tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48373261162098401422024-02-20T07:37:03.672-08:00Writing By EarlEarl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-66254912174516818802010-11-30T07:11:00.000-08:002010-11-30T07:15:36.870-08:00Fall AllergiesPolitical pollutants taint the air this time of year--<br />worse than ragweed pollen, loblolly pines,<br /><br />Queen Anne's Lace, grasses galore. Yard signs,<br />TV sound bytes, slick flyers, Internet yahooing,<br /><br />Robodialing, stump meetings, word of mouth<br />disease threatening our health more than Swine Flu.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-70773645123270948622010-02-01T07:29:00.000-08:002010-02-01T07:34:56.556-08:00Mr. Big Brown ShopsA handsome man<br />dressed all in brown<br />from his cap to his shoes<br />considers stew meat<br />at the supermarket.<br />I wonder<br />if he's the man<br />who always rings our doorbell<br />before scurrying back<br />to his chugging brown truck.<br />Or the same man<br />who brings treats<br />for our barking Sheltie,<br />waves at us<br />if we make it to the door<br />before he revs up his truck<br />then rattles away<br />in the fading daylight<br />like a brown phantom.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-31266169955082214352009-08-13T16:47:00.000-07:002009-08-13T16:51:58.104-07:00You Tarzan, Me SurprisedWhen I was maybe thirteen
<br />my parents began letting me
<br />go to movies alone or with friends.
<br />One Saturday matinee
<br />the only show I was allowed to see
<br />---after Loony Tunes and before the weekly serial---
<br />I stood up to spot some friends.
<br />In the flickering glimmer of a newsreel
<br />or a Roy Rogers and Dale Evans preview
<br />I saw my father
<br />sitting a few seats in front of me
<br />still wearing his baseball cap.
<br />Asonished to see Dad at the movie
<br />I never mentioned spotting him that day.
<br />Perhaps he simply wanted to see
<br />Tarzan of the Apes, Episode 13,
<br />"His Own Kind."
<br />
<br />(This poem originally appeared in Literary Magic,
<br />Summer, 2009)
<br />Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-76937178956386070882009-07-26T14:33:00.000-07:002009-07-26T14:37:38.846-07:00Lint Heads' LamentToday, the last big mill in our town<br />burned down, almost to the ground.<br />It was a vast factory once, employed<br />thousands---textile heaven in its day.<br />Vandals probably started the fire,<br />as they usually do, though who can<br />know why they want to destroy this<br />last big building where their whole family<br />worked over the years. Dozens pour out<br />to watch the dark, coiling smoke climb<br />so high in the sky a city twenty-five<br />miles away sees one of our landmarks<br />go up, make a menacing cloud.<br />Friends who've not seen each other<br />since the mill closed decades ago<br />watch firemen douse the glaze.<br />Some recall teen years spent in spinning<br />rooms, some sweeping up cloth fragments,<br />others shed tears, glad they're no longer<br />called lint heads.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-7930387903189361832008-12-27T12:19:00.000-08:002008-12-27T12:22:54.378-08:00Scent of MemoryIn a late October beach walk<br />I see only strange seaweed,<br /><br />high tide debris, puff mud,<br />feel ocean spray, smell salt<br /><br />water---until I cross wind<br />with smoke. Cigar scents<br /><br />suffocate me save one<br />familiar blend: the brand<br /><br />my grandpa puffed when<br />I was a boy. Today---more<br /><br />than sixty years since I last<br />smelled that flavor, a hint<br /><br />of cinnamon toast, perhaps<br />parched peanuts--on a<br /><br />windy Carolina shore,<br />memory lives in aromas.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-65900742361317850912008-11-18T08:22:00.000-08:002008-12-27T12:18:01.889-08:00Every Man is a Piece of the ContinentOur small farming village where I grew up<br />provided aplenty for the living---<br />grocer, two churches, a handy man, some<br /><br />widows and orphans, stray chickens,<br />mosquitoes, snakes---but lacked provision<br />for the dying: no graveyard, an oddity<br /><br />as our village was planted many miles<br />from towns or burial places. This cold fact<br />never registered with me till I moved<br /><br />to a city where cemeteries flourish.<br />Returning to the village over the years,<br />I mourned as it disappeared---widows died,<br /><br />orphans moved away, grocer gone, churches<br />empty. One spring I walked the raised railroad<br />tracks as I did during childhood. Delighted,<br /><br />I discovered many village residents<br />had not gone after all: in a far corner<br />of one cotton farm a small cemetery.