Western Dreams

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words iconic, lithe, edgy. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight. I offer my apologies to both communities for linking when I am not sure how much I'll be around this week to read and comment on others' submissions. Overtime, sick kids, you know how it is sometimes. But this just rushed out of me in response to the 3WW prompt, and it had been so long since my last writing. 

Western Dreams

Dad followed a dream

out west, the iconic west,

to do better for us,

success as sure as the sun

rising. I had my own dreams

of cowboy hats and hitching posts,

of lithe flames of midnight

campfires licking the darkness,

but we lived in a house

much like our old house, and I went

to a school where the cocksure kids still

pointed fingers like blue-steel barrels.

So much the same,

yet the soil smelled different,

even the sun felt different

on the skin, like wearing

a stranger’s shirt, and Dad

grew edgy, hitting me

when the zipper of my winter coat

stuck hard in the fabric, frustration

not directed toward me, per se,

but toward life in general

and I happened to be nearest.

Small Talk

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words backfire, embarrass, taste. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight.

Small Talk

The room was decked

with holiday cheer, full

of strangers sipping drinks

and tasting tiny hors d’oeuvres.

Having never learned the art

of mingling I stood in a darkened

corner, but he found

me anyway.

 “So, what’s your

career path?” He leaned

in close, talking over the

pounding backfire

of dance music.

“I’m on my way

toward death,” I said.

He backed away, embarrassed.

Or frightened. No one ever laughs

at my party jokes.

I Come to Her Room

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words drab, pulsate, tendril. Also submitted for dVerse OpenLinkNight. I know I'm running a little behind for both submissions, but I'll try to play catch up on commenting this week.

I Come to Her Room

I come to her room once

a week, there in the old

folks’ home, sitting with her

in the windowless

drab room as she tries

to remember me. She stares

at old photographs,

seeing strangers’ faces, her

memory dim as the pulsating

florescent bulb over her

narrow bed. With stiff fingers

she pushes a gray tendril of hair

behind her ear, and I

think of the time she

waved those hands witch-like

around my face, repeating

Sing and dance for joy,

life goes on despite the pain.

Language

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words focused, pair, vacant. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight. Short and sweet this week.

Language

I pared

a pair

of pears.

Focused

hocus-pocus,

well-meant

yet

vacant—

for

what does

“I”

imply?

For Foy Lanier's

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words idle, pace, nagging. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight. Happy New Year to all!

For Foy Lanier’s

The only thing on tap

was Bud or Miller Lite,

sometimes served warm due

to a temperamental cooler;

bathroom stall doors

torn from their hinges

idled against the opposite wall

after some friendly fisticuffs.

The floor slanted hard

to the left, giving

a drunken pace even

to the sober, which we

mostly were, those times

we’d all meet after work to have

a few or a few too many, tapping

out cigarettes and telling lies

about when we were young.

Well before closing time

we’d leave Foy’s to fend for

itself, until we felt the nagging

urge again to drink to health,

good favor, to peace,

prosperity, happy times.

We’ve all gone our separate

ways by now, and today

I noticed Foy’s is just

an abandoned dusty field.

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?

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.

First Love

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words clench, faint, prod. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight.

First Love

That Florida summer, the year

you moved in next door, we’d crawl

under the barbed wire fence

to meet each morning

in the hayfield,

prodded by some power

neither of us understood.

With clenched hands we’d

clumsily kiss, and in the faint

daylight return our

separate ways. Summer passed,

and now I can’t even remember

your name.

Pennies

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words vision, motion, peaceful. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight, day late and a penny short.

Pennies

We put pennies

on the track and waited

for the 2:00 train

to come blowing by,

curious to see

Lincoln’s face pressed

into peaceful copper

oblivion. Scoot, the

neighborhood know-it-all,

had told us that 

if some federal agent

happened to be spying

on us we could be

arrested for defacing

government property

and he hoped we’d all

be happy spending

a hundred years behind

bars. Or, with convincing

proof he explained

that even a penny

could disrupt the train’s

smooth motion, cause

it to jump rail

and dump its freight

from here to Royal Street.

Still we put

our pennies down,

ducked low behind

the shrubs and waited,

encouraged by Scoot’s vision

of cars and coal

piled in our backyards.

The Witness

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words compromise, decision, forward. Also submitted, howbeit late (as usual), to the OpenLinkNight over at dVerse. 

The Witness

She bends forward, low

over etched granite,

her small shoulders making

a sorrowful tremor

in the field of solid stone.

