High Desert Arizona Like an old-timer easy with hard luck will roll up pantleg and shirtsleeve to show what a snapped cable or a black widow can do, the land here bares its stories about where wind makes its rounds on rock, has taught ridgeline junipers to twist; about where water goes by habit and by fancy, where water went and changed its mind, where a scrub oak wanted so bad for water, it lay down on its side and cracked granite to have it.This poetic picture paints the stark desert landscape and describes a scene I have scene myself out in the desert: where plants are so eager for water they grown back down to the earth any way they can to collect more water for its own livelihood. I like this poem because it reminds me of my own hikes in the desert.
Spendthrift Like gainsay, a word always to be looked up, a word that might have liked to have meant its opposite; or hereafter, a word that might have liked to have it both ways. like my father who, come late spring, spends everything he can put his hand to and borrow against whatever he’s got left and spends that. He whistles while he works. One year he filled the backyard with Volkswagens and wouldn’t but one in seven run when he got them, had the six towed out to the house; another year it was lawnmowers; another, houd dogs. This year, old metal flake fishing boats, three generations of motors. A little fixing and she’ll run just like a new one, or cut or hum good as she ever did. But she never does. Like the good eating that can come from an evening’s fishing for crappie, of treeing a mess of coon, for that matter, cooked up so to get the wild out. Only the good never comes because come late fall, he’s spent, the desire to see something fixed doesn’t fix. Somehow the pay-out he loves strings out into beyond flat busted. He’d just as soon let fish go rotten on the stringer, take his coons by the ringtails and fling them in that field out yonder as to clean them. Because even something in the bring-home misfires someday late fall, and he’s seeing in all he loved, what misfits he’s gathered, who lays up in the bed then for months at a time moaning his treasury. who will not even go out to the mailbox, who will not eat, give up the ghost of a word or a dollar for nothing or nobody, like he’s saving himself up for what swells in spring while his boats founder with rainwater, breed rust and mosquitos.This poem fascinates me in regard to the human condition. I have relatives who I can picture acting like this poet’s father spending every dime they have on some scheme they have in mind that fails miserably every time. The relative who spends every dime they have as soon as they receive it. The relative who claims they’ll fix a bunch of this, that, and the other only never does. For me, this poem describes my own quirky family members only they are all rolled into one fascinating character: the poet’s father. I think all of us can relate to such a person being in our lives and I love reading and re-reading this poem.
The Future Arrives As Pneumonia Now the end keeps its promise. Now he will not make it to thirty. Now he will drown like farmhouses below the dam, like bottomland inherited and tended by grandfathers, porches swept by grandmothers, certain revered shade trees. Drowning in his inheritance, he says, grinning at the nurse as he begins a backstroke on the bed. He confesses to doing what the dying always do, to dreaming the dead ones close, and dreaming himself a kid among them who they took to what was land between rivers become land between lakes, and up to Devil’s Walking Stick, the hill from where they’d watched it flood back in the forties. They kept talking about the house down there, the barn, he says, and they kept pointing into the water and he kept looking down into the water but couldn’t see any barn or house, and none around anywhere. Not a single solid structure. Not a single solid structure, he says, arms stretched out as if now he were floating. As if now he were at home in water.This poem makes me wonder who the poet is talking about. Brother? Husband? Mrs. Sanderson confirms this poem is about her husband. The reference to water and drowning triggers my own perception of what is happening. Where I work, we explain to family members that “the heart is drowning in fluid” if the diagnosis is congestive heart failure. I picture the loved one in the poem imitating the backstroke as a way to lighten up the subject of what is happening to his body consumed with pneumonia, the family gathered around trying to keep brave faces. It is a sad poem as the water consumes the minds of the entire family, the dream of water swallowing up and hiding everything that is real.
If you enjoyed this sample of poems, you may purchase a copy of Keeping Even by Sheila Sanderson for $10.74 on Amazon by using this link below: http://www.amazon.com/Keeping-Even-Sheila-Sanderson/dp/1936205424Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…