old man jones
Posted on Jan 29th, 2009
by
mary
crows gather just beyond the dawn
rakish and jostling along the tree-line
mostly shagbark and indian cigar
angling over that sickly creek
banks caved in from the plowed fields
pressed in so close
those thundering, steel-jawed machines
crushing the soil
and tossing it to the wind
year by year
this wind carves my face
and the heavy roar of progress
gnarls my flesh
and grinds my bones
into dirt
bringing me closer to the land
right now, though
the wind is slight
tinkling the frozen rushes like crystal chimes
indigo against the sky, awaiting
that first flush of fire
deer, nesting in the pockets
hollowed out in the reeds
test the pearly crust with slick hooves
pawing and blowing steam
hair on end from the cold
and frost burling their whiskers
the big doe, she watches the crows
pricked ears fanning for the morning news
the others huddle close for warmth
nuzzling, shouldering awake
some, with swollen bellies
yet dreaming
no smoke curls from the cabin down on Hickory
since old man Jones died
his dog died soon after
he always had coffee on, these misty mornings
gritty from using no basket
throwing the grounds on to settle
as conversation filled the space
between the kettle and the fire…
the road is colder now
and the crows clatter off to the duck pond
lord knows why
winters, they stick pretty close to routine
running the perimeter
and heralding all that moves
taking their job pretty darn seriously
for all their clownish ways
and pirate souls…
kind of like people
old man jones used to say
rakish and jostling along the tree-line
mostly shagbark and indian cigar
angling over that sickly creek
banks caved in from the plowed fields
pressed in so close
those thundering, steel-jawed machines
crushing the soil
and tossing it to the wind
year by year
this wind carves my face
and the heavy roar of progress
gnarls my flesh
and grinds my bones
into dirt
bringing me closer to the land
right now, though
the wind is slight
tinkling the frozen rushes like crystal chimes
indigo against the sky, awaiting
that first flush of fire
deer, nesting in the pockets
hollowed out in the reeds
test the pearly crust with slick hooves
pawing and blowing steam
hair on end from the cold
and frost burling their whiskers
the big doe, she watches the crows
pricked ears fanning for the morning news
the others huddle close for warmth
nuzzling, shouldering awake
some, with swollen bellies
yet dreaming
no smoke curls from the cabin down on Hickory
since old man Jones died
his dog died soon after
he always had coffee on, these misty mornings
gritty from using no basket
throwing the grounds on to settle
as conversation filled the space
between the kettle and the fire…
the road is colder now
and the crows clatter off to the duck pond
lord knows why
winters, they stick pretty close to routine
running the perimeter
and heralding all that moves
taking their job pretty darn seriously
for all their clownish ways
and pirate souls…
kind of like people
old man jones used to say
Tagged with: prose

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Jaysus, Mary! How beautiful … ” as conversation filled the space between the kettle and the fire …” and so many more lines and images ‘frost burling their whiskers . . ” and on, the colors of iron and indigo, bruised earth, shadowed hollows - what a place, what an eye, what an ear, what a heart.
loved it through and through.
maxie
oh, mary, how wonderful!!! This is a beautiful poem. There’s so many lines I could pick out and highlight, but I’ll just settle for saying that I love how you wove Old Man Jones into the midst of nature’s beauty. And the doe with their swollen bellies dreaming. Wow! I’m excited about this poem. :)
thank you both, so much
that one pearled itself spontaneously
as i was testing the line-spacings on Empowered by Poetry
because all those double-spacings are ghastly and weird
how they can tell the difference between the space between paragraphs
which turns out normal
and the space between lines of prose
which turns out double
very strange, this little wurm, haunting our keeps!
and what stories it tells!
;-)