I did not mean to spy

on her private grief,

as her tears mingled

with the morning mist,

but I could not

turn away, I could

not turn away.

Did she beg

for a compromise, a

“Take me instead,”

while full knowing

the final decision

had already been made?

or was she here only

to make late amends

for past regrets? I did

not ask, but like the

stone bore silent witness

to life and death.

Education

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words false, sallow, illustrate. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight. 

Education

He labored hard

at his homework,

tongue hanging out

in deliberate effort

as if the future

happiness of humankind

depended on his

answers. Squinting

in the sallow light

of the desk lamp,

the little boy

chooses True or

False, or arranges

numbers in neat rows

on a page, or illustrates

the digestive system

in Crayola cross-section,

while a single bird

lands lightly on a limb

outside  his window,

singing for joy.

The Answer

For Three Word Wednesday. Prompt words calm, rattle, know.
Also submitted to dVerse--better late than never. 

The Answer

Long nights,

restless turning, too many

rattling thoughts.

I rise from my bed

wrapped in blackness;

the dark house holds

no comfort. Out

of doors, I walk the

uncultivated field, footsteps

muffled by the long

damp grass, the silent

ground calmly keeping

all her secrets.

I keep walking

onto the new-plowed soil,

the moonlight refracted by

millions of dew-mist prisms.

Coming to the old oak standing

in our field God knows

how long, I kneel

and lay my head

against that ancient bark.

My heart longs

to say something meaningful,

to find words

that will bear witness

to the soul’s awareness

that it is not alone

in this stumbling journey.

I look into the moonlit sky

and know that everything

has already been said.

Last Hunt

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words brisk, detached, miserable.

Last Hunt

We tugged and pushed Mr. Floyd,

sweating at our work

in the brisk January air.

Finally lifted fifteen feet

into a longleaf pine,

he sat on an old upturned bucket

atop an assortment

of splintered planks.

We left him leaning there

against the weathered trunk.

Seventy seasons

he’d hunted here, as his father

and grandfather before.

Many deer had passed

beneath the pine—

some too quick,

some too young,

some missed chances

lamented at evening camp.

Still he came every year,

and waited at winter’s pace.

We returned to the stand

when sunlight slanted

through the trees

in promise of the night.

He nodded, grinning

as he detached himself

from his bucket. “Boys,

I reckon I got her broke in.

Someone else can ride her now.”

The end of spring, twenty-six years

after, I wind my way

through tangled palmettos

and vines in the thick

Osceola woods, braving

miserable mosquitoes to find

the deep-lined pine and climb,

fifteen feet up. The bucket is gone.

A few rotten boards,

the only thing to show

that anyone was ever here.

Wild Onions

For Three Word Wednesday. Prompt words dignity, lacerate, ripe. 

Wild Onions

Traveling south down the interstate

I passed the mowers mowing,

laying down the overgrowth

along the shoulder of the road.

The sweet smell of cut

grass was mixed with wild onion,

which grows in patches here.

Strange how memory resides

in our bodies, not only in our minds;

our very senses pave a road

into the past. I remembered

how, as a kid, I loved

to find these patches,

would crush the thin

leaves in my teeth and wince

at the bitter-ripe taste. But mostly

I remembered a later time,

when I would crank up

the old red Massey Ferguson

to mow the church yard,

twenty sloping acres of grass

and wild onion patches. And you

would come along to ride

beside me, standing on the sideboard

with the dignity of a sentry,

proud to be with me

and I with you. We went

up and down in long

passes, the roar of the rattling

diesel making speech impossible.

Now, for other reasons, speech

is impossible. The thought

lacerates my deepest self, and

I know the meaning of the

words cried out by

David the brokenhearted:

“My son! My son!”

* The last stanza makes use of a story from the Judeo-Christian tradition concerning the Israelite prophet/king David and his son, Absalom. Absalom revolted against his father, and ended up being killed in battle by one of David’s generals. When David heard the news of Absalom’s death, he “wept; and as he went, thus he said, ‘O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!’" 

There

For Three Word Wednesday. Prompt words entice, savor, chance.

There 

They asked me

Where’d you see

him last, voices

modulating

in that grave tone

of adult concern.

So I took them, 

neighbors and neighbors

friends following me

a few hundred yards

down the creek bank

to a place we’d often

go, Wes and I,

to swim or fish or

sneak a smoke.

