Best Red Clay Poems
Wherever we lived, summer meant
riding in the car ~
red clay, Georgia bound
My excitement grew with each state
trapped in Daddy’s rearview mirror.
Macon was relative love ground
where smiles were not lost but found.
I always sat in the back seat, heart viewing you,
knowing before dark came
I would hear your dear accent say my name.
After dark, I knew I would stay with you ~
not brother, or little sister, Pooh,
but me, snuggle loved in your bed
and you would care about all I thought and said.
Sweet, Grannie, for decades now I have missed you
I can still hear your voice, see your eyes twinkle
and
tonight I embrace space
seeking your dear, fresh powder presence
gentle words of love’s selfless attention
turned to silence way too soon ...
in my heart we still share love
Grannie, you were the softest light in my youth
Could you but rock me secure once more this night –
sing your comfort songs – gently hush my grown fright -
safe, sweet Grannie arms would shield me in love’s truth
I still talk to her
close my eyes with hopes she hears
~~ she believed in me ~ ~
her image never leaves me
my adult still craves her - here
I grew up in Middletown, where everything was pretty much average.
Every house, every car, every mom, dad and every kid were all
just about the same. Except for Paul Locke. Paul was the only Jewish
kid on the block. But that wasn't what made him different.
Paul could eat dirt and seemed to enjoy doing so. Someone would say,
"show'em Paul", and he would. Sand, red clay, loam, dust, it didn't
seem to matter. Paul would reach down and grab a handful, choke it
down and then laugh uncontrollably at his accomplishment. He was at
his best in those hot July and August days when we hadn't seen rain all
summer.
Thinking back on it, I don't believe I ever saw him do mud.
I suppose even being different must have its limits.
Give Me Your Best James Tate-Poetry Contest
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11/03/2016
From the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound
the lamas leap and the water falls-- clear,
mindful, the wind's play on the Quechua's ground.
The majesty of the Andes astounds
for from behind the clouds, the peaks reappear.
From the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound.
Like great red-clay dunes or snow capped mounds;
courts rise and fall in terrain, so austere;
mindful, the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
Rainbows of red, blue, and gold oft surround
distant ruins of gray stones, now severe
from the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound.
Solid, earth-bound, sun-browned, lost to the hounds,
so, Quechua shepherds bound stairs cavalier--
mindful; the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
Pachamama's love surrounds without bounds,
long gone are the conquers; all life is here,
from the mountain's peak, the wooden flutes sound--
mindful, the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
* Quechua is one of the native people of Peru
**The Dominican Monks set hounds trained to kill
on the natives who refused conversion.
*** Pachamama, fertility Godess in Incas Mythos
among you and I and among us all
remains a feeling of shallow intoxication
that seems to play on and on and on in our respective heads
as everyone important to us has gone on to some beautiful destiny
I sit here amongst the caucasion sleeves of paper on the floor of my chamber
the numbness of the so called "art" on the radio
mommy, I have done it
as the winter approaches, we batten down ourselves for the impending darkness
snow ensconces the dull tundra of all the acres
understandably blundered by the wings of burden and shame
I toil with the literature of my past and the science of my future
I thought I found you at least a dozen times, but you weren't you
daddy, throw another log on the fire
is there mercy in this chaos and this uncertainty?
will I ever retain escape velocity and leave this earth?
I must leave this place and find sanctity elsewhere
no doctor revive me, no professional conversationalists, please.
mommy, daddy, take me home.
the shoreline thunders, with the red clay -- imitating dover
I stare down at the mercurial wash of the crushing tides
special sequins rain down into the fundy sea below
I shall wake the wight inside of me
and destroy the pain inside of thee.
mommy, daddy -- rape the teeth from within my head
to paint a better picture of the son you thought you knew
brother, I miss you and your insolent charm.
but little monster, I think I will stay for you.
Walking from the field, snow heavy on my boots,
the sound of water whispers beneath the thawing blanket
so tenaciously clinging to fertile mother earth.
Ancient furrows of past season's hope
plow through frozen dirt,
the veins that now flow gently
with blood of red clay and dark soil.
Patches of green I see, formed from lost seeds,
sown by invisible hands as winds reaped life
from last evening's sowing,
before mother pulled her white sheet
tight over hilly breast to sleep through winter's dream.
Green like season's beard to be shaved
before new seed can be planted.
The gate swings easily as I push it, the snow has melted here.
Looking back the awakened ground shimmers
like tomorrow in the morning sun.
Yet, there before me the rutted path
filled with frozen boot prints from years of fading memories
reminds me from where I have come.
