Long Gravelly Poems
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She was rough, gravelly, sharp, brash, unwelcoming, unfriendly.
The fence she had built around herself was unbreakable, stiff, metallic,
Wire screened with burlap.
Scratchy. Harsh. Stark. Unforgiving.
Many were fearful of getting close, not understanding
This much-needed barrier was protecting her.
One man saw through her hard ass facade. Her angry voice did not dissuade him.
He sought her friendship, because he had watched his mother
Build the same harsh, metallic, scratchy, burlap wall around her heart
After his sister was murdered.
Pain built this kind of wall.
Not regular pain,
Bone-crushing, blood-howling, screaming in horror pain.
This man had a satin heart.
A gentle touch, a willingness to scale the burlap wall and
Find the little girl who had not yet suffered.
It would not be easy.
Her anger had become her friend. The anger and the wall were the two
Things she counted on to keep her safe.
You have your work cut out for you when you decide to turn burlap into satin.
*** A DAISY TALE ***
A single, wild, tiny daisy
Less than a thumbnail in size, swaying side to side
In the slight, burning whiffs of a summer’s breeze,
Growing out from next to the house,
From the corner where the front and side
gray, stone walls of the house meet.
She climbs her way on out fron beneath a thick, brambly
Weed-Bush that is quite hell-bent on strangling
Any beauty growing in its proximity, and between
Whose many snappy twigs, the wild daisy had grown, sprouting
Her skinny stem up from the gravelly dirt, to rise, threading
Through the Weed Bush’s many twig limbs, until she cleared
Out above it, to be now taller than the house’s front stoop, onto
Which it takes three steps to stand. And, bobbing close to
Which she now gloried — near no others of her kind — alone —
With only five leaves sticking out from her stem
And showing off her golden center, smaller
Than the nail of a newborn baby’s pinky finger; leaves and flower angled
To face the sun: their light…her direction, in that moment,
Noon-centered overhead in the cerelean blue, July sky. Tiny, stalwart
Wild daisy, without fragrance (except perhaps to bees);
With her several minute white petals, sized
Like the absolute tips of toothpicks. The eptome of dainty.
Delicate, delightful. Perfect for a child’s braided
Daisy chain, if only there were more there of her;
Or a lovely pick for a dining table bouquet centerpiece
If only she were very, very much larger…Still,
She’d reached her fated height, standing proudly straight,
Just beyond the shadows laying across the yard,
Showing the peaks of some nearby giant pines,
Who always joined with her to hum Mother Nature’s dusk lullabies
While the listening heavens smiled.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————-
This is a Narrative poem form, (with the daisy possibly
being a metaphor for someone you know?)
(c) sally young eslinger 6/19/2023
Thanks be to God
They unearthed him from the Delta dust/ Do Fletch, a name whispered on the wind, in a rusted tone/
Born and bred in NOLA's humid heart, A city sculpted by sorrow, torn apart, then rebuilt from the start/
Do Fletch not a singer, not an artist, not a star in the sky, but a conduit, a vessel, for the blues to cry/
His voice, a Mississippi moan, rising slow and thick, like the river itself, carrying history/ He didn't sing the blues, he bled them onto the stage/
Each note is a memory, etched deep in a man's age. Pain poured from his pores, a vintage Bourbon stain/
Every tremor in his throat, a forgotten hurricane/ He sang of levees broken, promises betrayed/
of rent past due, and his future slowly fading away/
He sang of love lost in the back alleys and grime, of the weight of generations pressing down on his time/
His voice, a deep-telling blues, the kind that crawls under your skin, A symphony of sorrow, a chorus of what might have been/
He didn't offer hope, he didn't offer light, He offered truth, raw and unflinching, in the dead of the night/
So listen close, to the ghost in his gravelly tone/
Do Fletch, rediscovered, no longer alone/
Let his pain be a reminder, a lesson learned in hard sorrow, that the blues ain't dead, just waiting to rise again/
Nuff said/
Tan leather boots with fancy stitching
Butterscotch vest with pencilled fringe
Polished black Stetson size eight and three quarters
Faded denim shirt with copper snaps
Silver oversized belt buckle that shouts rodeo
Deep gravelly voice with cigar precision
A pronounced limp unnoticed for years
Shoulder soreness no longer felt
Calloused hands scruffy with purpose
Symmetrical Unadorned hatband
Chiseled well mapped chin
Blue eyes faded by hundreds of suns
Hawkish nose with brownish patch
Saturday night cowboys stare in awe
Trying so hard to look the part
He wears with ease, unaware
He is being studied, real cowboy
Doing his own stuff, no agenda
Unconsciously perfect
In his maleness
Imagination Owl was tired today.
He had collected first and second editions
And kept the wolves and hounds away.
Everyone had heard about his collection and wanted a peek.
He was not against showing them, but he had a tired beak.
Tomorrow they want you to do a reading in Des Moines.
He was the kind of orator and reader that many seek.
He had a gravelly voice, and he rarely charged more than a coin.
Not tomorrow, he stated. I need a break of a day or maybe two.
He was tired of fan mail, suppers with widows and old maids.
He sat down at his fire and played a bit with the annoying flu.
