Those three weeks in August, Bill and Edna changed the sheets in the two extra bedrooms seven times. Seven times they stripped all the bedding off at least one of the three beds, hauled the sheets to the laundry room, washed and dried (but did not fold) them and hauled them back to the bedrooms. … Continue reading When You Move to Montana, Don’t Tell a Soul
One of the Ways to Say So-Long
The taxi sat in the street below the window. Jacob knew the meter was running, but he still could not pick up his bags and open the door, then close it behind him and stagger his suitcase and trunk down the four flights to the exit and the taxi. He wanted Irene, his mother, to … Continue reading One of the Ways to Say So-Long
Politics or The Doom of Last Lost County
“Eddy Tomplinson does have a certain flair,” Donnel Frisbuy said, “most of it odoriferous.” He looked into his mug of Montana Blue Ale and then took a chug of it. The topic of conversation was the upcoming election, and whom the Last Lost County Country might send to the State Legislature. Donnel was a burned-in-hell … Continue reading Politics or The Doom of Last Lost County
Some People Have no Finesse
In my willows, magpies— will they yatter this conceit all summer long?
When the Ginger Beer is All Drunk Up.
Perry was showered and ready for a Montana Cowboy Saturday Night of wild women, sweet liquor and the usual paraphernalia of a Montana Cowboy Saturday night. Unfortunately, Perry’s idea of what a Cowboy Saturday Night should consist of and his execution of that idea never seemed to coincide. Much to Perry’s frustration, one beer was … Continue reading When the Ginger Beer is All Drunk Up.
Balm
with scent of lilacs blooming in the yard, lingering winter kill fetor
In the Green
In the greening pasture beige stalks of last year’s yellow sweet clover Posted in response to the Ragtag Community daily prompt verdant.
Fishing for Buffalo
Spike’s was the kind of place where a rounder felt comfortable telling lies. It huddled in the southeast quadrant of where Old Placer Creek Road crossed Montana Highway 333 and became Last Lost Mountain Road which bridged the river and dodged into the mountains beyond. Beside the rickety one lane, wooden decked bridge, There was … Continue reading Fishing for Buffalo
Vernie Valenine Defines a Word for the Prof
“Omaha is a place I visited for a wedding once,” Vern said, “It was spring, and the air was sumptuous heavy with moisture and there were trees growing everywhere, and. . . .” “Wait. Wait,” Dean put up his hand, “Hold it right there. Vernie old boy. You said “sumptuous.” “Yes, I did,” the old … Continue reading Vernie Valenine Defines a Word for the Prof
She Sings the Wedding Hymn
Silence of fingers hovering; scent before her voice in the thorned room of rose and carnation where light echoes all this and every sentiment on glass of window, fluted salute, and wandering specs. Posted in response to the RPD word do the day: patterns
Home of Have, Poems by Lee Robison 