Long Lost Twins

Overtime will probably dry up after the first of the year, so hopefully I'll be able to do more poetry. In the meantime . . .

Sam Elliot

Nathaniel Hawthorne

If twins could be born decades apart.

Merle Haggard: If We Make It Through December

Here's The Hag singing a happy little seasonal tune.

Southern Hospitality

Submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight, Holiday Edition. Not very Christmassy, but the word Holiday reminded me of a song by Billie Holiday.

World Famous Southern Hospitality

and yet, not so many years

ago, we hung our black

brothers and sisters

from our leafy gallows

as we posed, grinning white

faces topped with jaunty

hats. Smoking, squatting

on fatty haunches,

or leaning against

the strange fruit-

bearing tree as if sharing

a neighborly moment

in the white clover yard

of the white narrow church.

lines 10-11: see the song “Strange Fruit” as sung by Billie Holiday

Dear Santa,

If it's not too much trouble, can you bring me the ability to play banjo like Bela? Oh, and I'll need a banjo.

I'm Going to Drink My Corn Liquor Anyway

I haven't posted a bluegrass song in a while, so here's an old favorite. The sound isn't the best, but hey, it's Dan Tyminski, and includes a lyric about corn lick'r. Hard to beat that.

Hawthorne on Theological Books

No poetry from me this week due to a ton of overtime work. But here's a nice quote from Hawthorne's "The Old Manse":

So long as an unlettered soul can attain to saving grace, there would seem to be no deadly error in holding theological libraries to be accumulations of, for the most part, stupendous impertinence.

I agree. Even though I own a pretty sizable theological library.

Frisbees and Pinwheels

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words dangle, abnormal, lavish. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight. 

Arp 188 and the Tadpole's Tail 
Image Credit: Hubble Legacy Archive, ESA, NASA; Processing - Bill Snyder (Heavens Mirror Observatory)

Frisbees & Pinwheels

After all, what does it matter, this troubled

hour, when whole worlds dangle overhead,

prodded into existence by who knows

what evasive Power? I’ve seen a picture

of the Tadpole Galaxy, so called for its

abnormal gaseous tail stretched out

280 thousand light years,

caused by some celestial near miss.

In the background other spiral galaxies

are scattered lavishly about. Some lay

flat, like frisbees flung over the roof, sent

flying just to see where they might land;

others stand on edge, like sparkling pinwheels

we used to clench in our plump childish hands,

running. What if God is but a laughing child

spinning pinwheels?

A Prayer Before the End

Knowledgeable poet Gay Reiser Cannon, host of tonight's FormForAll at dVerse, has invited us to try our hand at writing a quatern. Both rhyme and meter play a role in this form--I kept pretty close to exactness, but there are a few slight metrical replacements along the way. This was super fun--it's amazing how much can be learned by adhering to a form. Anyway, in the spirit of the end of the world predicted for this month . . . 

A Prayer Before the End

All former things will pass away—

A ball of flame; forgetfulness.

At any rate, the wise seers say

A bang or whimper ends it all.

Some dream of walking golden streets

When former things will pass away,

No loss or pain will enter there

And night will fade to lasting day.

If I may ask for a delay

There’re things I’d like to do before

All former things will pass away.

I want to plant my spring garden,

Enjoy a walk beside the creek,

And watch the kids go out to play.

I’ll turn the lights out when I leave

When former things will pass away.

Long Day of Work

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words battle, fluid, harvest. Also submitted to dVerse. I don't know how much chance I'll have to visit other blogs this week--work calls me, which may explain the subject of my poem this week.

Long Day of Work

I’ve been told that life

is a battle, and as metaphors

go I don’t think much of it.

I prefer to see life

as a long day of work,

as if each hour

was just one more row

to harvest, some easier

than others. The hard rows

call for occasional rest

under a shady oak,

where there’s no shame

in taking it. At the end

of the day, a cold beer

and drowsy drifting

into fluid sleep.