Day 4: Fit for a King
Fit for a King
“Balls,” said the Queen, “If I had them, I’d be king.”
What would the Henrys think or Lion-hearted Dick,
to see changes in the role without wars to wage?
Regular parades require unlocking the crown jewels,
replacing the usual festive hats for a June drive
from the palace to the parade grounds, watching
as horsemen trot by with pomp and circumstance
but little fear for life and limb. What difference
does in make in times like these whether a king
or queen occupies the throne? While a body double
jumps from the plane for the cameras, the corgis
prefer the queen to take them on their daily walks.
How comfortably ordinary to realize the dogs
make no royal distinctions, believing that they,
not queen, not king, really rule this house.
Day 5: Crush
Crush
Plunging my scrawny arm
down deep into the ice water
inside the rusty red drink chest,
pulling up the cold Orange Crush,
I knew summer had arrived,
as sure as swimming holes
and early morning fishermen
floating along the creek bank
casting their lines into the weeds.
The first breath-taking swallow
of that sweet Southern nectar
surely tasted better to me
than the finest wine, tasted
like home, eating outdoors
on redwood tables, careful
not to scoot for fear of splinters.
Even the yellow jackets,
dive bombing for a taste,
swatted away, could not spoil
the moment, as I sat surrounded
by dozens of folks, not sure
where the line was drawn
between close kin and friends,
and not even caring. My feet,
still tender, not yet callused
from days running barefoot
in gravel, over pine cones,
longed to dangle off the dock,
shooing away the bream and stripes
circling just below the surface.
Soon the water will turn as warm
as bathwater, but now, I jump in
and almost lose my breath
in a creek as cold as my first
of the summer Orange Crush.
I’d do a better job posting if I were in town, but yesterday’s post was “Red.” Since I’ve been with my husband, shopping fabrics for the next furniture season, I’ve seen reds called everything. Here’s my response:
Red Clay
Flipping through the fabric swatches
in hues called scarlet, vermillion, shrimp,
cardinal, crimson, American beauty rose,
I still see red, the color that runs deeper
than my red-blooded American veins.
My color palette has reds too:
Alabama clay dirt red,
gravel-road-skinned knees red,
flogging rooster comb red,
first vine-ripened tomato red,
Radio Flyer wagon red,
watermelon heart red,
freckled faced girls’ pigtails red,
hot-temper red-in-the-face.
If the paint stores could mix it
or the textile plants spin and dye it,
if OPI created a polish, the color
would look to me like home.
Small Stones from the Inconsistent Recorder
I’ve kept plenty of my New Year’s Resolutions, but this one hasn’t been one. Today, though, after the county called for a 3-hour delay because of ice that failed to materialize, I had to make note:
County Office Makes the Wrong Call
Freezing rains anticipated
for early morning
failed to materialize.
I have the road
to myself as somewhere
buses sit empty and idle
in their parking lot.
School children remain
in their beds.
The moon winks at me
conspiratorially
from behind her clouds.
We both knew better.
A Pile of Stones
I made some posts on Small Stones, but they are so far down the list I can’t retrieve them. First week of the semester, so I’m behind. I’m paying attention, and I’m writing things down. I’m not necessarily getting them all here. So for some catching up:
Day 5: Trees without their clothes, their bare limbs stretch skyward, as distinct as junior high girls in the gym locker room wearing only their skivvies.
Day 6: The blackbirds on the power line all facing the mountains, ignoring the traffic below.
Day 7: In some strange game, the bird balloon out, swoop around in time choreography, then return to their wire. Even with the car windows up, I can hear them laughing together.
Day 4: Small Stones
January 4, 2013 Small Stones
Two years later, he fingers the silver scar,
now a symbol of survival, not misfortune.
Day 3 Small Stones
January second. The manger scene casts huge shadows
on the side of the church. The parking lot is empty.
The holy child lies forgotten in his manger,
Wooden shepherd and wise men with their gold,
frankincense, and myrrh wait to be lugged
to the attic for eleven more months.
Day Two: Small Stones
Sailors, Take Warning
The white mist
rose to powder over
the fresh bruise
of the morning sky.
January 1 Small Stones
As usual, I am starting the year participating in the “Mindful Writing Challenge,” posting “small stones” each day of this month–just brief observations.
For today:
On clear days, I see the crisp outline of Grandfather Mountain. We have grown to expect brilliant sunsets.
Seeing the white sky, the bare trees
where weeks ago, autumn had used
all the crayons in the box, I looked
for “palimpsest” in the dictionary.
Alabama Tar Heel 