poems for a new season
DESCRIPTION
Poems about the Southern USATRANSCRIPT
SNOW
Newborn glazed crystals Blowing out of an
Ancient mystic past, Transversing distant galaxies.
Cold, Northland,
Whistling through darkened halls To our dimension of life.
The new fallen snow Lies lifeless on the dead embers
Of winter, Exhausted after the mystic flight.
BLACK REVIVAL
The black Crinkled hands
Worn Around the
Gooseneck hoe Touch the polished Bench and flowered
Cotton dress Swaying in
Rhythm “Yes, Lord, yes,
On Jordan’s banks I stand”
And salty sweat Rolls down the Firm set face
Like tears Spattering on
A funeral home fan. The heat increases
As a shout Reverberates against
Aged oak walls “Yes Lord, Thank God
I’m free, Free at last.”
MOBILE BAY
The crisp clear Yellow full moon
Hangs out Over the Gulf
As a palm tree breeze Blows the spirit Ever higher and
Higher, Spiraling
Across the South land To murky swamps
And moss Hanging down
To toad frog stools And willows swaying
In the wind. Summer
Flowers melt into The moist hot
Air And the ocean Breathing deep
Rolls into Mobile Bay.
MEMORIES OF OLD PHOTOGRAPHS
A cool, crisp breeze Blows out of
Ewing Galloway photographs As memories
Tumble From somewhere Out of the mind.
The evening settles Into night. Thoughts
Captured by the mind’s Camera
Await playback
BIRDS
The awareness grew Until we cracked
The shell of our existence. Flying
Sometimes higher In search
Of the elusive truth To carry us Back to the
Womb of knowledge We escaped Only briefly Blown by
The winds of change We became
As birds.
BENCHES ON A COURTHOUSE LAWN
CLAY COUNTY, ALABAMA
They sit there,
The dusty ground Speckled with
Cedar needles and Cigarette butts. The grass, once
Growing thick And neat, now
Recedes to make Way for old men
Who spit black tobacco juice And talk about the weather
While the world Revolves ‘round
Sleek, shiny Cars,
Eighteen wheelers With Rebel flags
Hung behind Bearded drivers And tall, slender,
Bare skinned Girls walk past.
The cedar, growing Overhead and spreading
Its arms like a Comforting mother Knows the secrets
Spoken on hot, sultry Summer days when
All that moves Are the black piss ants
Seeking out food crumbs Dropped during talk
Of politics and death. Silently now, as shadows creep
Across the lawn, They await the return
Of the old men wearing Straw hats
Who warmed their Wood with dusty blue overalls
Filled with the smell of Hand-rolled cigarettes
And Alabama clay.
DREAMS ALONG HIGHWAY 11
It's a long time To think back
When times were carefree And candy and ice cream cost
Nickels and dimes. When new mown hay smell
Slipped through the distant sounds Of field larks and dew covered
Morning glories. Hot summer wind mixed with
Hot molten tar and Greyhound buses and hitchhikers.
There were a lot of hitchhikers In those days.
Like the girl who rode a horse From Argentina to Canada.
Road machines Mowing gently waving
Highway grass Growing around Burma Shave signs.
Progress was measured In how many young puppy dogs got Killed.
Lazy days spent drinking Cool-Aid And crunching ice,
Being forced to eat turnip greens And spinach.
Playing in dirty sand dirt and Taking naked baths by the
Kitchen sink. I became aware of
Bodies and sunrises and sunsets. Sunday afternoons were spent on The front porch counting cars or
Listening to ghost tales told By my uncle while
Summer thunderstorms rumbled distantly And flashed their lightning in the
Deep South. “That thunderstorm’ll come up tonight.
The crops sure doe need the rain.” Yes, I’ve been awakened
By the midnight storms and The frightened kinfolk and
Kerosene lamps and high powered Flashlights and talks of
Now gone rains. Innocently I pursued fireflies and
Rode tricycles and bicycles While stumbling through grammar school
And report cards. Those were the summer days
And working in the hay And the dress-up Sunday schools
And hell-fire revivals Where people wiggled in the floor
And spoke in tongues And young girls smiled on back benches
And the boy’s pants stayed hot. But I did not understand.
