In their hip-pockets as a thing that’s done,
And start their silent swinging, one by one.
Black horses drive a mower through the weeds,
And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds,
His belly close to ground. I see the blade,
Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.
Similar Posts
Boll-weevil’s coming, and the winter’s cold,
And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow,Failed in its function as the autumn rake;Drouth fighting soil had caused the soil to takeAll water from the streams; dead birds were foundIn wells a hundred feet below the ground–Such was the season when the flower bloomed.Old folks were startled, and…
To those fixed on white,
To those fixed on black,It is the same,And red is red,Yellow, yellow-Surely there are such sightsIn the many colored world,Or in the mind.The strange thing is thatThese people never see themselvesOr you, or me.Are they not in their minds?Are we not in the world?This is a curious blindnessFor those that are color blind.What queer beliefsThat…
Whoever it was who brought the first wood and coal
Not all wood takes to fire from a match,Nor coal from wood before it’s burned to charcoal.The wood and coal in question caught a flameAnd flared up beautifully, touching the airThat takes a flame from anything.Somehow the fire was furnaced,And then the time was ripe for some to say,“Right banking of the furnace saves the…
There is a natty kind of mind
Culls its oughts,Trims its views,Prunes its trues,And never suspects it is a rind.
Hair–braided chestnut,
Eyes–fagots,Lips–old scars, or the first red blisters,Breath–the last sweet scent of cane,And her slim body, white as the ashof black flesh after flame.
The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue
A lengthened tournament for flashing gold,Passively darkens for night’s barbeque,A feast of moon and men and barking hounds.An orgy for some genius of the SouthWith blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop,And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill,Soft settling pollen where plowed…