04/22/2018
The man on the porch looks out
over his property and towards his daughter.
Nervousness seeps through her plum-dark flesh.
Each eye contact signposts a wicked meditation.
Women are voiceless in those days, yielding to
males and manipulated Bible verses.
Poverty and childbirth loiters the screen.
White men protect segregation and Black men protect pride.
Are there no advocates or women’s lib
in that part of the South? Does anyone care about the mistreated?
Even the animals are sinister, and the young babes.
Horses burdened with stuff amble the pasture.
Fried ham wafts from kerosene stoves.
All the outspoken women are rebellious and prostitutes.
They wear thigh-high skirts, halters, and ruddy rouge.
Men swagger about in cut-price suits, wingtips, and thin-band ties.
They sweat into juke-joints or atop a squeaky bedframe
while records scratch against a dusty needle.
The girl in the front yard runs through hanging sheets
and swings bound books against Mister’s groin.
Her eyes are watery, her hair wild as those purple flowers.
She peers down at her attacker twisted on the red clay
and she shrieks.
Nobody shows up to save her.
She runs off into nothing.
The Glass Eye
My window is an eye on the morning stretch.
Raspy green grasses tangle up in the vetch.
A mama quail runs down the soft red clay path.
Her fat round babies edged to the drain for a bath.
I see the hill slope up in poppy and craggy oak.
One lone gray cloud trails on cobalt blue, like smoke.
The sounds of a barn owl are near but it hides,
And only my window can find where it resides.
Then finally, the children dance by on to school.
The window knows innocence here in the rural.
A giggle, a shout, dropping books as they race,
The bus winks lights, on the knoll, in its place.
My window blinks back with it's stare of the hill;
Its shimmer reflects our morning time drill.
The eyelash curtains brush back with the breeze,
I turn to my paper, and coffee, and do as I please.
By Edlynn Nau
© April 20, 2016
On the Potter's wheel
I am clay -
sticky, messy red clay,
being kneaded like bread,
'till pliable.
In firm but gentle hands
the Potter molds and shapes me into
a vessel of honor,
a vessel worthy of a King.
God is not finished with me yet.
A diamond in the rough am I,
A chunk of rock.
But, as the Master Jeweler
chip, chip, chips away my impurities,
bit by bit,
I begin to sparkle, I begin to shine,
'till that final day when I'll be transformed
into a pure exquisite diamond.
A diamond fit for a King.
God is not finished with me yet.
My life is an unfinished tapestry.
Day by day my Creator
carefully, deliberately
weaves a thread here,
snips a thread there.
When my life comes to an end,
the tapestry will be complete.
I will be perfected.
Until then,
God is not finished with me yet.
9/23/12
The ancient prophecy foretold
so very long ago ...
has finally arrived
Coming swiftly on eagle wings
The howling wind carries piercing night cries,
as open iron claws fall
from the mountain sky
And the slumber days, shown many moons ago,
has awakened death — cursed faces
carved on the fallen totem poles
So many, many moons ago,
my careless people were told
by the Almighty Spirit
not to pray to their vain wooden idols,
whom they worshiped in the forest groves
A flood of tears would one day wash upon the shores,
and bathe my people in the ashes
of their burnt fallen totem poles
Our unheeded shamans foretold
of a white pestilence cleansing of the land,
and our idol hearts would be broken
Visions of rivers of blood
from a snow-capped mountain would flow
As foretold ... so many moons ago
We should not have slaughtered the innocent
of our enemies, whom we last fought ...
giving them no mercy shown
Now our wooden sins have revisited us,
with the steady waves of pale crested sails,
seen upon the new moon horizon shores
This changing color of the evergreen leaves
and red clay soil
was foreseen so many moons ago
And the fate of the ebony mane buffalo
is the spirit path we now weepingly follow
Yes, the fall of my prideful people was foretold,
so many moons ago
And I cover my bowed chieftain head
with the ashes of the toppled totem poles
The calling gull leaves her nest
her wild magic cleaves the nimbus.
An avian aerialist suspended aloft
she sails on tapered ribbons of cirrus silk,
ruffled sea breeze ironed ‘neath her lustrous wings.
A wind witch, she defies and defines the w - i - n - d…
a weaver of worlds, knotting strings of stories as one wampum belt
in union with the sea’s connection to land and air.
She steals the sough from the surf and the sigh from my sinew;
my guide to a mindful haven. This nurture-maven
glides among bouquets of pink-peony-cumulus.
She; my blue-sky-muse in celebration!
She; my compass rose, mediates my meditation.
