Email Poem

Your IP Address: 18.221.99.121
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
I remember him as if it 
were yesterday, picking black 
berries for his mom’s cobbler pie.
He was bare foot with a dirty 
shirt and frayed blue jeans;
if you want to call them blue.
His hair dingy red, the color 
of southern red clay.
He never saw me; I was sitting 
in the water oak, over looking 
the creek running between our 
houses.

The creek was our playground 
for fishing and swimming.
We strung a kudzu vine over a 
limb, hanging straight over the 
creek; for swinging into the 
deepest part of the water.
Down in the shallows was 
where his family bathed on 
the warm days.
Today was not bath day, it was 
food gathering day.

After placing all of the berries 
into a big bowl, he would eat 
a handful before taking them to 
the house. 
As a routine, his mother always 
lathered him up with bacon grease 
to kill any chiggers, she said it 
smothered them, it was a wonder 
it didn’t smother him.
I wonder if that was why he 
always looked unkempt, plus he 
had wild animals following him 
quite a lot.
It seems as though it was just the 
other day, he had a skunk run 
him up a tree. 
I don’t know who smelt better, 
him or the skunk.

In school he would always sit in 
the back next to the window.
Some of the other boys nick 
named him Bacon; he didn’t mind, 
it made him feel important.
Me, I gradually got use to the 
way he smelled like a side of pork.
That’s how I always knew when 
he picked berries for his mom.
It was as if the bacon grease 
tattooed his pores.

She did make the best black 
berry cobbler in town; 
always taking first place in the 
county fair.
This year, the cash prize would 
be larger plus the recipe would 
be published in the state journal 
and eligible for contest winnings 
of five thousand dollars.

I knew that they could use the 
money, they were desperately 
in need of a big wash tub.
If it wasn’t for all of his friends 
at school, his mom would have 
never won the state prize money 
and I surely wouldn’t have married 
him, 
as I remember…

Copyright © 2008 By Caryl S. Muzzey
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required