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-30722460373335595512008-10-20T20:04:00.001-07:002008-10-20T20:04:35.457-07:00Crab Bisque BluesUnlike some who’ve stood at a kitchen<br />sink weighing the world’s sweet problems,<br />I have no such scales, though I could<br />take solace in knowing why ants circle<br />my sink as if it’s a sinking ship, when<br />my stainless steel vat of dirty dishes<br />only waits to fill my German-made<br />dishwasher, which ants possibly know<br />and care about. Still, I do wonder why<br />we can’t resist watching ants, and<br />aren’t more in awe of mysteries deeper<br />than the kitchen sink---or this vast pot<br />in which I cooked today’s crab bisqueEarl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-57947168523901085982008-10-16T16:02:00.001-07:002008-10-16T16:02:45.176-07:00Executive Assistant Purchases Spring FlowersAt six thirty sharp she rises from her firm mattress,<br />tucks her tresses into a pony tail, pads across the<br />patterned carpet to a stationary bike standing<br />near an eastern window overlooking the small<br /><br />cemetery directly below. Each morning while<br />riding her bike nowhere—sweat beads gathering<br />in her lean cleavage, bluish veins bubbling along<br />her thin thighs, skimpy arms---her eyes wander<br /><br />back and forth across the cracked and chipped<br />grave markers. Sometimes she parks in her<br />allotted condo space, wanders into the cemetery:<br />Jasper Massey, 1877-1899, is nearest the low,<br /><br />crumbling rock wall separating final resting<br />places from SUVs and Lexus sedans. Yesterday<br />she walked briskly to a far corner of the grave<br />yard which she often fixes on from her high seat.<br /><br />The tiny, moss covered heart, leaning askew:<br />Melissa Avery, Infant Daughter of Cary & Oswald<br />Avery, Left To Be With God After Only Three Days.<br />She Was Too Good for This World. God Took Her. <br /><br />Kneeling in front of the heart, she leaves a<br />handful of supermarket jonquils for Melissa.<br />Swiftly, spike heels dig deeply into soft soil.<br />Her stationary bike has waited all day.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-82450820145690521902008-10-16T16:01:00.001-07:002008-10-16T16:01:54.621-07:00Crape Myrtle SonatinaIt’s no secret sheared shrubs<br />are not saucy<br />topics for poems,<br />little gained<br />in contemplating the bare,<br />bark-skinned, erect limbs jutting out,<br />haughty in their loveliness<br />trimmed to the nub,<br />waiting for winter to buzz-off,<br />spring to turn the whole world warm,<br />crape myrtle bushes into summer snowflakes<br />after Bradford pears, forsythia,<br />embarrassing azaleas<br />pink with envy.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-12426515232939921892008-10-16T16:00:00.000-07:002008-10-16T16:01:18.691-07:00Seasons at OddsBefore daylight today, dark skies bleak,<br />clouds tossed about like restless children.<br /><br />A persistent mockingbird swooped around<br />my head as I stooped to pick up the paper.<br /><br />She had been nesting in a nearby tree.<br />The season was out of kilter. Winter-<br /><br />time mild as May caught a mother bird<br />off guard, disturbed my morning reverie.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-68399670008597518462008-10-16T15:58:00.000-07:002008-10-16T16:00:32.338-07:00Journey of the Candidates, Christmas, 2007There they are, the whole lot of them<br />trudging from diner to diner, barn<br />to barn, house to house, in Iowa<br />and New Hampshire, even in staid<br />and stately old South Carolina,<br />like a bunch of vagabond vagrants<br />looking for a handout. And I guess<br />you could say that’s sort of what they are.<br />They smile, bow so humbly, just to get<br />a handshake, to see if you’re paying<br />attention to their very needy selves.<br />Today, I hear they may go underground,<br />just for a couple of days, you see,<br />so as not to upstage the kid who was<br />being hailed as the genuine article.<br />Really, it’s hard to know the real<br />thing in this season of so many<br />of them trudging around from diner<br />to diner, barn to barn, house to house.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-87498568903851448012008-10-07T13:51:00.000-07:002008-10-20T20:03:22.470-07:00Red, White, and GreenOn Saturdays during strawberry season<br />in Carolina, the entire Gonzalez family<br />comes early to pick. Field owners<br />don't check for green cards when red<br />berries ripen and quickly rot in the field<br />in the hot noonday sun. Local townies<br />also show, children in tow, gramps for<br />fun, uncle Dave to drive the SUV. The<br />Smith family comes for the fresh fruit<br />taste, sunshine, mixing Carolina twang<br />with a few Hispanic words the kids pick<br />up in school. During strawberry season,<br />when the juices flow down the arms of<br />pretty children, joy is the common language.