Once we’d even

talked our parents

into letting us camp

overnight; with enough

supplies for a two-week

stay we took our fill

of liberty, staying up

till dawn and savoring

a breakfast of bluegill

and granola bars.

We walked,

as the first stars

began to wink, past

the old campsite,

past the trees that

opened up as if by

chance. I pointed

to an enticing spot

where waist-high water

plunged

into our deep

swimming hole:

There,

I said, this much

the truth. I had

seen him there

three hours ago,

after we’d catfished

and puffed half

a pack of Marlboros,

and jumped

from the old green oak

into the rain-swelled current—

There.  But I

didn’t tell them

how we’d hurled

hurtful words,

and worse,

and how he’d stood

in the reddening water

and cried.

The Mystic

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words absolute, fall, nestle. Wanted to rhyme this week. The quote is from Wordsworth's poem Nutting.

The Mystic

. . . there is a spirit in the woods.

            --William Wordsworth

Long before daybreak in

The shadow of the wood’s edge,

I stand apart from pledge,

Creed, or demands of men

To drink deeply from the

Absolute. Glassy beads unbidden

Fall soundless, a blessing in

Teardrop form. The sweetgum tree,

Holding growth silent over

Centuries, reaches the sky

Without seeming to try,

An elevated enclosure                                           

Where sleepy squirrels nestle close.

There are lessons to learn from

The Spirit-filled woods: I become

A mystic by going slow.

Falling Things

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words hinge, lethal, need. Very sparse form this week--laziness, or just a different style than my normal?

Falling Things

Crawl out

on a limb

too thin,

bends like

a hinge.

Stand

if you can.

Perch, hands

outstretched,

tip-most.

Quick

as a need,

breathe the

lethal moment.

Tenderly

sing,

mindful

of falling

things.

Distances

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words banter, duty, element. Inspired by memories of my Papaw (brought on by my parents' recent visit) and Neil Armstrong's passing.

Distances

We laughed at him, shuffling

his feet down the hall, squinting

age-dimmed eyes as if surprised

by the tenacity of life.

His old-timer pace

just would not do

for children of the Space Age,

living in a world made fast

by spark and fuel. He never

walked too far: from bed

to john, to corduroy reclining

chair where he would sit

like a duty fulfilled,

looking at his mangled hands

and marveling at the work

they had once accomplished.

In fine weather he would ride

with us to Lake Tohopekaliga,

choosing the nearest bench

as an observatory. The expanse

of elements and circling flight

of bantering gulls seemed

to satisfy a need for distances—

for though we couldn’t imagine

it he hadn’t always been limited.

We didn’t see him as a boy, striding

tall in the dark furrow,

guiding the team with

gee and haw in Uncle Lanta’s

field; or later, fearful but

resolute, heading to the Reisden’s

to ask Bessie to the dance. Nor

could our little minds

calculate what it took to walk

deep into the earth for

forty years, finding coal

and breathing the dust that

finally laid him down.

We saw only a slow old

man, so earth-rooted

that he was sure the lunar

landing was a stunt;

but in the sum

of his small steps I

reckon he traveled

broad distances, each step

one giant leap.

Enough

Three Word Wednesday, prompt words affair, expectation, free. Mixed feelings about this one.

Enough

I heard my share

of sermons, serving

time on straight-backed

pews, begrudging each

moment lost

                  to eternity.

My elders sat willingly

in expectation

of heavenly reward, glad

to leave all worldly affairs,

glad to rest weary

bones if only for

a moment.

They meant well.

I see that now, now

that my own bones

need rest, now that

I hope beyond all hope

to be free 

in the divine.

But we will never

decipher the mystery, try

as we might. Will we?

All we have from him

we already know,

written bold. Do

not kill, do

not steal, do

unto others.

We stumble over what

we do not have: the

in-between-the-lines,

shrouded, incomprehensible,

written in sand, faint

markings that lead us

to belief or despair. I believe

it is enough to want

to believe. It is enough.

At St. Joseph's

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words are amuse, excite, sincere. 

At St. Joseph’s

Everything is white, glaring

Like the noon sun off

Of silent snow-clad hills.

Boxes full of moving parts

Startle and beep while

Robed attendants chat—

There is no quiet here. With

Amused knowing nods

They approach

The mystery as if

It makes no difference,

As if life and death

Do not excite since

Both pay the same.

It is time. Ready

Or not, permission unasked,

She’s wrenched from all

She’s ever known.

With one earnest

Gasp she finally adds

Her sincere cry.

We do not come

Laughing into the world.