When fields bloom dust<\/p>\n\n\n\n
the town once had a picture show with balcony
and jujubes and news shorts about some war
and cartoons where animals met violent ends<\/p>\n\n\n\n
when life was black and white it maybe cost a dime
Realto or Roxy Princess or Palace can’t remember
the name with velvet curtains and uniformed ushers<\/p>\n\n\n\n
the marquee paint faded in yellow bruises and paper
promos blotched like mottled skin beneath cataract
glass the show moved out when the drugstore closed<\/p>\n\n\n\n
when the doctor died and the Farmers Insurance Co.
repossessed our farm and sold our tractor for a quarter
on the dollar I watched them haul away the dining room<\/p>\n\n\n\n
table and grandma’s chester drawers the two mules that
pulled our cart gone too with two cows and a calf
they left Dad’s neckerchief once red now pale as<\/p>\n\n\n\n
platelets our fields bloom dust from withered vines
and dust covers the town square a stray cat’s mew
whines like a nail hammered into coffin pine<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Time spinning shadows<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I can’t grow wind he said to her
as he stood in the field once black
from prairie fire once rich in topsoil
now the shade of cadavers just dead<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Gone where life had grown his family
gone too parents and grandparents and
even prior generations like seasons
remembering rows of crop and hands<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Turning now what turns is the rows of
windmills that loom and lurch metal
beasts that whir like locusts eating
not breezes singing within the stalks<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The bank that repossessed his legacy
withered on spent vines suggested wind
sell air they said your day’s done let the
windmills work the land you failed<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What spins are my hands wringing
calloused knuckles grinding skin
once tanned and creased and split
a map for my children to follow<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That map useless as dry parchment cracked
what can I do he wailed with idle hands
sit and watch time spin shadows on our
land now the bank’s I can’t grow wind<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Morning Mist<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On weekdays, always hot in the southern South,
I\u2019d smell the coffee before even awake,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
even through the humidity, as present as the family dog,
my dreams made brown from the blackening dregs,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
then hear him gently banging cupboards,
trying to still the family\u2019s sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019d ease the door and touch my foot, saying,
\u201cCome on bud, the day\u2019s awake,\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
and I\u2019d rise to meet him, me, alone, the others abed,
my feet on the warmth of the cedar floors, his warmth<\/p>\n\n\n\n
having walked ahead. There on the table he\u2019d set two mugs,
his coffee as black as the fields we worked, mine, with milk,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
the color of November dawn. He\u2019d chow down on bacon and eggs,
dabbing ketchup on each bite. I tried to match him mouth for mouth,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
falling short by an egg or two. \u201cCan you feel the change, bud?
Saw them geese flyin\u2019 farther south and the wooly worms out, too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Cold is coming, but there\u2019s time to plant some turnips or collards
for mom to can when winter hits. So eat up, boy, we got work to do,\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
tussling my hair of winter wheat. Then off we\u2019d trudge.
I jumped to match each step he strode, I the circle<\/p>\n\n\n\n
from the stone he\u2019d throw. Once in the field, he took
the heavy load, the spade and rake while I sprinkled seeds<\/p>\n\n\n\n
on the rows he hoed. I wasn\u2019t needed to work the land.
He gifted me the morning mist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When fields bloom dust the town once had a picture show with balconyand jujubes and news shorts about some warand cartoons where animals met violent ends when life was black and white it maybe cost a dimeRealto or Roxy Princess or Palace can’t rememberthe name with velvet curtains and uniformed ushers the marquee paint faded … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":728,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-617","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poetry"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/06\/redcharlie-HxxmKwvUbgI-unsplash.jpg?fit=640%2C800&ssl=1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/617","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=617"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/617\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":621,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/617\/revisions\/621"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/728"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=617"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=617"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=617"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
Steve Gerson, an emeritus English professor from a Midwestern community college, writes poetry and flash about life’s dissonance and dynamism. He’s proud to have published in Panoplyzine (winning an Editor’s Choice award), The Hungry Chimera, Toe Good, The Write Launch, Route 7, Duck Lake, Coffin Bell, Poets Reading the News, Crack the Spine, Riza Press, White Wall Review, Variant, Abstract, Pinkley Press, Montana Mouthful, the Decadent Review, and In Parenthesis.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"