Sometimes the Mist of the Mountains

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.


Some poets I like to read

November 22, 2007

Welcome to Scot’s Poetry

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.

 


Sleeping Dogs

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.


L’amoureux

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.


The Tenth Muse at Midnight

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.


Veterans Park

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