November 24, 2007
Country spirit
healer of small hearts
teach the children of Adam
lost in mountain grass
the old ways.
Hold them with folk tale memories
and grandma’s quilts and read them
Whitman when they are young.
Wrapped in fields of wild white Indigo
you wait in blue mist mornings.
Red dirt roads point
the path with dogwoods
and scattered glades
leading to the porch.
Tonight whippoorwills
echo your cry
hickory smoke spreads out
layering the holler
below the Appalachian stars
shooting across a blackberry sky.
10 Comments | 
poetry | Tagged: poetry | 
Permalink
Posted by Scot
November 21, 2007
A poem is never a put-up job, so to speak. It begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a love sickness. It is never a thought to begin with.
Robert Frost
I invite you to read, leave a comment or two and if you would like to–or maybe just leave a poem.
No Comments » | Welcome | Permalink
Posted by Scot
November 21, 2007
Back when T. V. was black and
white. Test patterns–
still frame westerns of
Tonto profiled on a target.
Back when Ol’ Yeller died
every time, never changed.
Saturday afternoons,
Lassie came home to
lick Timmy’s face,
it didn’t matter.
Saturday afternoons
young boys cried…
Before Nam when Combat
made us backyard
soldiers,
killing krauts.
Red-faced boys
behind evergreens,
ratatat-tat.
“You’re dead”.
am not.
Back when Aunt Bea
made cherry cobbler
and Pa took Opie
fishin’ at Miller’s
Lake; skipping
rocks that rippled
out to sleeping
dogs on Saturday
afternoons
when young boys
cried,
wiped tears before
Dads could see.
3 Comments | poetry | Tagged: poetry | Permalink
Posted by Scot
November 21, 2007
Fortune teller
layered in loose
Roma silk
Long fingers turn
“The Lovers”
up
on black
satin.
Glass beads
dangle down
breasts tattooed
the color of age.
Dance your
gypsy prism
of circling
red silk
caressing
the curves.
Cast your
gypsy eyes
slowly
seeking
sacred seduction.
Myth of
candle light
your
spell
plays
out.
3 Comments | poetry | Tagged: poetry | Permalink
Posted by Scot
November 21, 2007
Your palace last
night in vodka
dreams
pretending I was
The King of Prussia.
You
the virgin princess
dark hair spilling
over the edge,
translating sonnets
on satin sheets.
In old darkness
I leave you
hating hotel rooms
while spending your lifetime
trying
to get the words
right.
6 Comments | poetry | Tagged: poetry | Permalink
Posted by Scot
November 21, 2007
He was drafted
a hot prospect
by the Giants in ‘67
infantryman
by the Army in ‘68
Somewhere north
of the Mekong Delta
pitching for Charlie Company
My Lai
with the bases loaded
he blew out his
mind.
Today
no dugouts or bullpens
in this ward of word slobber
He stands bent
starring home
through Eastwood eyes
waiting for a sign.
Dust dancing
in the sunlight
like confetti
from the world series
2 Comments | poetry | Tagged: poetry | Permalink
Posted by Scot
