children on playgrounds,
churches in the groove and lights on a hill;
it is kudzu and honeysuckle, trumpet vines
and wild geese on green ponds, tobacco patches
and corn fields, saw mills and fishing ponds,
ancient burial grounds and sink holes,
caves and swamps. It is diverse and rich
with black dirt and crude oil. Appalachia,
ancient, haunting, home.
* I plan to post more pics over the next few days to share with my friends who live away from here.
I still hear your voice,
and a deep chuckle,
as you pause your mop
to tell me about the kid
who ran down the hall,
smacked his nose on
Marsha’s door,
two seconds after
you told him, “Stop running.”
I still see your bright eyes,
infectious smile,
knowing nod as you visit
my room after three,
lean against the table,
and assure me that my daughter
really is a good girl.
We laugh and you say
you’ve been working out.
I say you look great
and I think to myself
that greatness is you
within, without.
You called yourself
a custodian. My students
called you, Miss Julie.
I’m inclined to believe
that maybe you were
a heavenly messenger
sent to remind us
to love one another,
instead of dwelling
on imperfections,
to cherish the small things,
like grandbabies,
to give second chances,
and to measure success
by the kindnesses
we leave behind.
Daffodils are in bloom.
Plum tree scent drenches
the backyard and hyacinths
bathe the front, yet
I wander garden paths
like a wraith, lost spirit,
looking for something
permanent.
I’m so proud to be a part of this! My poems are in there.
http://www.amazon.com/Coal-Country-Against-Mountaintop-Removal/dp/1578051665
as a spider,
i’d be starving.
my web has lost
its sticky-ness
and there is nothing
to attract flies,
or moths to me
anymore.
How do you feel about poetry boards and forums? Do you find valuable advice mostly? Do you often run into folks who have a “poetic-god” complex? I’ve been on several poetry boards and just wondered how other bloggers felt.
Magic ducks appear
in March to cast
reflections upon
freshly thawed ponds,
to stir ripples,
sprinkled in golden
angel dust and
to enchant me
with simplicity.
I felt the sun today
and lifted my face.
Forget wrinkle warnings
for once; it’s February
and sunlight is like water
after days of only coffee.
What a day for dancing
when brisk cold cuts
your clothes, burns
your nose, steals
your breath.
What a day for dancing.
a train whistle sounds
though there’s not a set of tracks
for forty miles, some trucker,
maybe, wants us to think
he’s an engineer,
a little boy’s leftover dream,
making boring days seem more
in the eyes of other men,
who like him, wish
they had grasped the reins
while the horse was within reach.
