Archive for July, 2011

The Trudge

at dusk day’s heat

has not stymied.


the sun droops behind the treeline

the buzz of cicadas presses in my ears.

from the pit

firesmoke clings to my hair;

the pork comes off the spit

thick with gristle and slathered in hot sauce.

i lick my upper lip.


from the porch a fiddlin’ band watches

the day’s slow trudge westward.

fingers dance over strings

the gentle rub of horsehairs

sending song to the rafters.


Writer’s Block

Palms are the rustling of papers.

One day they’ll turn to brittle parchment

yellowing at the edges.


Words are the water of the soul

that arrive like tremors in the earth,

or not at all–


Height of Summer

The height of summer was marked:

the yellowing of magnolias

their pearly blossoms changed

the color of ancient parchment.


By then the mud for makin’ patties

was caked hard.

I was bored.

I wandered the winding trail of barren creek bed

east of the old Crescent tracks.

Iron rails torn up by fiends,

tall weeds born at the bolts.


At the poplar grove, where the gospel singers met

she dove underground:

a subterranean fountain.

The men wore green tweed,

their ladies’ auburn hair tucked in wicker bonnets.

The song was like yards of navy silk.

During baptisms, it crescendoed:

wails like Clymenes’

hands groping through prisms

of sunlight streaking the surface

a child gasping for air out of the cool stream.