Names carved deep,
in marble stones, keep
memories fast asleep,
until loved ones weep.
Mementos kept in drawls,
photos displayed in halls,
precious things hung on walls,
oft echo memory recalls.
One is living, one is dead.
Why not remember a thread,
that is ongoing, instead
of annual tributes, planned ahead?
A grave grows old,
neglected in the cold.
It keeps the passed on hold,
when keepsakes, instead, evolve.
Each touch of them, each look,
is like reading a book,
over again, lest you mistook
a detail, or what you forsook.
So I leave the cemetery alone,
in its seldom visited zone.
Instead I focus on being re-shown,
the tapestry of echoes hand-sewn.
On the Rug with Death,
two beers in hand
(though no one here drinks)
we laugh, his lifespan
a joke still fizzed. My breath
ignites wars, lulls drivers
to sleep and builds bridges
for his guests. What idle past-
-times you worship, he pitches,
eye wand’ring to traverse
the awkward silence as I
know what comes next. My
gauge on Man’s power dwindles.
Perhaps, he drawls, you might taste
something ever so slightly
more enlight’ning. His heavy
accent traces over the words, like
sugar on a sticky thumb post-binge.
Tongue in cheek, his fingers surpass
my laugh in wishing to be broken.
Title: Southern Grace
In the land where magnolias bloom,
Beneath the southern sun's warm embrace,
There lies a region filled with tales,
A tapestry woven with Southern grace.
Amidst the fields of cotton white,
Whispers of history, rich and deep,
A symphony of voices, day and night,
Their stories, secrets they forever keep.
From the Mississippi's mighty flow,
To the bayous of Louisiana's sway,
The South unfolds its vibrant show,
A place where time dances, come what may.
Sweet tea and pecan pies delight,
Soulful melodies in the humid air,
Gentle drawls and "y'all" unite,
A sense of kinship, ever there.
Majestic oaks with branches wide,
Provide shade from the scorching heat,
A refuge for dreams to safely reside,
Beneath the canopy, life's rhythm beats.
Oh, Southern belle, so fiercely strong,
With grace that knows no bounds,
You've endured, and you belong,
In this cherished corner of hallowed grounds.
So, let us raise a glass up high,
To the American South, a cherished place,
Where history, culture, and love's reply,
Reside in hearts with Southern grace.
Four-legged guard patrols the papered wall,
Stood by whispering windowpane wind drawls
She is grand, grandiose hardwood keys small
And all across the lounge room rug, she sprawls.
Four-legged guard waltzes to the evening ball.
She dances in her homestead in A minor calls,
The acoustic pride echoes bold and tall
And the chorus chords charms the hall.
Morning springs,
when daylight breaks,
when alarm bell rings,
for me to wake.
Day begins
with oblivious staring
and endless pondering
for an idea to set in.
Day proceeds,
going through cyclic motions,
going at languid speed,
to reach its conclusion.
Evening falls,
ending earlier endeavors
welcoming quiet stupor
as nighttime drawls.
She swaggers over to our table
Whips out her pad from her apron
Pencil poised
What’cha want Hon?
She drawls
Soft pink lips in a little twinkled pout
The white frilled design
Bust’n out in all the boxum places
Our “Two Specials with coffee” reply
Brought a smile
I like it fast and easy like that
she laughs
as she saches her swagger back
to place our order
you can’t help but notice that
her perfume lingers
in still air
as if the shadow of her swagger
was left behind
written 9-5-2019
SWAGGER Poetry Contest
with this sing
i songly wed
i did you and
you did too
i bridled the not
French but Spanish
kiss thus tightening
the knot not loosening
i now pronounce you
pronouns in the eyes
of a looney tune spit
sputtering Sylvester
stutter Puddy Cat
and i say i say i say
Leg Horn as a
southern fog drawls in
On the east coast
They will boast tongues
Stress most when pitched.
Each of the town
Will pass down how
Theirs sound in talk.
From New York to
Penn state you will
find new forms said.
Not like those in
Cape Cod being not
Like Maine as same.
They all have flaws
As south drawls and
Not crawls in west.
brass
bands
at a bandstand
with
waltz
&samba
to hand
a sax
drawls
a
sad
note
as
a
swan
....dies
an FP inspiration
Blackbird of omen drawls in trembled heaves
Across spoilt air, near an empty farmhouse,
Where a lone keeper plucks blooms and young leaves
Arranging them on the mead's cornerstone
As he utters an oath like an eerie groan--
Within the blur of haunted thoughts which rouse.
Possessed by tricky dreams, hours still recall
Marauders grappling his wife, on tightened rope ;
That in dim scramble, a gunfire…a fall
Causing quick flight where loved one disappears --
Is she deceased, alive? … bird’s foresight rears:
Through crypt of nights, this keeper sings of hope.
Written 4/3/2018
Contest of Laura Loo: Rhyme Time 1
We entwine among boughs
of leafy trees in graceful fluidity so evergreen...
and whisper of love's harvest after gentle drawls
rising with petals from coos of evening,
when branches drape our secrets
in glossed foil to amble on,
beyond tremble of stars.
Until midnight wraps our kisses in its cooling veil,
thanking a god for breaths which drift
into curled wanderings ,
to awaken us upon the scent of day's blossoms…
lips stain teacup
while gauzy air cuddles our ardent pledge,
as we become one forest
under our shade
that I rest calmly knowing you are my home.
--------
8/11/2019
Contest of Lu Loo: My Home
------------
Re-post dated 02/01/ 2017
Yes, it’s all too regular, this kind
of setting--- the language of rooms
exposing littered notes along slit wrappers
gone wild: oh half-asleep kids
still run amuck over marathons of toy games
igniting lithesome squeaks
through comedy and banter…
And when near evening pleads
for flavorful remnants --baked ham, chowder soup--
this day after Christmas becomes
a world that gives and takes a refrain
from soothing drawls, on to the gratitude
of hours passing heaves of joy...
~*~
12/26/2016 For Anthony Slausen
The Day After Christmas
The gates of beauty
Lies
Behind the eyes that cry
But outwardly smile
Glisten eyed
With tears
And highlighted by fears
We hold within them.
The gates of beauty
Lies within the heart you hold
Behind built up walls,
Where your heartbeat drawls
And is suffocated inside.
You keep it confined;
Safe inside.
The gates of beauty
Lies within your mind,
Hidden behind
A cacophony of voices,
They're boisterous!
Degrading your dreams,
They scream
At the absurdity of your open mind,
That runs so wild
And accuse it of being child-like...
The gates of beauty
Lies behind eyes;
From which the heart speaks
And the mind seeks
But your thoughts creep
And your heart leaps,
So you choose to keep
The beauty inside
And call it
The beauty that hides
YAWNS
Yonder valley of stone
Yellow yawns wonder
Seemingly yelling
In open mouth drawls
Rain or streams
I do not know
Blowing nose, dabbing eyes
Taking warm sips of tarpit
Toothpick splinters barely hold
Open misty window shades
Eventually snapping shut
Locked like crocodile jaws
Kim Rodrigues © 2016
A young lily not yet ready to bloom
Forced by the sun to reveal her soft, delicate dew covered petals
Invaded by numerous insects, afraid,
She weeps with the glaring sun
Draining what's left of her
Knowing her destiny;
She drawls her self in again
Just in time for the night to cover her
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