august to nebraska

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  • Life

    august to nebraska
    August to Nebraska
    from lobeams
    through the early morning fog
    mystical patterns
    bounce from the concrete river
    into yellow eyes
    that blink suddenly
    and slip silently by
    fiery moss hangs from burning trees
    turning softly into azaleas
    blooming
    heavy with Southern dew
    into tall straight pines
    standing somber
    thin melancholy
    southern proud
    reminding me somehow of 
    Lincoln
    like dream faces a column of Gray soldiers
    shuffling up dust past the shotgun houses
    would not think much had changed
    in the shimmering heat
    boated dogs fat crows
    I continue north
    riding the warm current
    of the concrete river
    slipping past the remains
    of sod house that the land had birthed
    past old white frame houses
    in decay straining 
    crying for decorum
    trailer houses incongruously
    waiting to be fitted
    with wheels
    implying a naive mobility
    a quickness to run
    from a land that does not move
    from a land where generations 
    were birthed
    and buried 
    within the confine
    of two ridges
    the day ends
    my eyes follow the light
    tracking the concrete river
    flowing through a land
    that we will all come back to
      
    from lobeams
    through the early morning fog
    mystical patterns
    bounce from the concrete river
    into yellow eyes
    that blink suddenly
    and slip silently by
    fiery moss hangs from burning trees
    turning softly into azaleas
    blooming
    heavy with Southern dew
    into tall straight pines
    standing somber
    thin melancholy
    southern proud
    reminding me somehow of 
    Lincoln
    like dream faces a column of Gray soldiers
    shuffling up dust past the shotgun houses
    would not think much had changed
    in the shimmering heat
    boated dogs fat crows
    I continue north
    riding the warm current
    of the concrete river
    slipping past the remains
    of the sod house that the land had birthed
    past old white frame houses
    in decay straining 
    crying for decorum
    trailer houses incongruously
    waiting to be fitted
    with wheels
    implying a naive mobility
    a quickness to run
    from a land that does not move
    from a land where generations 
    were birthed
    and buried 
    within the confine
    of two ridges
    the day ends
    my eyes follow the light
    tracking the concrete river
    flowing through a land
    that we will all come back to
      

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    Tempestlady commented on august to nebraska

    02-07-2011

    A beautiful reposte. I would sugget separating into stanza's for the readers ease, but a really nice description of nature and life. Write on..................Tlady
    Reply to Comment

    Teardrops commented on august to nebraska

    02-06-2011

    The way the dew smells as the sun dries it from the flowers . I love the desert as it talks to me on a spring morning . I love the way you write thanks for a look through time Marie
    Reply to Comment

    Redhead505 commented on august to nebraska

    02-06-2011

    As of yet, I've loved everything you've written. I love that phrasing, "sod houses the land had birthed", and being from the south, sometimes it seems as if the gray soldiers are still trudging past me in the fog, unaware of my presence. Haunting images. I like.
    Reply to Comment

    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

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