Poetry

Paint River

A gunshot echoes

from a distant ridge.

November’s last leaf separates,

hesitates,

tumbles to earth.

A black wolf turns its head to watch.

Gray clouds skitter

on the northwest wind.

“Paint River” appeared in Walloon Writers Review, Fifth Edition.

Antrim

Hilly, like its Irish namesake, it rolls like a billowing sheet, frozen in a post glacial moment.

The lakes resemble talon tears in soft flesh, the wounds full of blue blood, 

forests of hardwood and soft pines encircle abandoned farms with old apple trees.

The wind whistles through the broken walls of an old barn,

a doe, apple in her mouth, lifts her head at the sound.

We walk these hills along gravel roads.

Stride for stride we attack the grade, gravel crunches under our shoes.

The sun, thirty degrees above the horizon, begins to warm the air.

Old age is manifest - its signs abound in the bent buildings and rusted farm machines—

we walk to keep it at bay.

The smell of horse dung and hay is earthy and familiar -

earthy and familiar... like the sex last night in the cool room, 

our carnality a warming experience.

The fresh memory brings a smile to my face as I gaze over the fields.

We turn at the asphalt, start back downhill in the growing heat.

Old joints loosened, feel good.

We pass deer blinds, food plots, garden mistakes, tired weeds covered in road dust.

Near the cool lake the cattails are brown and mature, the lily pads cracked and curled.

I feel autumn coming, smell it in the air, hear it in the wind’s sighs.

The hardwood trees, weary of their leaf burden, sag in the sunlight.

Home now, we kiss and await the equinox.

The Patio

An old man sits at his kitchen table looking out the sliding door into the growing light. The brick patio needs sweeping. He might get to it today, but it can wait. He laid every paving block thirty years ago when the house was new and his body was flexible and didn’t ache. The feeling of pride for a job well done has long since faded.  The patio bricks have faded too; lost their factory surface as each year scrubbed and stained the once bright finish, but being brick they haven’t lost any strength. The then-young man had built a good base and the patio hasn’t sagged much at all. Now both are much older and only one can last another 30 years or probably forever. A chipmunk emerges from the border ivy and zips across to the empty bird feeder. Time to fill that too. Only the sound of the refrigerator interrupts the silence. He stands up slowly and pours himself a coffee. The coffee is strong and gives him comfort. The Sunday crossword lay unfinished on the table. It is an effort to concentrate. The arthritis in his fingers doesn’t help, nor does his state of mind which seems to insist on reliving mistakes of the past. He would like some breakfast whiskey to flavor his coffee, but remembers there is no alcohol in the house. Half of him is grateful, half is pissed. The sun has fully risen so he stands close to the glass, seeking a warm blessing. He finds increasing comfort in being warm. The decision on how best to waste the day can wait. He nukes his cool coffee, grabs a cigar and the crossword, and goes out on the patio. The air is fresh. The day is young. It’s a good day to grow a day older.