Poppy's Brush Pile

Poppy’s Brush Pile

Poppy liked to tell the story

about the time he did a little

yard cleaning and had a grand old pile

of brush and leaves, probably

about ten feet high more than likely,

and reckoned he couldn’t  

bag it all, that Ketchem’s

didn’t have enough bags to sell

even if he’d a-wanted to, so he

figured on it awhile and settled on

a big burning as the best way—

shortly the pile would be gone,

and while it was a-going he could

set on the porch and just watch.

So he took a dry bunch of leaves

up under the pile and dropped

his half-smoked Marlboro.

One tiny spark and a smidgen

of smoke and nothing else.

Well, this ain’t working

worth shooting, he said.

Then he went to the porch

and got a-hold of the morning paper,

crinkled it all up, stuffed it

in the pile and lit a match.

The paper burnt quick

and awful hot but petered out

before doing its business—

‘bout like my pecker, Poppy said—

so he went back to figuring.

Then he remembered that five-gallon can

of regular gasoline he had sitting

in the shed, and he wasn’t about

to let a damned brush pile

make a fool of him. He took the can

and scrabbled to the top, standing

like the precious good Lord

come again on Mount Olive,

and dumped the gas all over the pile.

‘Course it took awhile to pour

five gallons, so in the meantime

the fumes worked their way

all into the little pockets

of air. As you might guess

but Poppy didn’t, not quite yet,

when the match was dropped

the blast blowed him

clear into the flower bed,

heels heavenward. He said he smelt

singed ass-hairs for two weeks after.

He liked to tell this story and say,

See there, honey, even if you reckon

you got the best idea, you still

might want to figure awhile.

------------------------------

For dVerse Meeting the Bar. I have been absent from the bar for a few months, and sincerely missed everyone. Peak season at work, tons of overtime. I still was able to do a fair amount of reading, but very little writing. Just couldn't find the motivation, the inspiration, the whatever it is that makes me put pen to paper and try to make sense of my world. 

Anyway, our host Tony Maude has us hearkening back to previous prompts, and since I missed so many I felt a lot of freedom. This poem is meant for the prompt Victoria offered, in which she invited us to write close to home, personal, in the common speech of daily life. I actually had another poem ready that I wrote last night, but things happened and I didn't submit. Then as I was falling asleep I thought about this story, so I wrote it out this morning.

Jane Kenyon: In the Grove

(Image from: http://www.aprweb.org/author/jane-kenyon)

In the Grove: The Poet at Ten

She lay on her back in the timothy
and gazed past the doddering
auburn heads of sumac.

A cloud--huge, calm,
and dignified--covered the sun
but did not, could not, put it out.

The light surged back again.

Nothing could rouse her then
from that joy so violent
it was hard to distinguish from pain.

              --Jane Kenyon

Running

Running

I return today to Shingle Creek,

walking in the fine fall afternoon

alone. Wading through the shallows

to the east bank, right where the creek

cuts close to the old Bronson place,

I feel like the last ancient Israelite

crossing the Red Sea, barely ahead

of Pharaoh’s chariots.

                                     Crouching low

under the barb-wire fence I swish

through the shin-high grass, the humming

dragonflies hunting insects, shining

their blues and greens

in the lowering sun.

                                 I hear

a tractor in the distance, the rumble

carrying far in the clear air,

and I think about that day

we ran, you and I, making paths

through the field, pretending we were

dirt bike champions, shifting gears

by the rising tone of our growls.

For hours we ran, stopping just to catch

a lazy red corn snake sunning

on a sweetgum stump.

                                     I know

that with these old knees

I couldn’t run like that now, not by

any luck or necessity; and you,

old friend, only in memory

will ever run here again.

--------------------------------------------

For dVerse MeetingTheBar. We are writing about friends, friendship, loss, in honor of Dave King. Dave was a regular contributor to the online poetry world (at least until his health limited his participation), and his kindness and craft will be missed.

Maureen Ash: Church Basement

Ted Kooser is not only a great poet, he is also a great judge of poetry. This is one of the finest poems I've read in a while. Copied with permission from ALiP.
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Welcome to American Life in Poetry. For information on permissions and usage, or to download a PDF version of the column, visit www.americanlifeinpoetry.org.
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American Life in Poetry: Column 424

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

It’s a difficult task to accurately imagine one’s self back into childhood. Maybe we can get the physical details right, but it’s very hard to recapture the innocence and wonder. Maureen Ash, who lives in Wisconsin, gets it right in this poem.




Church Basement

The church knelt heavy

above us as we attended Sunday School,

circled by age group and hunkered

on little wood folding chairs

where we gave our nickels, said

our verses, heard the stories, sang

the solid, swinging songs.

It could have been God above

in the pews, His restless love sifting

with dust from the joists. We little

seeds swelled in the stone cellar, bursting

to grow toward the light.

Maybe it was that I liked how, upstairs, outside,

an avid sun stormed down, burning the sharp-

edged shadows back to their buildings, or

how the winter air knifed

after the dreamy basement.

Maybe the day we learned whatever

would have kept me believing

I was just watching light

poke from the high, small window

and tilt to the floor where I could make it

a gold strap on my shoe, wrap

my ankle, embrace

any part of me.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2012 by Maureen Ash. Reprinted by permission of Maureen Ash. Introduction copyright © 2013 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

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American Life in Poetry provides newspapers and online publications with a free weekly column featuring contemporary American poems. The sole mission of this project is to promote poetry: American Life in Poetry seeks to create a vigorous presence for poetry in our culture. There are no costs for reprinting the columns; we do require that you register your publication here and that the text of the column be reproduced without alteration.

