Dark Country Road

This is for dVerse Poet Pubs, Prosery.  I don’t get Flash Fiction.  I hope I did okay.  I thought this had to be written in prose form but apparently, it doesn’t. I will do as I will next time.

Dark Country Road
“A swift rhythm is played out by my hands, a cadence known only to those who have strung tobacco. To many, the meter and rhythm of stringing is the only poetry they’ve ever known.” ― Brenda Sutton Rose

Hot night in July – needing to be out of the city, rolling down a smooth country two lane blacktop, Black countryside, no lights showing in the few houses. All are sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. Folks have to get up early go to work in the surrounding tobacco fields. Rolling past rows of tobacco broken only by the dark houses.  Past another small house, dark. Ahead off to the right a dirt road. I pull off and go down it slowly. Dust invisible but I can smell it, thick whiffs of sharp iron and sweeter lime. In the headlights the road is pale pink but in the daylight, it will be red as blood. A meteor shower explodes in the night sky. I stop in the middle of the road to stare, amazed. If it’s darkness we’re having, let it be extravagant.

 

tobacco farm and barn

Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off

For Anmol’s prompt at Real Toads, perspective.

Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off
“You say potayto, I say potahto. I say tomayto, you say tomahto…” George Gershwin and Ira Gershwin

I say a shite poem is a shite poem.
You whine and get angry because I didn’t
say the usual that it is epic, wonderful, blah blah blah.
the critic says the play is a flop,
the audience gives it a standing O.
the customer sends the dinner back
and says it is garbage.
The chef laughs and calls the customer a
boor with the palate of a cement mixer.
It is a matter of perspective,
of opinion of taste.
So Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off.
Let’s not be honest anymore
and only speak in emojis and superlatives.
Let’s give it a AAA when it deserves
an F-…okay?

Forgetfulness

Posted on Poetry United, Pantry of Prose and Poetry #3  For me, a long poem.

 

Forgetfulness
Time, we say, is Lethe; but change of air is a similar draught, and, if it works less thoroughly, does so more quickly.” ― Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain

it is cool, finally.
The hot breath of summer has stilled,
fallen into the arms of Morpheus
seeking there the river of Lethe.
*Ameles Potamos is sluggish
and yet it is crowded with the souls
of the dead leaves,
all of them drinking to
forget the summer that was.
the leaves clog the creek
at the foot of the hill,
drinking, drinking.
autumn rains will come and flood the banks
washing their corpses away.
frost covers them with sparking lace
dressing them for their funereal best.
I cup my hand and drink from the icy waters.
I close my eyes and sleep.
I awaken no longer remembering the heat of summer.
I awaken remembering only autumn and winter cold.
The beaver moon shines bright in the sky,
frost sparkles in its light.

 

*Lethe also known as the Ameles Potamos (River of Unmindfulness), the river flowed around the cave of Hypnos where its murmuring induces drowsiness. The shades of the dead were required to drink from its water in order to forget their earthly life.

Burnished Leaves

For Marian’s prompt at Real Toads: one word – burnished


Burnished Leaves

“The wind makes you ache is some place that is deeper than your bones. It may be that it touches something old in the human soul…” ― Stephen King

The trees are waiting.
it was a dry spring and summer
and the leaves fading and falling.
etiolated in appearance
the leaves wait –
dull green leaves on the tree
are starting to be tinged
with slightest yellow,
palest red –
fading and falling,
a grey tabby sits at the bottom of the tree
watching the leaves fall
with her mad eyes,
reaching to catch them as they drift.
but the trees are waiting,
waiting for Jack Frost to come
and burnish their leaves into
brilliant gold and copper,
carnelian and jasper –
pulling out his cloth of wedding lace frost
and burnishing them until they shine.

jasper semi-precious stone

In Plain Sight

For the Meeting the Bar segment of Dverse Poets Pub. Bjorn gives the prompt today to write from a different perspective.

In Plain Sight
“When composing a verse let there not be a hair’s breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.” ― Bashō

well folks, here she is:
a woman who loves the ocean
and howls at the moon.
she observes the passing of the seasons
in the Japanese manner
and makes her own udon.
She has studied extensively Bartitsu
and is an expert at la canne.
She believes in brevity in poetry.
She hides in plain sight.

autumn moon –
the night is gone –
a crow awakens

toni and cat

Stars

Stars
“Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.”
― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

I remember riding in the backseat of the car
while my father drove mama and I
home from a trip.
I would look out the back window
at the blackness of the night.
I was always amazed at the way
the stars followed us home.

Haibun: I am Lone Wolf

For Sherry’s Prompt on Real Toads “Answer the wolf’s call with your poems about wildness and wolves, domesticity and mothers, daughters and sons, or your own fierce love for your child. Allow the passage quoted to take you where it pleases. Bring us back whatever you find.” And for the Midweek Motif on Poets United: Authenticity

Haibun: I am Lone Wolf
“The wolves knew when it was time to stop looking for what they’d lost, to focus instead on what was yet to come.”
― Jodi Picoult, Lone Wolf

Most of the time, I prefer to be alone; not part of the crowd. I prefer to wander in the forest and sniff the smells there, feel the heat/cold/rain/snow on my back. I prefer an honesty in my words and actions. If something is shite (IMHO) I prefer to say so and not shilly-shally with polite words. This has gotten me into trouble in the past and so, I prefer to be alone, with my honesty. I am a lone wolf. I only kill to eat, to leave behind forage for the pack roaming behind me. I prefer feeding rather than being fed. I can feed myself. Sometimes I am shot at, sometimes I am smiled at, most of the time I am left alone. I prefer honesty, or authenticity if you will. I don’t put down pretty words and prefer actually, that you be authentic with me. Let’s smell each other’s butts and see where the other has been, what the other has eaten. Sometimes I put my head back and howl at the moon, even when it is hidden by clouds.
fall comes like a storm –
it can be smelled on the wind –
inhale it deeply

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