Then opened up some missives and read those that made the grade.
When he finished reading the things that delighted him the most,
He took out a pen and wrote the beginning of a fine exciting tale.
He would apologize to his agent, his mother, and his persistent host.
But tonight he wanted a good book, a fire and some fantastic ale.
Maybe a thousand people
are in a room, two rooms away,
all popping bubble wrap
with thousands more waiting outside
ready to take their place
Or a deathly hand slowly turning a dial
through medium wave radio
missing all the stations
finding only constant rhythmical white noise
But perhaps a wily dry scaled dragon
is sliding down a gravelly mountain
as my windscreen patters
with the sounds of rain and yet more rain
My view rapidly becoming a Monet masterpiece
A flick of the lever and suddenly the glass
palette is cleared ready
to quickly become a Monet
all over again
And I sit on the dry side
of glass, watching, waiting
for the next landscape
MELANCHOLY
Why destroy my sunny day with storms,
wipe the smile from my twinkling eyes, dimpled cheeks?
Like bony-fingers pulling me down, into the abyss,
darkening my hair and my skin - aperture shut tight.
Oppression of yellow-daisy lids underneath a mass, of
ice-cold leaves. They keep falling overnight, an avalanche.
It’s the glowering words, burning like fuel -
a lasting impression, a roaring brew, simmering
melancholic stew. One that tastes gravelly, breathes
heavily into my nostrils - the phantosmia-stench of smoke.
Nightmares of copy-paper flying, disheveled through the air,
of books cascading off shelves, flood of sadness billowing.
My pen begins to write my story, then scrawls like tears,
dripping ink everywhere. Flamboyant-ink blots, rorschach-blue.
10/21/2017
Rocky Mountain Thunder they call it
The unmistakable thunder and growl
of thousands of Harley's reverberating
through the highcountry fairgrounds,
shockwaves rippling the air.
this was the year it would finally happen...
...my Tattoo
Gleaning through hundreds of designs
my heart leapt at the sight of
a dainty little hummingbird
small, tasteful, unobtrusive
my hearts' joy and delight!
When a voice, gruff and gravelly from
too many years of cigarettes and rot gut whiskey
whispered over my shoulder
"A tattoo should reflect your soul"
I turned to find myself face to face
with chocolate brown eyes in a leathery, wind tanned face
ours eyes locked briefly
He turned away without another word.
Three skulls spanned his shoulders
One facing right, the other facing left
as if searching for something, or someone...
...the one in the center, facing forward, almost grinning,
the words "Lost Soul" written within
a Harley emblem below the skulls,
reflected the whistful look I had seen in his eyes.
I watched as he walked away,
while the three skulls and that emblem
seemed to change shape with every step
melting into one big grinning skull
His words echoed in my ears,
"...reflect your soul"
"...reflect your soul"
Then, they wrapped around my heart
...My Hummer..!
I knew I had found the right one for me.
And in that same moment,
the skull on his back....
...winked.
The CRUNCHING of tyres on the gravelly driveway
The CLANG of the garden gate sharply closing
The CLICK of the key in the lock
The old door CREAKING open on its hinges
The SNAP of the light switch to brighten the house
The SWISH of the curtains being drawn
The CLATTER of crockery being laid on the table
The GUSH of water from the tap into the kettle
The WHISPER ,HISS and SPLUTTER of the boiling kettle
The annoying SLURP of a GULP of tea
The CHORTLE of laughter around the table
The SCRAPING of chairs being drawn back
The CRACKLE of the open fire in the sitting room
The SCRATCH of a match to light the pipe
The comfort of being indoors at the first CLAP of thunder
The even more comforting CLINK of glasses for a safe homecoming
...One night when he was compiling
a list of wisdom that the prophet said,
he heard, in the darkness, his name spoken,
in a harried voice that would frighten the dead.
He turned, and from the shadows out stepped
Kel’vid the mason, sire of Dehlarain,
in one hand he held a long dagger,
on his face were the tight lines of pain.
He advanced slowly, not speaking a word,
Pelchag cried out,”I’m a servant of God!
Your daughter faced the justice that she earned,
she had broken our great prophet’s law!”
Kel’vid just froze, stared pure hate at him,
then spoke in a dark and gravelly tongue:
“No man of god would murder a woman
because she acted stupid, young, and dumb.
“At first I didn’t mind the new faith,
it seemed that it could clean up a few things,
but then you take away our alcohol,
and I noticed that things got disturbing.
“And then you steal music from all of us,
what kind of God would frown at such joy?
But still I was willing to put up with it,
even though it grated and annoyed.
“But to go and kill a man’s daughter…
all because of your damn jealousy!
You already had two whores in your bed,
but you just had to go out and get three!
“And now you lie and claim it was all God’s will,
that you just obey his ‘holy prophet,’
perhaps Gods will send a prophet someday,
nut it’s quite clear that he hasn’t yet.
“The old faith may have been rather corrupt,
but at least it stuck to its damned place!
Didn’t insert itself into a man’s home,
didn’t murder their daughters with hate.”
He then bent closed and whispered these words,
mere moments before the cleric did die,
“Know that I’m going to kill the prophet,
one follower at a time.”