Thursday, December 7, 2023

Billy Boy

 Billy was the daredevil one of the three brothers as I recall.

Hard for me to keep my rare cousin’s names straight at first.

He always had a tilted head, burr haircut and a sheepish grin, 

a more “Summered” older kid than I.

We younger ones watched fellows like him with awe,

hoping someday to wander with the same easy swagger.


When we visited, my dad would mock and tease all of us boys 

with grins and proclamations followed by a wink. 

He would caw at us his false remorse,

“You better hope I never die, or you'll be the ugliest men in the world”,

Billy would always smirk and lob a drawled retort

back to the uglier sender and the source.


Amid dusty Jacksboro Texas cricket-filled nights, hot days, a yard full of small

army soldiers waged ceaseless wars. Behind their house lived the Gazette, 

full of ink and oil smells and clackity-press percussions. 

We got to feed yesterday’s old cast letters, and our secreted curse words,

back to the molten maw of the Linotype pot, never to be seen again.

The shop was carpeted in discarded pages, their wording not yet right.


We patrolled on BB-gun hunts down alleyways with Daisy rifles tight in hand.

The wire-perched birds flapped away to the safety of the sky

as we strode through town. Bottles and cans were not so lucky.

Then back behind the post office, the heavy-oily-onion air swirled out of Mary’s Burgers, 

whispering of hot and salty French fry heaven.

Ketchup was always free.


As a Tiger on the town football team, Billy roamed Jack County’s miles

till life's call urged him to another campus. Perhaps a million days ago, 

we lunched with him there a time or so until he faded away.

While cleaning his gun, one warm and sad May afternoon, Billy’s story ended.

A puff of smoke, we blinked our eyes, and he was gone. 


Surely Billy Boy was never meant to be

the ugliest man in the world.



Sunday, November 12, 2023

Chirp

evening cricket songs

  woven in to golden light

-small letters of love

Flamingos

Flamingos lounging in tropical waters along side exotic flowers

You stand so still and I have not seen you duck your head for the longest. 

Perhaps your are full from an unseen early morning breakfast?

So poised, tall and pink, nothing is of concern to you

standing on your wire legs.

The entirety of their silly flamboyance seems oblivious

to store, with all our eyes and shuffling sounds, 

even the  children are no cause for alarm.

They must be proud birds, perhaps they are all ashamed to be on clearance

here at Walmart

2 for $20.


Packing List

For me it is a cry, a wail, of pure unsatiated yearning.

So many years of moves 
and changes 
and towns.
Ever more moving boxes and new class rooms and faces.

All so wonderfully new at first, 
to learn and meet and explore. 
Only to leave behind again and mostly forget 
as a small bit of past.  
somewhere else, now no longer new.

No one stayed in my pocket or my conversations. 
They faded away. Just gone 
and papered over with aa new address.

So many years of places and small stories have flipped by 
and are now too deep in the deck. 
Too far gone. 
Just gone and replaced
when no one was packed up 
and labeled on my box
and sent along with me
to help me remember 
who they ever were.

Dog Tired

 The Dogwood leaves are tired and drawn by the 31 

 hot and dry August days.

They dangle, painted bruise-brown, with the pallor 

of old raisin-tasting wine. Far past its prime.

Their green is long gone.

Their work is done,

They wait to fall 

away.

Losses

last years Robin hen

returns to prepare her nest

-culls the cold blue shell

Home on the Rain



most Portland days

this mossy yard stays sodden

feeding cold rivers