Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Summertime

There were three children,
two boys and a girl,
though she remained 
unaffected by roles
dictated by cultural whim.

Summers kept them 
busy outdoors seeking 
new adventures
on the farm built 
with Grandfathers hands.

The hottest days found 
them spraying each other
with the waterhose or
riding castoff bicycles on 
hard packed dirt road. 

Sometimes they would sit 
in silence for an hour or more
searching for lucky clover
in the same yard Grandmother
once swept with a broom. 

Rarely did they see
miles away neighbors
or others their own age
and the bond they shared
was stronger still.

Years later, sister 
became a woman
and the brothers fell
for the same girl,
but shared memories 

of summertime 

never change.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Paula

Things don't happen by chance,
that's what she said
When we inexplicably became
Facebook friends.
I followed her link to a site
and saw her paintings.
And photos.

I saw her soul.


I never do this sort of thing.
I've never chatted with a stranger.
She had the bluest eyes,
the funniest way of talking,
she had a tortured past.

I had an adult beverage,

and unlimited minutes.

We talked every night for hours
 like two teens who'd never loved
And she came to visit once.
She brought paints and poems
and a great glass for drinking. 

It was like striking a wooden match
to life, bursting brilliant with flame.
But I dropped it before the burn, 
a little scared I guess, and

I haven't seen her since.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Again

And just as the sun begins,
in frozen yogurt hues,
the third hand car with its
grinding clutch and
its squeaking brakes
rounds the corner
creeping guiltily home
and she is relieved that
he is not dead
or locked up in jail.
She stands in the open
doorway hurt and angry and
scared that he'll never
quit binging and grow up
to be a father to the boy.
That the next may be the last.

She slams the door shut.

This is it then, he thinks,
she will leave me. This is the
last time, I swear it.

One last chance.
He is sorry
again.

You're so special? You're sad!
You can't stand to be with me?
I see it coming you know...
I am not stupid, just because
I don't say....

Tortured soul artist? So...
special? You hurt us-
you hurt me. Nobody even reads that
shit but me.
Come to bed, I love you.

And so it goes, a hundred,
maybe a thousand times more-
and it will be this
one day
that makes him sad.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Great Book





I just finished Larry Brown novel "Joe" and I cannot get over it. If you haven't read his stuff- you must. If you have, then you already know how powerful this gifted southern writer is. Great writing, great story, great characters!