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-47519901052463376942008-09-23T17:19:00.000-07:002008-09-23T17:24:19.900-07:00Yogi, Poet Laureate of BaseballAt 83, icon of icons,<br />there you stand, Yogi,<br />your shadow smaller<br />and smaller<br />each time we see you.<br /><br />Your clear-eyed twinkle<br />fills old Yankee Stadium<br />your presence,<br />your smile,<br />your catcher's squat stance.<br /><br />O, Yogi, essence of our poets,<br />your word horde---<br />tho not deep,<br />is distinct, your voice unique,<br />rhythms just right.<br /><br />We want one more line, Yogi.<br />We promise not to mangle<br />this one,<br />as we have done<br />over the years.<br /><br />Your coy smile beguiles,<br />holds us fast. Laureate<br />to the end, speaking<br />on the occasion, echoing<br />yourself<em>, I'm Sorry to See it Over.</em><br /><br /><em>(Appeared originally in The New Verse News,</em><br /><em>September 24, 2008)</em>Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-10225764115679208062008-09-17T12:48:00.000-07:002008-09-23T03:03:24.775-07:00A Widow's Funky Life<div align="center">Widow Ragsdale's shanty,</div><div align="center">---smells seeping from doors,</div><div align="center">windows, roof, fake brick siding</div><div align="center">---was a monster's nostrils spewing</div><div align="center">steaming shit --rancid, mephitic,</div><div align="center">toxic</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">Words for rotten fish, putrid out-</div><div align="center">houses, rotting vegetables -- for</div><div align="center">Miss Sukey, our mule who died</div><div align="center">in a ravine --didn't fit the fetid</div><div align="center">odor whirling from the Widow's.</div><div align="center">Dad said the stink exceeded any vile,</div><div align="center">noxious-to-the-nose, ferocious</div><div align="center">fart by a country mile.</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">Widow Ragsdale, a village treasure---</div><div align="center">ancient, endured without rancor</div><div align="center">despite being a backslider,</div><div align="center">whistled suggestively at males,</div><div align="center">wore a halter top in August--</div><div align="center">labored in her gardens, picking red</div><div align="center">tomatoes to give away, deadheading</div><div align="center">petunias days before her demise.</div><div align="center">Even then some claimed a repulsive </div><div align="center">stench rose in her dust, a haunting</div><div align="center">Hawthorne hag causing blossoms</div><div align="center">to wilt, contaminating nature.</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">After no Widow sighting for five</div><div align="center">days, her house was stoned:</div><div align="center">kids threw rocks on her tin roof,</div><div align="center">town gossips pointed fingers,</div><div align="center">tongues tattled. On the sixth day, </div><div align="center">the Holiness preacher declared</div><div align="center">God would forgive anyone who</div><div align="center">rammed her door to bring out</div><div align="center">the corpse.</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">The Widow was hauled away at midnight,</div><div align="center">taken to a country cemetery, buried</div><div align="center">without song or scripture, her shanty</div><div align="center">torched, gardens plowed under, petunia</div><div align="center">seeds sown by winds across the small</div><div align="center">plot of the woman, once-treasured</div>Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-42479668576805032272008-09-12T17:05:00.000-07:002008-09-12T17:09:24.162-07:00If Hirsute Men are not PrettyIf hirsute men are not pretty, this world never was,<br />and <em>pretty</em> is a word meant only for babies. Maybe<br />the curvature of the chin covered with curly hair,<br />dimpled, even dappled when hair clusters around<br />the extended jaw of an aging gent, gives the arc<br />of the face its exquisite edge. Here is the hallowed<br />place men stroke as they muse about sports stats---<br />or a shapely ass--the space where red wine drops,<br />a crumb stops, is dabbed by an omniscient napkin.<br />Men have such pleasure as may be found in the<br />subtle feel of flesh covered with bristling follicles,<br />feisty feelings aroused in boys with puberty fuzz,<br />a buzz radiating from the touch of fingers to beard.<br />If hirsute men are not pretty, this world never was.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-63414163091675782602008-09-05T14:27:00.000-07:002008-09-23T21:29:14.660-07:00Writing by Earl in The Centrifugal EyeEarl has poems, an essay, and an interview in The Centrifugal Eye, Summer, 2007. If you would like to see these items, here's the link to read more:<br /><br /><a href="http://home.earthlink.net/%7Ecentrifugaleye/id1.html">http://home.earthlink.net/~centrifugaleye/id1.html</a><br /><br />At some point in the future, Earl will reprint the poems from that issue which featured him and his writings.