His soles grate from cuts on bare feet,
eyes growing hazy, rattling a waif’s hum
and he freezes, quivers as night enfolds
like pointed ice tearing a heart in scraps .
A ruptured cry mirrors a dusky face,
while weary thoughts keep the stars awake
praying for grace to tide the lonely breeze,
where out there, a street child drifts on mud
to beg, plead for a morsel of tomorrow.
Can’t he be a kid just running along the grass
in a gracious place tucked in a home,
Where laughter glows...
A childhood scene that’s not a plague?
But then...dreams are gauze-thin,
needing hope’s reprieve .
It’s coming
A Nor’easter
they have held their finger up
compared the spaghetti plots
interviewed a guy with arthritis
unfurled the flags
sounded the alarm
and we wait
listening to the buoy bells
buying batteries and snacks
moving back from an unseen tide
knowing it will come
bending trees
scattering empty trash barrels
rattling a balky shed door
tearing at the edges of the bay
we know
it’s coming
A Nor’easter
And we wait!
John G. Lawless
©10/25/2021
SNAKES IN RURAL PENNSYLVANIA
The snakes in his head
were timber rattlers, easily
agitated, disinclined to fight,
their rattling a warning to all
before slipping away silently from
conflict or harm
Unfortunately for the fortunate son
his bride to be was a young copperhead,
golden brown and beautiful on the
dark forest floor among the stones and
wet soil of a Blue Mountain summer,
and unlike the rattler she was silent
and aggressive, looking for a fight!
I loved those trees,
limbs draped in plump wild grapes,
bursting with flavor on my tongue,
while juice stained my fingers.
Tall cottonwoods shadowed
the creek where we splashed—Sis,
brother, and I—and a giant sycamore
shaded Granddad's spring. We slaked
our thirst from the granite dipper
hung on a nail he'd hammered
into its trunk at kid level.
We watched water belch like corn,
rattling a popper lid, and ripple
over rocks in the streambed,
where minnows and crawfish
hid from prying fingers.
Hawk-eyed, we scouted
gnarled branches in the orchard
for ripening fruit, luscious and tangy,
spurting juice to drip off elbows.
Hazelnut bushes flourished
by the back fence; black walnut trees
shaded Grandmother's back porch.
Our uncles helped burst crack-jaw shells
with hand-held rocks on the stone slabs
stretching toward the gate.
I do not envy the children
whose play-field offers brick and concrete,
severe and naked, whose only fruit
blows down alleys and into streets,
as the refuse of city dwelling.
Sometimes my heart may seem to soften
And I am glad Jill is not away too often
Also sure like Gene my new neighbor
A peaceful sort never rattling a sabre.
Not sophisticated or prefers to go strutting
And never heard of him ever head-butting
A perfect pleasure having him next door
Brought me ice cream from a local store.
One more notch on belt started to buckle
When he said I sure like your honeysuckle
And before my door I had started shutting
He asked me if he could have a cutting.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran
PS. Humor category of course.
I dress silently
as if to leave by night
only to sit at the kitchen table
my mother's hands my own
rattling a cigarette between my fingers.
You wake to find me smoking
in the damp heat of the night,
my black hair spread across my shoulders.
You gather me in your arms
like a child that needs soothing
and carry me back to bed.
The cool of the sheets
is an answer for a time.
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