Dee Dot

Dee Dot died,
drunk
talking to a telephone pole.
He keeled over,
like a felled oak,
6'6", 270 lbs. of quarter Cherokee
hitting the sidewalk with a thud,
blood trickling out of the back of his skull
into the gutter.

Dee Dot conversing
with the spirits
of inanimate objects,
or so they say,
drinking heavily to quiet the voices
whispering in his brain,
now lying on his back,
lifeless eyes open
reflecting the clouds, the sun,
the wires
abuzz
with all those voices.

The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature - March 2009 edition

 

Wheel Jammin'

tapping bongo rhythms
on our steering wheels,
grooving to saxophone riffs,
jazz,
setting the morning mood,
sun brighter, breeeeeze cooler,
all stoplights green;
for four minutes of radio time,
the lady in my rear-view mirror
isn't a soccer mom in a mini-van
and I'm not lost in an Olds,
no,
we are lovers
of a smoooooth jazz song,
bobbing our heads
like bobblehead dolls,
wheel jammin' and smiling our way
through Hillsborough, North Carolina

The Christian Science Monitor - October 16, 2008 edition

 

Terminus

The time has come
when he'd rather be with his friends
than go fishing with his father.
It happened with his brother
at the same age,
the crossroads in life when I become
the "old man."

Sometimes, I find it humorous
that his friends mistake me for him
when I answer the phone.
"Do you think your old man would mind
if we go to the movies?"

Sometimes, I want to go with them.

Magnapoets - Issue 3, January 2009

 

The Hermit

...rickety shack,
weeds waist high
in the yard.
I'd see the old man
picking poke salad
along Sycamore Road,
his mongrels trailing,
dog-eat-dog
for a morsel
of rabbit,
'possum,
or muskrat
until,
one day,
he
fell
dead
in his front yard,
lying in the weeds
for over a month
his body
providing nourishment
for the pack.

Sketchbook - October 31, 2008, Vol. 3, No. 10

 

Diner

They sit in a booth made for two,
thin, frail, toothless. . .
he, in bib overalls and a tattered flannel shirt,
she, in a faded blue dress and yellowed sweater,
dining on grilled cheese sandwiches and hush puppies,
drinking sweet iced tea out of styrofoam cups,
surrounded by a lunch crowd
feasting
on platefuls of Carolina pork barbecue
(the scent of hickory-smoked meat thick in the air).

She takes a paper napkin, reaches across the table,
wipes a spot of ketchup
from the corner of his mouth;
he smiles, winks,
stops the waitress,
orders two spoons
and a single-serving of banana pudding.
Their hands, spotted with age,
join in the center of the table;
their backs
curved by time
into a perfect bow.

Sketchbook - August 31, 2008, Vol. 3, No. 8

 

Hatteras

The surf speaks
to those who listen
hush. . .hush. . .hush. . .
washing away
that which anchors us
to who we are
and the place we call home.

Magnapoets - Issue 2, July 2008

 

Savannah Groove

the saxman inhales
a passing breeze
b l o w s   Sweet Georgia Brown
down River Street
breath and hands tapped
into a vein of rhythm
fingertips
on the keys of his horn
the pulse of the city

Magnapoets Premiere Issue - January 2008

 

 

Cedar Point

sunlight etched around the summit
like a terrestrial corona
mist furling up the slope
sifting through acres
of evergreens
soon
a long shadow
will begin its eastward journey
slowly uncovering the mill town
in the valley of the Mayo River
where roosters sleep late
and fathers and sons fish for hours
without the need of sunglasses

Magnapoets Premiere Issue - January 2008