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Warning Light
A few childhood events
hang in my head
like old snapshots
framed years ago,
undusted
in my house.
For instance,
that weird green
hall lamp
left on at night,
and the warning
not to get up
because snakes
crawled round
on the floor.
I kept an eye out,
as the lamp
stared at me.
A lasting impression.
I believed every word.
I still do.
From Getting Through The Fog, published by Still Waters Press, 2002
previously appeared in Medicinal Purposes, Vol I, No. 9, 1998
Casual Dinner Conversation
If I said to you
over peppered steak
A soul exists as broken glass
you would sip your wine calmly
and reply
The world is what my eyes tell me.
True enough.
If you could see a menu of the world
you would know.
First a gash
then a hemorrhage
then a tourniquet.
Rubbish
you would laugh
with bread buttered,
Utterly morose rubbish.
Then I would write in big letters
on our freshly laundered table cloth
A soul exists as broken glass
and as you dropped your fork,
you would finally notice
on my hands and yours,
fresh cuts.
From Désarroi, published by Orange Tree Publishing Co., 2004
previously appeared in California State Poetry Quarterly, Vol. 27, No. 3
Pallette
It's everywhere,
filtering through the eyes and bones
of anyone who walks by a slope
or stream.
It's no wonder settlers came,
hid in hollers or mountaintops
and refused to come out.
Any number of armies and agents
rousted some,
killed others,
yet they stayed
because to live here means
being drenched in the colors
of blue ridges.
The land soaks up the hues
of sternness and blood
and throws it back.
It's easy to fall
under the crush and touch
of its brush.
You might die here too,
struck by the view,
done in by the shade and song
of solitude.
From Rough Places Plain: Poems of the Mountains, published by Salt Marsh Pottery Press, 2005
previously appeared in Appalachian Trails: Poetry and Music for Piano and Cello by T.L. Pompey
performed for the Arcade Poetry Series, Carnegie Art Museum, June, 2002
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