Driving in Winter, 1960

Our car with no heat, an igloo

on wheels. Ice spores on windows sprawled

into frost ferns we could autograph with fingernails.

The loneliness of the back seat as great

as the distance between the two frigid poles.

Letters chiseled their way out of cold chests,

floated to the back seat in titanic strands

of frozen words that ripped our hulls.

Twice along the way we drifted through

warm harbors, two booths of light,

one smelling of roast  beef, the other apple pie.

My father dropped a quarter and it rolled to my feet.

I picked it up and placed it on the woman’s soft skin.

The crunch of ice beneath the tires lost its voice.

Now, when I cannot dodge the solstice of solitude,

I think of the hearth on the turnpike, 

the touch of the toll-taker’s hand.

Thanks for all the messages and requests for me to post more pieces from Percy. I hate to sound selfish or greedy, but sales are still brisk and I know the nature of people. If you give them something free, they tend to get stingy with their money. So, yes, I will post more, but not quite yet. Right now I will read and perhaps shave. Maybe even travel a bit, but you can order a signed copy from this blog or one of my others.

Which Tales Are Fish Tales

Which Tales Are Fish Tales

I don’t remember nearly drowning,

my head submerged, taking in water,

unable to kick my feet loose

as I hung like a bat in the rafters,

from my father’s arms.

He dangled me over the toilet bowl until,

by some miracle,

my mother thrust her small body against him,

knocking him down and setting me free.

She did what any mother would do,

in that circumstance – save her child.

She told me this after the divorce,

when he was halfway around the world,

maybe doing the same thing to another enemy.

I hated him for it.

It would seem a five year old would remember,

or, as I aged, be afraid of water,

but she said it, my mommy, my mom,

my mother.

The same person who told me about the fish,

a huge grouper she had caught.

So large it stuffed the car trunk,

then filled the freezer on the back porch,

then the bathtub as it thawed.

The same fish

that came to life and bit the mop handle

in half as she tried to kill it again.

The same damn fish

she saddled with a chair and rode wildly

until she stabbed it enough times

with a butcher knife.

I’m sorry mom,

I just don’t remember almost dying,

or the fish almost living.

Homer's Trilogy

Homer’s Trilogy

1

The German soldier waited,

nerves chattering,

knife in his filthy hand

tapping a dirge on the stone wall,

and when my grandfather eased past

the corner of the building

the German lunged,

arm pounding mechanically --

rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat --

driving the blade into toughened meat.

My grandfather swung his gun around,

knocking the attacker to the ground,

then shot him in the forehead.

After stripping the dead man of papers,

Luger and dagger,

he hurried off to find a medic.

This is how I believed the scars,

shining like ten skinny maggots,

found their way to my grandfather’s

shoulder. He never told me the real story,

never gave the wounds any words,

only said he hoped I never

had to see a war.

But the little slits called to me,

begging me to place an ear near his naked back

and let their whispers burrow

into my imagination.

2

He would kill you

if you touched him

as he slept. Spring up

and send the Max Brand

or Zane Grey paperback,

splayed across his chest,

flapping at spine-breaking speed

into the wall--desperados

and Indians were his release

from the Luftwaffe

and Blitzkrieg. His massive

frame poised to crush

the Iron Cross shining

through the fog on every breast.

Those French nights

of sleeping with open eyes,

hair-trigger ears

and a six pack ready

to snap him into action,

turned my grandfather into a man

who had no dreams.

3 

Stick and Frye Funeral Home

had been in business forever,

it seemed, handling the town’s

special needs with quiet care.

When I lived with my grandparents,

my grandfather, a large, crusty

WWII sergeant-turned-brick mason

would answer our phone,

“Hello, Stick and Frye Funeral Home,

you stick’em, we fry’em.” My face flushed,

turned hot enough to heat up whoever

was on the other end, leaving me praying

for the use of Mr. Stick’s fine services. It was

nearly impossible for me to be somber

at any funeral there, until I was an adult.

I just could not look at those gathered,

or the one they gathered for,

without hearing my grandfather’s voice

answering our phone, over and over.

I have received several messages from readers wanting to know when I will post more poems from the book. That is wonderful and flattering, but I always respond by letting them know that the book has ALL the poems inside, if they should care to go that route.  Some have, others prefer to wait.  I will post another piece soon, but if I post too many and too soon, then there is no reason to have a book in print. Yes, there is a method to what seems like either madness or laziness! Please check out the happenings at my other blogs, lots of great words and pics. In the meantime, I have been out and about.  If you see me, I am the man in the panama hat.

In Living Color

In Living Color

 

Armed with a butcher knife

my sister, six, attacked the new

television almost as soon

as the delivery man left.

A Zenith console model

“IN STUNNING OAK,

DESIGNED TO MATCH

ANY DÉCOR!”  And, by God,

it wiggled in very well

with our early-garage-sale motif.

Both hands gripped the oak handle

as she swung like Babe Ruth,

little chunks of that fine oak

exploded through the air,

lost forever in the shag carpet.

She did not know why.

We tried to fill in the gashes

with some brown crayons,

spread a long doily

over the top,

watched cartoons in color,

and hoped my mother

and stepfather

would not take the same knife to her.

Talking With Triggers

Talking With Triggers

Perched in a live oak

cloaked in moss

my uncle waited

for a deer, wild boar

or turkey,

while beneath him

two men idled

out of the brush

and argued.

Neither looked up.

A shotgun blast

from one blew

the other back.

A life soaked quickly

into the crispy

forest floor.

A sheriff brought

my uncle home,

ripped gaping holes

into the family

with verbal buckshot

and left with us

a loaded shell of doubt.

Six years later,

barely 21,

my uncle’s own life

was soaked up by sand

on a riverbed

in Southeast Asia.

Two of the men

who had been

in a Georgia forest

one fall afternoon

are now reduced

to piles of  lead

and bone. The shell

of doubt still rests

in the chamber.