There were first days at school,
Paper sack lunches, the Smoky smell of winter clothes and
People raking and Burning leaves.
But snows came and Highway 11 was Closed. And the woods were filled and full of Snow
And axes and warm mittens. Soft flannel pajamas mixed with
Pot-bellied stoves and snow cream. Easter Sunday was always a
Big day. Seven year locusts always Sang on the seventh year
As I dreamed of building roads And in the morning being awakened to
The distant sound of road machines In the east.
The freeway was coming through. Clearview Café and Smoke-Tree died Along with old man Cox’s store and
Hood’s Grocery. Some of the back seat church kids
Even married and moved away. Highway 11 died when Greyhound buses
And Van Camps freight stopped Running the line.
I also have moved my dreams to Another highway
But memories still sometimes Get in the way.
ENDLESS SUMMER
Summer’s grasshoppers Sing September’s song
Along hot highways Leading into December Stars move farther away
Preparing for long winter nights When the big yellow moon Will float slowly between The barren branches of
Large oaks. Memories fly by
Like dying butterflies Winging their way to death.
MOTHER OCEAN
I have waited So long to see
You. To feel your Waves and
Taste your salty Air.
Now, in the soft Silence of the
Morning I watch you
Rolling toward me In the yellows and Purples and blues
After the beach Has been swept by
Your tide And the shells
Lay lifeless on the shore. You roll there
Before me Bashful and powerful,
Silent and roaring, Calling and yet
Cautious. I left my
Footprints in your sand.
TRUTH
I awoke this morning Listening intuitively
To the rain Outside.
I lay back unconcerned As the lachrymiform
Dream Slid down the mental
Windows Of my mind.
Sliding all the way Down
And splashing on the Gutter of Death.
THE TABLE
Empty wine bottles, Food left on now
Dirty plates. Fortune cookie notes, Butter smeared knives And crumpled napkins,
Once clean, Now soiled.
The laughter, Now silent,
Floats back to me Within the smoke of
A smoldering cigarette. People come and People go within
This life. All, the Mystic Travelers and Parting words
Become more important Than what has been said before.
The players slowly amble homeward Continuing to play life’s little games
And trying to place Curtain falls on the backstages
Of their minds. Food scraps get tossed out to the dogs And worthless remnants of conversation
Fall like boulders Against the once secure flood,
The mind. There is more time in this life
For afternoon dinners And senseless talk.
There is more time in this life To reach out
And hold
And love, But the feast is soon over
And someone has to pick up the tab.
STREET WALKERS
They come slowly Down the sidewalk
‘Neath the oaks and willows Their black bodies glistening in
The early morning sun. Vibrating with energy,
Strong, soft legs shimmer in the Alabama heat. Movement –
My eyes drawn like a magnet The vibrations
Echo off their damp, Moist bodies. Stopping now
Before the light The black girls smile,
Knowing I have seen.
SOUTHERN EVENING
Cicada sing Long, drawn out songs
While a large green Grasshopper
Clings to the bamboo Curtain.
The wind shakes itself As an opulent red sun
Sinks on the Heat shimmering horizon.
An automobile Sounds in the distance.
The summer night Begins.
ALABAMA WORKERS
I drive this road, The hot July air
Fills the car. My mind,
Trying to get back To reality,
A place to be. I see my roots
Now among Alabama people, Plastered against the Mountains or sitting
Amid the valleys They use and mold
The earth. I catch glimpses of life
Here among the farmer, the Laborer and mill worker.
They etch themselves inside my mind.
SUNDAY MORNING SUNRISES
Yes, I’ll go down to the sea, The deep green sea.
Hearing the sea gulls and the surf The musical waves that engulf me.
I’ll feel the wind in my hair, I’ll taste the salt in its’ kiss
And watch old men with large pipes As they fish.
There with the cool wind, Water ‘neath my feet
Sunday morning sunrises Along the sea.
SUMMER AFTERNOON
The flying dust Rising from August fields
Is blown by the evening breeze. The Sun,
Grows smaller As it sinks
Behind gasoline powered tractors. Clouds, from some
Western state Descend upon us
Brought by a jet stream. The wind
Moves the bamboo curtain Hanging on the porch.