The night was not for sleeping.
It was for the drag of headlights
against the skin of wet asphalt,
for the torn-down column
spitting its weight into the earth —
too heavy for a backhoe,
too stubborn for goodbye.
EMs Barrio curled in on itself,
a hive of borrowed beds
and half-finished dreams.
I sat outside its hum,
counting the breaks between engines,
each jeepney’s arrival a breath,
each departure an emptying.
The last one wore its driver like an afterthought —
shoulders pressed forward,
face carrying the rust of decades.
The radio died mid-verse,
as if ashamed of how thin it had grown.
I do not smoke.
But that night
I inhaled the exhaust of his leaving,
kept it in my lungs
long enough to taste
what it might be like
to disappear slowly
past a stranger’s gaze.
(Legazpi City, 1997)
Between two houses on my street,
There is a plot of land
Where many trees have towered,
Just as Nature must have planned.
But ribbons tied around the trunks
Appeared out of the blue
And now today, what showed up
Was an excavating crew.
The chain saws bit into the bark
With their annoying sound,
Then a backhoe pushed and boom!
The trees went crashing to the ground.
How sad to see these trees destroyed;
It can’t be helped, albeit
When land was cleared to build my house,
I’m glad I didn’t see it.
Mass Murderer thought about changing careers;
the chase was still chill, but the cleanup, too hard.
He bought him a backhoe, and oh, what a thrill!
He’s burying bodies all over the yard.
Some parts have regenerated
not backwards, local history
cannot be expunged with a backhoe and eraser.
There are facilities, collection plants,
distributions centers, storage units.
Where once summer sky’s grazed
there are mechanical cows
and the rusting bull horns of the defunct.
Creeks and backwaters
limp through new tracts where above ground pools
snort weekend waves.
The hunting of discarded artifacts
keeps idle hands busy.
Self-taught archivists plunder each other
for the re-purposeful or uselessly rare,
indeed the useless is now prized
as a future barter.
Pigs and chickens are hidden
under muddy blue or grey plastic sheets.
Farms lean away into makeshift facsimiles
of yesterday.
Of course there is the mail,
parcels arrive with a smile,
then contents are ferreted away
until more garage space can be reimagined.
It is a fair, windy, open place;
it is what a native people
tried once to explain to us In their legends.
of course they never spoke
of strip malls or industrial parks,
but in their own, less cluttered language,
they did point the way to our own
pointless purgatory.
A fierce tornado passed our home that day,
with mighty winds that tore the land apart.
Downfallen trees dredged up huge roots that lay
bare everywhere- how this did break my heart.
The backhoe came- we told them where to start,
for our sweet cat was buried neath that one.
With hopeful tears, and earnest search begun-
while sifting through debris- it was clear that
recovery of her could not be done.
Lost to the wind- our dear, Felisha cat.
August 5, 2020
Contest: Pick-A-Title, Vol 21 - Dizain
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
True Story~ May 2018
(only a piece of her gravestone was found)
backhoe
digging in the road
mantis
concrete dust in flight-
fog
cricket
on a window sill
frog
backhoe engine stops
hunger quenched
i express my love
rigor mortisly
ah the little
death
except mine for
me for you is
completely
deadly
i have a toe
tag with
more
then
John Doe
Dear John
or John Deere
which is actually
the brand name
of the backhoe i use
to dig my own grave over
and
over
and over
again and
again
I said goodbye today….
saying for months
what I’d been trying to say
Alone in the throng
staring down at the hole
they had laid you upon
I remember
the laughter
and the joy that we shared
I remember
the promise
that we made on a dare
“Never
to end up like this,”
we had taken the same vow
Each
empowering the other
to end it before now
I could not
pull that plug
or flush down that drain
The guilt
hanging heavy,
the memory left stained
I hope
you now see me
from a much better place
And take pity
on my failing
my one great disgrace
The backhoe
is coming,
the mourners have gone
Please forgive me
I beg,
I’ll be with you before long
Monday ... hit ‘em with a hard ballpoint slam
Shake the weekend ‘nish out of their veins
Tuesday ... hot comb straighten out the political wigs
Give the trough lap dogs some cynicism pain
Wednesday ... make their pen ride uncomfortable on the hump
Tell a shorty stuck backhoe mole ditch is looking big
Thursday ... turn the sundial back ten degrees with an ink bump
Square the pretty posers center left of the cam
Friday ... check my girl’s curvaceous cursive print body of love
Hopeful souls need some spiritual sunshine to reign
Saturday ... bring a light-hearted saber to the round table gig
There be smiles and smiles to go to reach the mystic muse sky above
Sunday ... give a writeous sermon that make ‘em shout and jump
Preach the double truth about I AM THAT I AM
Once upon a whim
As the excavating limb
of a tractor under-tucked
the feed it hoisted up,
It seemed as though it goes
Akin to an elephant’s nose.
When later the machine
Departed from the scene
With scary points hung in
beneath the folded limb,
Its appearance was akin
to a giant scorpion.
My John Deere tractor is my favorite toy.
There’s nothing better that I enjoy.
I have many attachments I use every day,
That are used for more than just play.
My backhoe, chipper, and snow-blower are my friends.
Without them, my work would never end.
I love my tractor, it’s right outside.
Nature feeds my soul, as I take a ride.
the two footed tackle
we would deem most likely to raise authority’s hackle
so better the elbow
to the back of the head like a blundering backhoe.
let the fetters fall where they will,
when they put me down there,
under the 6 foot hill,
or perhaps to hang there on the hook,
trim me gall bladder,
gone forsook,
at the university...
a course ol Halliwell, says he took....
but i swore to steal him from the drawer,
bring him home, yes once more,
lower him beneath the door,
in the backhoe hole ole chook,
long as me back holds out for sure,
Ol Halliwell neath the door...
Don Johnson
my mate Frank says the university can have his bones,
to hang on the hook so i can moan ,
but steal his bones perhaps i must,
place beneath the door on his 2 acres, just,
its what he wants for sure.....
Frank Halliwell ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mail - Frank.Halliwell@gmail.com
Homepage at http://www.poemhunter.com/
************************************************
While prose may carry all the facts, the voice of verse is sweeter
For poetry transports the soul on lilting rhyme and meter.
~~~~~~~~~ http://frankhalliwell.tripod.com/ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Francis H.
Down in old Jimboomba is me old mate Francis H
And he wants to go to the Uni, just to hang around the place,
So I said just get a backhoe to dig a bloody trench,
And swing a door above it, for easy access, it is meant,
Of course he’d have to get me word,
To plant him in the ground,
A hole would sure be handy, planted quietly down,
Or would I steal the body, yes slightly absurd,
from the uni freezer, when I’ve found,
to get him so interred.
will I be done like Burke n Hare,
for bloody body stealing
he wants to be a buried on his acres,
over the Maclean bridge with some wheeling,
jerk open trap door and you are there ,
a few words said with feeling….
Dunno perhaps I might?
Dark side is so revealing.
Don Johnson
A sizable portion of my life
I've passed, slobbering over
The antagonistic ashes
Of an untruth.
Years down the road,
By accident, I exposed;
Though this untruth,
Was deeply entombed in my psyche,
Via a mental backhoe,
Satan periodically excavates it
Sans a spade.
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