Alone

Tonight at dVerse, our hostess, Victoria Slotto, invites us to write something with voice, passion--something about which we are motivated, inspired, excited, or outraged. This one is not really up to those standards, but it is about an event that held deep feeling for me at that time of my childhood. And I think it does ring with my voice, such as it is (that is, I think it's typical of the kind of stuff I usually write!). Come share with us!

Alone

That blazing afternoon

when I chased an ill-thrown ball

into the front yard, and saw

your shoes beside our car’s

open door, your upturned

purse, and you were nowhere,

and what can you expect

from a boy weaned on

Armageddon and the Imminent

Return of Almighty Christ?

In the twinkling of an eye,

we were told, and the blood

rushed to my hair-tips, and I looked

for you, would not be comforted.

And later, you came home and told us

how you saw little Randy

running across the street, careless,

and the black low-slung sports car

screeching, flinging him into the air,

and before he came tumbling down

you had dropped your purse, run out

of your shoes, and he would be

all right, just a few broken bones,

but I thought you were gone

to be with Jesus, one taken

and the other one left,

and never again have I felt

so alone.

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.

Heaven and Earth

I haven't written in a few weeks--work and winter colds have left me feeling a little strung out. Linking this little piece to dVerse OpenLinkNight, hoping that you all will join in and share your little piece of heaven and earth.

Heaven and Earth

It’s good to think

high thoughts—

our brains lightly brush

the heavens, lifted from earth,

drawn above plodding feet

into the beyond—

but at times we must rest

our heads in the tall grass,

as when we were children,

to smell the slow decay

and make peace with

our native home.

Edited: A few hours after posting this I realized a stray line had made it through the cutting process, making a very strange first stanza. Now removed for your viewing pleasure.

Lessons Learned

Another Thursday night, and poet Victoria Slotto has us mining the depths of childhood memories to come up with a poem to share for dVerse Meeting the Bar. Join in if you can, it's sure to be fun! (Interesting that the first memory I thought of had me perched in a tree, as in the poem Victoria shared in her article. They couldn't keep me out of trees as a kid!)

Lessons Learned

I hauled the schoolbooks

to my study, a sturdy

sheet of plywood

wedged between welcoming

limbs of an oak.

                           Perched high

with a hundred

melodious friends,

a canteen of water and

a Case knife for whittling,

I settled in to learn my lessons.

I learned to blow

through cupped hands

and call the mourning dove.

I mocked the mocking bird;

shared a rasping laugh with Mrs. Crow—

K-haw! K-haw!

I discovered that the cardinal’s

curt tweet announced his

dazzling flash of red.

                                  Overhead

buzzards floated without flapping,

tight soundless circles notifying

of the dead nearby.

Filled with knowledge, 

I scampered

down

to answer Mom’s call to supper.

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?

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.

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.

Wild Onions, (edited for dVerse)

[I don't like to start with disclaimers or explanations, but I feel the need this time to introduce this poem. Some of you have read this one before--I wrote it a few weeks ago for a different poetry prompt community. Forgive me for reposting (I have, hopefully, made a few edits that improved the piece), but one of my friends commented on the original post that she enjoyed my use of enjambment. Since enjambment is what we are after here in this prompt, I automatically thought of this poem. And I also think it meets the criterion of including disparate subjects. Anyway, here goes, for my new friends at dVerse. Join in!]

Wild Onions

Traveling south down the interstate

I passed the mowers mowing,

laying low 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,

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!’” 

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.

Mountain Music

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words are beat, pressure, and substance. Somewhat fragmented, but headed the right direction, I think.

Mountain Music

The music, freed

from wood and string

by work-worn fingers,

followed the rising moon

up over the hills,

beat and melody

borrowed from ancient times.

I always loved the

slower tunes, sung

in mournful yearning

for lost love

or Christ’s return,

pure feeling unconstrained

by marketability,

the pressure to succeed

reaching no further than

the neighbor’s heart.

Even now, so many years

gone and the substance

of life irrevocably changed,

I go out to see

the rising moon,

remembering

calloused hands

and The Savior is a-callin’.

The Hallway

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words were dainty, tantalize, haunting. An old memory, hopefully I did it justice here.

The Hallway

At the end of every service came
the Haunting, when every grinning
worshipper had gone through
self-closing doors, and in the dead

quiet every creak and squeak
was empirical proof
of malicious spirits waiting
for the final light to be dimmed.

And that was my job, turning
out the last back hallway light
while Dad checked the locks.
Switch at one end, stairs at the other,

hellfire sermon still alive
in my impressionable mind. I flipped
the lights off and paused, the soft red
glow of the exit sign serving only

to tantalize, a temptation
to take the first step
toward safety. I ran, blood pounding,
ashamed of fear but determined

not to become a dainty meal
for fire-breathing forces.
You may laugh and say what you will,
but I have known from childhood

that evil inhabits holy places.

Family Tradition

Three-Word Wednesday, prompt words: stress, juicy, figure.

Family Tradition

At odds again. Head under
pillow he listens, loud words
shouted with spiteful stress.
Through thin walls neighbors
also hear, just a juicy
tidbit to share. Proficient
hands land on his tired
figure. He stifles sobs,
but nothing’s lost—his voice
grows stronger, fists harder,
every day saving up
the lessons learned
with more to follow.