Saturday, March 31, 2012

Friday, March 30, 2012

Tomorrow, a horse



And just yesterday,
Great-Granny Oakey Stump...perhaps in Floyd County?


The morrow's warm-blood
traveling from the lush lower Shenandoah Valley
to the hidden vales of 
Callaway.



Sunday, March 25, 2012

Big Orange, aka Great White


Trotting wildly in the rain
pudding of clay
tail-chasing
giant one,
just happy.


Waiting, unknowing,
for the new friend next week.
Why Dad built over there
before the storms
one capacious
corral. 


Paddocks on lush pasture.
Little Horse needing
a home. Trailered line of Blue Ridge,
south.


I'll stand for you,
says the Giant.
We'll hold this hill.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

occupy red-clay

Layers upon layers of mush and black dirt
to comfort us. Ready to
riot
after waiting.


they say she's an ol' libber, free of
spirit
freed from
days when Hot Pink
meant a chair down the hall and
shared coffees, watching
dutifully
as the powerful played.


they say
a Young Pink once thanked her ~
Pink reared in deeply southern water-soil
thanked her for kicking around a bit
the solemn Blue-ties
for standing with sisters many
so that now the breeze is easy,
any one can grow
and now
Pinks flock with Blues, Oranges, the Violet, the Umber
and soils are blended,
basting,
bountiful in loam.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Bethlehem Road, Spring

Onions greeted spring 
in mourning:
Trace steps and essence of
green hills
now warming.


Scramble so 
that we might live among the 
lowering of
air fresh with
goldfinch


and smart-aleck cowbird
waiting on another's new 
stick-built
nest.


Fescue lush, bosky, defiant
of the sorrow
in dew.



Saturday, March 17, 2012

a ~ greening


Three hundred years back they excursed,
from vassilage
from indentured-ness
from bowing

And aching

To rushing toward the Western wall of
green slopes and
hiding draughts of brooks
that infuse ante-spring
with life anew.

Dark eyes of Totero waited
in mountain pines
and saw the blue of eye
yet once-ancient
Celt
walk windward.

Both would know 
the narrows of
minds 
who swept
the land clean

Both would know
each other
Desperate for a reckoning
of place and
kin

the hills-touch-Cahas hide those who
once bowed yet
winked
and now unyielding
gather 
magic in green fields
at the dawn.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Where Strut Came From

Fourteen acres of blue hills and
thirty-two turkeys. Hushed, hen-ly
most year long.


Afternoon of March-ing,
blind to visit,
the men of 
turkeyville
in full fan.


Simplicity in patterns,
tails up,
trimming,
acorned.
Knowing truths
no longer 
ours.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Violaceous

Big old rock,
standing in our way.
Croci clip clearly up from moist dark.


I ain't messing with you,
says river rock. I've been around a long time.
You are here to reflect purple 
on me, my clay-stained back.


You are here to confound expectations
and bloom wildly
in confused
March. 


I'll still be here next year.
Get on with your fun
this morning,
be cream-plum, give
Great White and
sunshine
something to
sniff about. 


River rock warmed,
Stretch petals, purps,
and revel in your
allure.



Thursday, March 8, 2012

Berry-ing Down

Past sunrise,
easy March,
blackberry-roots in pail.


Rain's coming,
asparagus rising.


Promises wait,
but are whispered
to the
soil.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

I've Got This

Great White smiles
on sunny fields.
She watches
and laughs.


Crows left.
Blue-birds soaring.
Red robin at the garden gate.


You worry too 
much,
man.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

The Ride Home

South of Cahas, toward Roanoke
Home was the little city north of here,
still is, in a way.


But the ride to real home
goes through hidden mountain draughts
known perhaps to the hiker,
the farmer,
and to Mahala the Totero.
Not to all.


See the rises,
she whispers.
Hear the dancers on the wind.
Press your toes soft into moss-blackened
ground.


North, busy-ness, livelihood.
To the mountains south,
fence-building,
finding of stones,
cream richened by the never-failing
spring.
secrets, shhh.
We know.
Stay.

