08-14-2016, 03:06 PM
Edit Two
The Witch of Raider Hollow
Under a yellow porch beacon, I watched the canopies pour their weight
over black bark, frightening the crickets
into suddenly silent millions.
Call me restless, a rocking chair out of wooden tune;
knuckle blistered, a lap full of coffee grounds spilt from spoons, and trying
to picture the caviar eyes of unseen insects.
To hear whatever the downpour smothered, wherever it crawls.
In their absence, the bullfrogs were just another chorus of sore throats.
Their cousins the stoats, invisibly, preferred to slip
away quietly.
Grandma's voice through the window,
like a crooked fork clattering on the kitchen floor:
a prayer to bed ridden aunty, who
they say, spoke to the hollow.
Fewer tell how it spoke back.
Still others say she chewed cloves.
That when the locusts arrived to sew dead-straw summers,
her and hers were the first to drop plow,
to haunt the valley where the Devil leashed a faithful sow.
And so that cliff hidden pond where the foxes sometimes bury buck skulls
became their southern scholomance:
a lightning bug disco where the Devil would dance-
to hear it told- under cloak and on hay-stacks of human hair
with the voice of screaming, bolting mares.
In the morning, tight faced from cold,
I was sleepily sweeping cicada shells from the porch.
Possibly millions, flaking into chaffy pollen--
fever-struck!
I thought I heard a crow call
my name
In my dream I saw a blackberry bush
sprouting through the spokes of a forgotten bicycle
and then torn from it's roots and ridden, berries and all,
by children with camouflage faces
across crumbling parking lots.
I hear those wicked wheels ringing like sniper shells
every so often--
strangest of all, because the bush does not die.
Edit One
Porch light, and the leaves are monsoons
Black wood, and the crickets hard to catch
(one in the hand and a thousand in the bush)
Call me restless- rocking chair out of wooden tune
Knuckle blisters, with coffee grounds spilt from spoons
The bullfrogs- another chorus of sore throats
but the stoats, invisibly, slip between the wood-stocks
hiding from the tomcat and his bone-beds in back of sheds
Grandma's voice is a fork bent with whispers
a prayer to bed ridden aunty
they say she spoke to the hollow
fewer tell how it spoke back
Still others say she chewed cloves
that when the locusts arrived bringing summer fall
her and hers were the first to drop plow
to haunt the creek where the Devil's herd stopped to drink
so that the cliff hidden pond where the foxes bury buck skulls
became their southern scholomance
a lightning bug disco where the Devil would dance
to hear it told- under cloak and on haystacks of hair
with the voice of screaming, bolting mares.
In the morning, tight faced from cold
I was sleepily sweeping cicada shells from the porch
hundreds of them, flaking into chaffy pollen
fever-struck!
I thought I heard a crow call my name
In my dream I see a blackberry bush
sprouting through the spokes of a forgotten bicycle
and then torn from it's roots and ridden, berries and all
by children with camouflage faces
across crumbling parking lots
I hear those wicked wheels ringing like sniper shells every so often
strangest of all, because the bush does not die
The Witch of Raider Hollow
Under a yellow porch beacon, I watched the canopies pour their weight
over black bark, frightening the crickets
into suddenly silent millions.
Call me restless, a rocking chair out of wooden tune;
knuckle blistered, a lap full of coffee grounds spilt from spoons, and trying
to picture the caviar eyes of unseen insects.
To hear whatever the downpour smothered, wherever it crawls.
In their absence, the bullfrogs were just another chorus of sore throats.
Their cousins the stoats, invisibly, preferred to slip
away quietly.
Grandma's voice through the window,
like a crooked fork clattering on the kitchen floor:
a prayer to bed ridden aunty, who
they say, spoke to the hollow.
Fewer tell how it spoke back.
Still others say she chewed cloves.
That when the locusts arrived to sew dead-straw summers,
her and hers were the first to drop plow,
to haunt the valley where the Devil leashed a faithful sow.
And so that cliff hidden pond where the foxes sometimes bury buck skulls
became their southern scholomance:
a lightning bug disco where the Devil would dance-
to hear it told- under cloak and on hay-stacks of human hair
with the voice of screaming, bolting mares.
In the morning, tight faced from cold,
I was sleepily sweeping cicada shells from the porch.
Possibly millions, flaking into chaffy pollen--
fever-struck!
I thought I heard a crow call
my name
In my dream I saw a blackberry bush
sprouting through the spokes of a forgotten bicycle
and then torn from it's roots and ridden, berries and all,
by children with camouflage faces
across crumbling parking lots.
I hear those wicked wheels ringing like sniper shells
every so often--
strangest of all, because the bush does not die.
Edit One
Porch light, and the leaves are monsoons
Black wood, and the crickets hard to catch
(one in the hand and a thousand in the bush)
Call me restless- rocking chair out of wooden tune
Knuckle blisters, with coffee grounds spilt from spoons
The bullfrogs- another chorus of sore throats
but the stoats, invisibly, slip between the wood-stocks
hiding from the tomcat and his bone-beds in back of sheds
Grandma's voice is a fork bent with whispers
a prayer to bed ridden aunty
they say she spoke to the hollow
fewer tell how it spoke back
Still others say she chewed cloves
that when the locusts arrived bringing summer fall
her and hers were the first to drop plow
to haunt the creek where the Devil's herd stopped to drink
so that the cliff hidden pond where the foxes bury buck skulls
became their southern scholomance
a lightning bug disco where the Devil would dance
to hear it told- under cloak and on haystacks of hair
with the voice of screaming, bolting mares.
In the morning, tight faced from cold
I was sleepily sweeping cicada shells from the porch
hundreds of them, flaking into chaffy pollen
fever-struck!
I thought I heard a crow call my name
In my dream I see a blackberry bush
sprouting through the spokes of a forgotten bicycle
and then torn from it's roots and ridden, berries and all
by children with camouflage faces
across crumbling parking lots
I hear those wicked wheels ringing like sniper shells every so often
strangest of all, because the bush does not die