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-14265255661636738052008-08-26T13:59:00.000-07:002008-08-26T14:03:48.966-07:00On First Reading Kay Ryan's PoemsHomage to New Poet Laureate<br /><br />Where<br />Were you<br />Those years<br />I needed you<br />When critics<br />Told me<br />Little<br />Tall<br />Thin<br />Poems<br />Did not<br />Work<br />Only<br />Old maids<br />Like Emily Dickinson<br />or old farts<br />Like Me<br />Write<br />Poems<br />Sticking up<br />Like a<br />Middle Finger<br />At the world.<br /><br />(Appeared originally in The New Verse News)Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-18040291430295848262008-08-23T07:09:00.002-07:002008-08-23T07:19:51.825-07:00Selected List of Poems Published by Earl<em>There is No Crying in Baseball (Third Lung Review)</em><br /><em>Hanging with Auntie (Southern Gothic Online)</em><br /><em>John Travolta Stars in my Flick (Strange Horizons)</em><br /><em>Night Owls at Work (Muses Review)</em><br /><em>Lost: One Typewriter (Lunarosity)</em><br /><em>Skateboarders (Lunarosity)</em><br /><em>Send in the Jackass (KAKALAK)</em><br />I Want to live Forever, Learn how to Fly (Aroostook Review)<br />Once Upon a Road to Derry (Aroostook Review)<br />Kinsey's First Interview (The Centrifugal Eye)<br />Crane Forests, 2006 (Arabesques Review)<br />A Gleam in Freedom's Eye (Arabesques Review)<br />Arabian Knight on the Run (Arabesques Review)<br />The Great Jack Complex (Underground Voices)<br />Poetry in Motion (The Centrifugal Eye)<br />The Last Days of Crazy KAP (Underground Voices)<br />Teaching an old Bird New Tricks (The Centrifugal Eye [Pushcart Nominee])<br />News Flash: AC Invented in Arkansas, 1945 (Word Riot)<br />Lament for a Baseball Dad (AETHLON)<br />At Walter's Wake (Arkansas Literary Forum)<br />The Human Stain (The Centrifugal Eye)<br />A Funky Mister Faulkner (Faulkner Newsletter)<br />Carolina Snipe Hunt (The New Verse News)<br />Between the Sheets with Bette Midler (Southern Gothic)<br />Carpe Diem, Saturday (Lunarosity)<br />How the News was Delivered Today (New Verse News)<br />Postponing the Slippery Slope (KAKALAK)<br />On the Burning of the Community Theatre (New Verse News)<br />Winter Solstice--Dream Variations (The Centrifugal Eye)<br />In addition to this group, Earl has published more than<br />40 poems in The New Verse News and Elsewhere.Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-72690904906155150082008-08-23T07:02:00.000-07:002008-08-23T07:08:03.178-07:00Ode to a Baseball Cap<span style="font-family:verdana;">To the non-believer, you're a colorful cap,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">nothing more than a beanie with a brim.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">For the faithful in baseball nation, you</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">are a hallowed, even holy, head covering.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Your colors call us to worship in cardinal</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">red, pure white, or royal blue---caps of many</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">colors for the game in which players and fans</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">find their way around the bases, ending at home.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">When we put on our hats, we are acolytes,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">troops for our team,living and dying as we</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">win or lose. Little lid, you are the common</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">cap, the beanie that binds hearts and soul.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">For the nine-inning outing and for all the</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">nights and days our lives, we wear our</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">caps to work, to worship, to play, to shop,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">to eat, to sleep, to dream, to the hereafter.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">(Originally published in <em>Third Lung Review</em>)</span>Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-15830095882474138662008-08-20T09:06:00.000-07:002008-09-24T00:21:47.661-07:00Slow Pitch<strong style="font-weight: normal;">Before Dizzy & Daffy,</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">Maris & Mantle</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">Bonds & McGwire,</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">before TV showed us</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">baseball's seedy & greedy side,</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">I taught two talented groups</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">of the sporting life in Texas:</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">jocks & beautiful girls.