I must apologize for the lack of posts and creativity. Let's just say my duties as the the assistant to the assistant cart monkey in charge kept me busy to such an extent I let the creative nature of life slide by.
As some may know it is, has been, National Poetry Month during April. The Skeeter and I made a deal to compose a poem a day. I am no poet. Getting ready to celebrate the month on our school's website I reread many of my favorite poems from ages ago. It rekindled an interest of sorts.
The Skeeter has been a poet and song-smith as long as I've known him so his end of our bargain has gone quite smoothly. Mine, well....
Here is the first one I'm not afraid to share.
AFTERTHOUGHT: Next year during April we should get everyone we know to write and share a poem a day. That's a cool idea.
spring 1969
flint hills burning
thick smoke tasting of last years grazing
the cattle fattened
where great herds of bison roamed
mere generations prior
a setting sun turns the horizon to
an aurora borealis of high-stepping flames, a smoldering fence from hell
leaving nothing but black and smoke and a single tree, survivor of the ages
the night sky reflected from scattered pools of water
worth driving south all the way from Topeka
on a Thursday night after school
without even thinking
you wanna go see some fire
eighty plus, no seat belts, windows open
the scents of spring, cigars and gasoline
and passing diesels
W-B-A-P coming through
clear as if you were in Possum Kingdom
I still remember the year Clayton Delaney died...
once asked to describe the smell
the only thing to come to mind was
history, maybe it smells just like
the great plains firestorms of the past
history
later parked at a high spot on the shoulder
near empty loading pens
turnpike traffic slows thinking we are in a bind
my father waves them on
silent
never sure what's he's seeing as he stares
leaning, elbows on the hood of the pickup
me not really tall enough to mimic his movements
he sips his beer from the cooler in the front seat
a Cragmont cola tastes as good as coke and cheaper
close enough to feel the heat
hear the crackle as stubble makes way for new spring grasses
and that black pasture that with each step
raises small clouds of ash and soot and prairie dust
aromatic incense perfuming the air
if I were forced to pick one smell for the rest of my life
it would be the flint hills burning
he rolls a cigarette, Prince Albert, like his father did
a new habit started last fall
when his father passed
my blackened sneakers
not a problem, mom will never know
before her weekend pass we'll wash them
our secret
after smoking, it is time to load up
drive south to a rest area
where they will mark our turnpike ticket
my father will save thirty-five cents
drinking my turnpike malt we head north into the dark night
illuminated by
flint hills burning