Dare Ya

I'm blue,
said Crocus,
and a little chilly.


Tall Croci chuckled.
This is just a passing thing.
You'll get over it.


Listen, child.
She shook the white crystals 
and rared her lean
green back.


You gotta take 'em on.
Don't let anything 
hold you back.


Cold? Nah.
Scared? No way.
She spread her pettled purple.
Get out there and bloom. 

Monday, March 5, 2012

On the Fence

Turquoise & tangerine,
feathery fluffed
acrobats 
land on
air
and long-sunk poplar poles.


Indecision nowhere.


Longer days mean wealth
of mindfulness
and belief.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

White Dust

How to be humbled
how to fall to your knees,
as dust flies
from a small sketch-pad
and colors
skewer
the


reality
of daffodils
sheer so lovely
bright spears of light
against
the cold and relentless zephyrs
of  false spring.

Joke's on March

Joke's on you, month-pretending-to-be-spring.
Heat lamp in basement.
'Mater seeds in the dirt.


Rosemary's waiting all pretty
with Dill his usual dour self.


We'll have some color
around here soon,
the crops are gonna come.
You'll look back
and ponder
how you could've cut and run.

Saturday, March 3, 2012

in Camelot

in Camelot,
her mother rode.
the dreamer of horses
and the
dreamed-of.


(once, briefly, another 'we'
were derided as
living there,
in the gilded heights.
but we didn't, 
or if we did,
we didn't stay long.)


little girls then wanted to 
have horses,
wanted to speak French,
wanted
to be thin
and dress beyond what they called style.
wanted to be educated.
wanted to step
on that sailboat.


do you hear them joke now about
education?
do you hear them push
girls
to the ground.


we were those girls,
and we fought 
and loved
and learned.
Dare you not push
us
to the ground.

Coffee for Little Horse

Fair little horse of
sweet manners.
Are you ready for
dark green pastures,
but new?


We're rambunctious here,
digging dark gardens, chasing cows.
(We guard wild-flowers.)
Great White's
a barker, full of mischief,
and she needs a
friend.


Lots of laughter,
long walks.
Clear air rumbles down
Five-Mile Mountain
without warning.


She and I will have coffee today,
and talk of
Timothy-grass,
sweet feed,
and you.

Friday, March 2, 2012

This Storm: Bird Worries

It's silly,
the girl said.
Where do the birds go when it storms?
Are they swept away?


The old woman shook her head.
In the mountains, the
bluebirds
fly to the nearest knot at
the elbow of the
oak.


The hawks climb skyward
in defiance.


The slender heron hunches.


The old one squinted at the darkening sky.
But in Mississippi
that nuded day afterwards,
the hummingbird was desperate and sought frantically
to drink the red from the jeep's
dead tail-light.


No nourishment,
no shelter.
The cries of all creatures that long, silent day.

Storm stories: Before

Silent, now.
Sunshine is warm.
The animals are still sleepy.
Crows laugh.


But it's coming.


As it did on the Gulf after a pretty day of preparing.


Boiling like soup
not started well
and ruining the pot.


We danced, and sang, and saw only the sun.


But the source of
our sorrows
saw us.
And knocked.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Purples, Biloxi tears (I)



In spring on the Gulf,
by now
purples have driven by,
catching jewels.
Pinks are slipping out
of tricked oleanders.


A few are mauve imitators.
(The purples are real.)


But in another south,
1,000 miles upward,
a shy sun is
content to love
cheering purples
low to the ground
and valiant.

Crazy Cow

Husband waits by garden as Angus
leave for lower pasture.


Morn is calm, sun rising.
Coffee's on.
Fresh grass awaits.


'Cept for Crazy Cow.
Off she goes,
under fixed fence
up rutted road
down Algoma
and down toward
those Neighbors (you know the ones).


She's runnin'.
Guernsey are chasin'.
Husband's racin'.


Quiet in the house.