I unfurl fresh wings, a night-to-day tern, and claim my turn with the wind
no longer a granite stone asleep on sand. I soar
from the glacial-age strand and lift through fog.. brief my tryst
with mist. Eyes blessed by the crest of a humpback’s breach.
I distill myself, my will; a droplet, tear, a sphere free of guise.
An ascendant of moon-magnet tides yet a descendant
from stratus to stratum, I settle upon the cliffs along the coast
in union with my soul’s connection to body and breath.
In the cup of my hands I hold the sun and drink its yolk,
white-cap breakers below chant a soluble sonnet.
From my inner dark, a flint-spark flares as I find what I lost.
My heart, akin to a wild cranberry, reborn from the womb of dawn.
I inhale the moment. Red clay cliffs, lifeblood, fire-skies merge.
Windswept pitch pines croon as I grow roots for my tabernacle,
cosmic beams stream through stained-glass-eyes.
The calling gull rests. A distant, silent witness to my quest.
My pulse a psalm as I emerge; a cathedral lit by sunrise.
She found me singing in the backwoods of Alabama bluegrass
Your voice is beautiful she said
A country gal molded from Georgia's red clay
Fascinated with thoughts
That flow from my mind
We use simple words to define rhythm
Written from the blood that flows through our hand
Overlooking those that don't understand
She found me dancing in the empty streets of New Orleans
Recite a poem of passion
What did she mean?
Look at the sky that is blue
The clouds of white linen
The world is full of love
And willing to die for anyone
She found me making love at the top of the mountain peak
Where love whispers
And words don't speak
Minds stay tangled
And thoughts never sleep
She found me writing
But my soul still weeps
Asleep on a pile of hay
my dreams are waiting for the day
when summer relinquishes her ray
to a re-canvassed season of red clay ;
Burgundy leaves in the wind sway,
as September returns like a Jay
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Melodies traversing upon
Winds of the desert painting
Misplaced beauty of Saguaro’s
Dancing with dust devil’s
Sagebrush songs echoing off
Mountainous mirage of valley
Floors endlessly stretching past
Horizon bleeding red clay
Strewing the endless highway
Going nowhere coming back
Against the curtain of heat
Cooling with the light touch
Of rain disappearing in the sands
Ever moving never changing
Clouding storms covering tracks
I followed to find your voice
Hidden in the desolate gardens
Saturated with fervent life
Unseen flitting about my eyes
Singing in cactus blooms
Flowering for the moment
Passing with a breath
Expelling a hundred degree
Harmony from the hidden
Little desert songbird calling
Past the boundaries set
Bringing me back to where
I have always been
A while back I left meaning
At the river bank of seeming
And gathered myself to trust
Dark and light
I learned how to fight
By giving my faith to LOVE
He took me deep and wide
Cleaning all I longed to hide
'Neath the sheath of TRUTH
The fire was roaring
And I began soaring
As the chains of deception were loosed
Down, up, over, under
The lightening struck and I felt HIS voice THUNDER
Shaking the foundation of my soul
I yielded to the push and pull
Wanting to be wise in spite of being a fool
To the world system of structured holes
For so long, my eyes were fixed
On the laying of the bricks
To see how it all works
The wrong tends to rise
In the systems we devise
.....quirks, quirks, and more quirks
What on earth made us believe
That we could keep what we receive
And do whatever it takes to ensure entitlements never leave
OUR FILTHY GRUBBY HANDS
UGH! I am so tired of the struggle
...I want, I need, I should have, I'm not happy with what I have
...........I should have alllllll I want, when I want it, and
....................GOD, you should want me to have it.
There! I said it!
So, if I continue with LOVE
I get the blessings others aren't aware of
Enjoying intimacy so deep my heart swells in capacity
Or, I can lay the struggle down
And try to keep all the temporal things I have found
In the accepted veracity
...of fallen men
Yesterday, the answer was clear
But today, my friend, I am here
In the thick red clay...that clings to my boots
Although I walk in peace
Matter tries to stick where the Spirit gives release
So I can allow enemies to believe they have valuable loot
....I worked hard to gain
No...it was given..and I will let it go.
Written by Trudy Schrader on 01-22-2019
Cotton fields
White to harvest
Untouched by red clay
Trash, sediment
Banked white snow
Fluffy
Not visited
By neighborhood dogs
Right out of the pack
The scent of clean,
Soft cotton
Dry and warm
Slip one on, then two
Encapsulate the feet
Like clean silver fog
Coats each tree
Ten hours later
There's dirt, stink
Old shoe leather stains
Then tossed into hamper
No longer new
No longer clean
No longer white
Just dirty old socks