We rode on the back of a cart pulled by a blue farm truck, which seemed nearly as wrecked as the rest of the farm. Bill Wrangle’s dad, who owned the farm and the truck—in so far as claims to ownership can be made—was driving the truck, and as it was a mild autumn day, … Continue reading Blundering Revolutionary Union Worker
Again, for today’s Ragtag Community Prompt, I turn to another poet who has spent time thinking about hewn and how the hewing examines precious. This poem by Maya Angelou is less about man’s action in hewing, than it is about the universal hewing that takes all life. In it we hear what we lose when … Continue reading “When Great Trees Fall” By Maya Angelou
My contribution for the Ragtag Community prompt of the day, sleep, is not my own. It is a poem by one of my favorite poets of the mid twentieth century, Theodore Roethke. I share this villanelle from the Poetry Foundation (poetryfoundation.org). The Waking, by Theodore Roethke
“How early light goes,” he thought. A nurse comes and goes. Snow rattles on the window. Posted in response to the Word of the Day challenge, twilight.
It was a house whose architect was time. It was old then, even then, when the boy was but three years old. In a time far past, it had been a single room of log and dab. But when the boy first knew it, it had grown into five rooms under heavy cottonwood and willow … Continue reading Architects in Time
to lie in summer grass uncut by suburbia or the commerce of hay to lie in this aura, this odor of soil and cured grass, to lie under the flagging blooms of Timothy, Brome or Western Bunch bannering against a blue so vast that whole lives cannot know it, to lie in this overture of … Continue reading To Lie in Summer
Back in the day Doreen was quite busty and an on-her-back young lusty; but the bust drooped, and the back stooped, and now Doreen is an upright old fusty. Darrel was a boasty young lust sparking Doreen for her bust; but the lust went gloppy and Doreen went floppy. Now Darrel’s an crusty old fust.
Old Daryl was a morbid sort. By the time he was sixty-five, he had his will all sorted, his bills finally all paid off, his porch rocker put where he could watch the sunset until he took part in it. When his buddies, the guys he’d grown up with, gone off to fight Hirohito with, … Continue reading A Prince
Whether that shovel leans against the shed or turns soil is irrelevant.
with scent of lilacs blooming in the yard, lingering winter kill fetor