... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... life ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ...

Slow evening dim

i burnt myself in the fire
that we had built just to watch
its billows hang in the empty
January air. crisp and clear,
from the Northern Plains,
it tumbles over the trees
of our genteel little hollow.
sounds of Saturday vibrate
against distant wood,
where love and smoke mingle
above and in the midst
of us.

Advertisements
Standard
... Applachia ..., ... Autumn ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... Fall ..., ... life ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... the South ...

fine, fetching sun

there is nothing so simple
and sure as morning.

when Space’s clarity is hazed
in dreaded daylight –
when all of us rise, beast or
man – life disrespects the
nocturnal. they are the scavengers,
forsaken in the endless ruination
of sleeplessness.

it is morning
that melts the Damp of
night into clouds rising
cumbersome from the black soil-
shade for later for those
downwind, daybreak
as the great blanket is
rolled out.

there is peace in forests
at dawn. air is audible silence.
cougar stretches playfully
while the fat gray hare sips
serenely – its long ears laid
softly against its back. the hawk
preens his brilliant down in
ear shot of the field mouse, happily
twisting his minuscule mustache.

there is peace in a home, and in
the sky when our faces again
turn away from the empty
Black and into the watchful gaze
of our fine, fetching sun.

Standard
... beauty ..., ... experimental ..., ... God ..., ... heartsick ..., ... home ..., ... humor ..., ... life ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ...

on a plane from san marcos to salt lake city

manevolent Forces,
and updrafts –
inspired by these
high brow
cotton fellows – spent
a few moments
in silent
deliberation.

flashes of electric
Death bolted around
and beyond and underneath
my boot clad
feet

a good six
thousand, six
hundred and
sixty-six fathoms
below, Earth
is swallowed
in white froth

mountains and
plains pressed down
by the sheer magnitude
of a once
pancaked planet

and i rest my
head in facile repose,

oblivious
to the veritable
terror of
flight

Godspeed and
all that – for

my home is down there
somewhere, beyond
the clouds.

Standard
... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... death ..., ... experimental ...

i live in a house that God built

i live in a house that God built
down in a holler,

up against a deep, creeping wood
that moves with shadow and shape.

hill over hill, an ocean of leaves
this is where i’ve laid my claim

where mud and blood all stain the same.

will i die beneath the cherry wood
or oak or elm, or bathed in light in
the pasture still?

God I hope it’s under a starry night,
when all my little earth becomes
a reflection in some Other starlit
lake. where space blankets my
decaying arms and legs and hands,
swallowed up by the dirt, wrapped
up in a cosmos.

my trees will sing
for me, and will hang low, and
then will forget

as they should. what are we but dust?
here only for a moment, and then
gone. a song once whistled on the
wind, now only tangled up,

like whispers in a wood.

Standard
... Applachia ..., ... Autumn ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... death ..., ... home ..., ... life ..., ... pain ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... winter ..., ... written under the influence ..., ... Yule ...

First Morning of Winter

Earth rose slowly today with
sleepy slumber eyes;
seems the first real

rain of Winter has
come to strip the last
of the leaves and

wash the empty bones
of summer from the
ground. the air

is crisp and wet
and gelid in the
nostrils – quenching

fires inside like
salt water to the
parched, intrepid stowaway

aboard some quiet ocean liner
cast far, far away from his home.
how he must long for

the familiar comforts
of heart and hearth and
the sweet smell of

winter cakes and
pecan pies wafting
through his mother’s house

in the first quiet stirrings
of Yuletide and a
coming new year.

the days are dying short now,
and the shadows fling
themselves along the wet

forest carpet, like macabre scenes
of people stretched out long
on the rack, across the

browning skin of an
entire planet, settling
in for a long Winter’s repose.

Standard