Posts

Watercolor & poetry

Image
J. L. Wright Lari Jo Wallace Edwards Sharon Purcell  

Am I the Elder?

Image
Born in the sixties, from a jungle on the other side of the world, body bags on the nightly news were counted. Growing up in the seventies those enemies became church refugees dark skin, smooth voiced, heartthrobs In the eighties, the world was mine eager to explore and learn  ready to make a dent of change Real world crashed the nineties living in a daily grind paying back with nothing to pay forward  The aughts, depressed mortality  paternal loss looking for something  shifting ideas and ideals Teens gifted financial independence  freedom to escape expectations  filling someone else’s dreams Now, the twenties, twist the flesh hoping to be top shelf

Frost

Image
  Frost  The new calf lies in the matted grass. Her tired mother stands protective Crisp blades cut the umbilical cord like frost on a wire a bubble of stillness Standing alone The braided wire, taunt a fence between matted grasses mottled with frost bubbles  and frost teeth

Room for Stuffing

Image
The books of the world  do not have all the answers  or all the stories. So, here I write something familiar,  relatable but new. Let my words rattle your gut knock loose undigested tales the ones set aside  like cold mashed potatoes  when there is giblet dressing. There may not be room enough  but hold fast  measure their importance weigh out staples of caloric intake but do not throw them out. These stories are common,  leftovers shall we say, cheap and easy to improve. Some better more substantial more satisfying. But do they really need  more butter  or gravy? 

Buried Shoes

Image
  Buried shoes on my feet, all afternoon and night tending bar and waiting tables  happy hour until closing silly Irish storytellers sing shanties   tending bar and waiting tables racecar owners tip heartily silly Irish storytellers sing shanties managers provide support outside of work   racecar owners tip heartily dog greets me with wagging tale mangers provide support outside of work showering away the grease smell   dog greets me with wagging tale my feet tired, sore, and odiferous work shoes buried as if something has died on my feet, all afternoon and night

A scary story

Image
A full moon would have welcomed this night but instead a wee slice hung like a hook in the marcasite sky. The rough road made the car pitch and veer until I slowed to a snails pace. I was never going to the get to the poetry reading on time, who found this great short cut on that stupid map?  Of course, I had, someone who actually owned a paper map of the national forest roads in the county. Mostly logging roads, pitted with deep potholes from skidders and semis. My little Hyundai was doing pretty good so I should have given her more credit that the grief as I beat on the dash when she finally plopped into one of the holes and decided she’d gone far enough.  The tires spun in the mud, I tried to rock’er back and forth to no avail. No poetry reading for me I thought. It was still early, barely 6 but dusk was here and of course as I picked up my cellphone from the passenger side floorboard, I saw the “no service” right away.  Now what, it was at least three miles back to the better road