Also, I will be at the festival all day in Booth 3! I will be selling books and magnetic poetry, but will be available to chat with folks about poetry or just to chat!
Ode (Or Elegy?) to Abraham Ford of The Walking Dead (G Version)
Abraham Ford: fiery, ferocious, unflinching
bristling boar warrior unleashed, virile, thundering
out of charred Houston, birthed from chaos, life shattered.
His mouth poetic decimation, his heart cracked.
He raged down overgrown highways of death. Boldly
pummeling his battle clad vehicle faster.
Taking no heed of vultures swinging through the heat
his has always been to fight, do, die, rinse, repeat.
Stormed by sweeping zombie hordes. Dicked by destiny.
Blustering an ocean of crap, kicking it right
back up its own butt. Daily, he thundered assault.
Rallied. Scratched out new plans. Soldered old wounds with salt.
Riding clear across the jaws of heck. Charging foes.
Plunging knives deep in skulls. Hungry for violence.
Loose ends chapping his ass Lust edging red mustache.
Loyal to his ragtag crew. Perpetual bad-ass.
Hauling his gashes, damage, loss like a desert.
Desperate for a wholly mother-D reset.
His guilt a guillotine driving for redemption.
Soldier. Lover. Friend. Will this hero find peace in the end?
The Vulture Whisperer
Before eyes see the hulking spades
— the tin clatter
the scraping of nails across the
rusty metal
call attention to the thirteen
sunning queens, black
weighted wings lifted like carved
totems, spread eagle.
As if Poe himself had made this
house his abode
finding a glut of milky vulture eyes,
death’s bridge.
In this smudge of worn Appalachian
hills, she’s known
a shadow across smoking green turns
of ridges.
Here —the home of the vulture
whisperer, remote
faded farm house with pooled glass
windows, worn pine slats.
Her mute charges filling nearby
oaks, oily wings
shimmering like forgotten Halloween
trinkets.
Apron strings rankling, braids
under red scarf, ambling
a shrill whistle, arms flung out,
face uplifted, “Fly!”
Black sky queens ascend over the
roof line, circle
her in smooth majestic swoops as
more and more soar.
Their feathered fingers fan wide,
air born oracles
their long gnarled faces are indistinguishable
only their churning gyre rising,
winged spectacle.
With dozens gathered, the vulture
whisperer boils
the pot with a wave of her frail arms,
spectral kites
seize a warm updraft. Her kettle of
beauties roils
rides thermals, dances altitude.
Thirty in flight,
wings wider than a grave is tall,
climbing more height.
Strange how like is drawn to like,
outcast to outcast
her leather-bound charms banished,
her herbs, her livers,
her pocked marked face, her black
skin, her too-true forecasts
driven out of town like a witch
through the river.
She beckons her purifying breeze to
scavenge.
They wheel to devour kill from southern
highways,
offal from the slaughter, dead lost
in swampy dredge.
Passersby scorn their hooked beaks,
leathery faces
deep in decay. But born for azure atmosphere,
their silver lined wings lift them
heavenward, angels
heralding what end? They circle to
their clapboard
home where the vulture whisperer
swishes her rod
like a black cat’s tail to summon
her obedient hoard.
One by one, they stop like a clock
upon her roof.
Dusk descends. Vultures settle like
evil omens.
Fortune Tellers
Fortune Tellers never look like you expect
them to. This one has hair sprayed blonde bangs,
purple eye shadow, and boulder-like amethyst
rings. The room smells of country rose.
Last time it was a middle-aged black woman,
natural with short hair and beige fingernails.
She wore feather earrings and whispered,
“Stop punishing yourself.” This is common.
Fortune tellers often urgently grab your wrist
as you descend steps to impart an ambiguous
shred of direction. Dad likes to have his cards
read, while I prefer palm readings. Life lines
and crease counting reminds me of cartography.
We avoid the ones with crystal balls and hoop
earrings. Wearing a purple turban is suspect
in our books. Fortunes change constantly.
Fortune Tellers are like weathermen.
It doesn’t always rain, but carrying
an umbrella never hurt anyone.
Ugly Jug
Daddy’s
been in the ugly jug.
Them took
it out in the woods.
Now Daddy
thinks he is in love
with a
squinty face toothy tight.
Them took
it out in the woods.
They got a
fire and all night
with a
squinty face toothy tight.
The moon,
tonight, shines so bright,
hell, they
got a fire and all night.
Them
hammering on banjos
under a
moon is shining bright.
Later the
boys will come to blows.
Them
hammering on banjos
falling
over, laughing stitches.
Later the
boys will come to blows.
Mama’s
bout to pitch a fit.
Falling
over, laughing stitches,
now Daddy
thinks he is in love.
Mama’s
bout to pitch a fit.
Daddy’s
been in the ugly jug.
My South’s Boys
In my South - men grew up in the creek,
skinning snakes, sunning leather in trees.
My southern man could fire a twenty-two
or tear a truck through red logging roads
even before he was two.
My southern man was raised on Brave’s baseball,
Church diners, and Saturday night, dirt races.
My southern man loves the outdoor salt life:
hunting, camping, climbing, or – even - whittling with a knife.
My southern man can rock a pair of waders.
He casts magic to zip in fresh fish
then fries them up in a cast iron skillet.
My southern man is never scared
of wolf spiders, bats, or even a bear.
Like a boy scout my southern man
is always prepared.
My southern man can name all the stars,
then stay up late telling wild yarns.
My southern man know how to make a little go a long way,
he doesn’t throw away money on fads of the day.
My southern man loves to eat country cooking, he doesn’t
want nothing to do with trendy tapas or anything vegan.
My southern man is friends with his neighbors,
whether puzzling things out beneath the hood of a dodge,
or early morning hunting up at the lodge.
My southern man is the light of my life, so
Thank you Southern Mama’s for raising ‘em right
with chests brimming with Blue Ridge mountain might
and hearts generous as a sweet summer night.