</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;"></strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">Baseball players,</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">lackadaisical learners,</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">seemed secure in a simple desire---</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">earn a passing score.</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">Always dressed to the nines,</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">the beauties spent</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">their days dreaming</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">how to spend $1000 a month</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">allowances provided by rich oil papas</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">and sizing up options as tycoons' wives</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">or mates of men dreaming of major league</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">stardom by polishing their curve, slider,</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">and fast ball.</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;"></strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">Like dense pitchers shaking</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">off signs from cagey catchers</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">the ball players seemed almost</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">oblivious of fast balls thrown</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">their way every class by beautiful</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">curves from across the aisles.</strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;"></strong><br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;">I never knew who scored or struck out.</strong><br /><strong></strong>Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-23005090269250287922008-08-07T11:08:00.000-07:002008-09-24T00:11:53.634-07:00Mowing<strong></strong><strong></strong>The title of this poem was cribbed from Robert Frost.<br />I'm sorry he used it first, but I will not let his luck<br />stand in my path to claim it, too. This poem has none<br />of the mysterious aura surrounding Frost's. Nothing<br />here will entice readers like those who believe they<br />know Frost's meaning about a whispering, smooth<br />scythe. No hay, just grass, we're mowing this morning.<br /><br />The mowing my granddaughter did today for the first<br />time is a different thing. A pre-teen, she wants to learn<br />how to mow grass, not with a scythe, but a lawn mower.<br />The venerable Powercraft push mower, a family friend<br />for two generations, has been put out to pasture some<br />years ago. My Toro mower, with gears and gadets to<br />please, waits patiently to be primed, coughs itself into<br />starting, drones happily as a June bug on an oak.<br /><br />I mowed a row back and forth, showing her some minor<br />hazards such as rocks and toads (another poet probably<br />used that toad earlier, too, but never mind) or baby birds<br />and the occasional black or green garden snake, the kind<br />that lives in fescue grass or cool clay among us in Carolina.<br /><br />After a couple of rounds, she has the knack of it. No more<br />reason for me to stand nearby commenting about strands<br />of grass which hadn't been mowed closely enough, or her<br />lackadaisical lapse in overlapping. No point in say <em>here</em><br /><em>you mowed well or there's a patch needs work.</em> My concern<br />was not the straight row or the amount of time she took. She<br />knows I'm watching while she mows even if I'm not there.<br />I will be looking long after she quits mowing this morning.<em> </em>Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4837326116209840142.post-75185464395859603072008-08-06T12:25:00.000-07:002008-09-24T00:13:48.769-07:00Hush Little Baby, Don't You CrySudden summer thunderstorm cadences<br />march in like invading armies, push<br />aside resistance from ballgames, equestrians<br />jumping over latticed fences, placid<br />summer scenes forced to become quixotic.<br />Threatening, dark clouds overwhelm<br />skies, dominate landscapes, sending crushing,<br />cascading lightening, hail, and rain.<br /><br />Summertime living is not always easy,<br />despite jumping catfish, high cotton,<br />rich daddies and good looking mamas.<br /><br />(Originally published in <em>The New Verse</em><br /><em>News,</em> August 02, 2008)Earl J. Wilcox, poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613386838899148138noreply@blogger.com2