what a cruel tale, Gary. i like the way you have used dilaect, tho' i must
admit to nto being expert enough to know how well
P-P
>From: garydawg <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New: Red
>Date: Mon, 7 Jan 2002 15:14:19 -0800
>
>(The third in a dialogue with Thomas Fortenberry, once publisher of
>MindFire. (Well, actually #3, the first a prologue by me.) We are telling
>the life of a 96 year old in poetry, totally non-linear to time, any style
>and some fantasy and fancy. This one is a bit long as stories tend to be.
>The Red is a direct follow to Thomas' which was of tomatoes and a knife
>slipping. C and C greatly appreciated. For those of you from the South,
>I confess to being a Northern lad, so any corrections to Southern
>references welcome. Thanks in advance. Gary)
>
>
>2. RED
>
>
>red as a bayou sunsets
>red as a humming bird's throat
>red as an unseen stop sign
>red as the shirts Tom's mother died
> for him from flour sacks
> and second hand calico
>
>tomatoes are as red
>
>Tom St. Croix was red
>as his father was black -
>a shock of woodpecker red hair
>sat above a sienna face
>potmarked with scarlet freckles.
>The sheriff used to say
>he's the only coonboy I ever seed
>that can blush.
>
>Tom's momma was dead
>pole axed by Big Tom
>while she while she shelled
>pecans two days after Tom birthed,
>her hands stained.
>Big Tom was hung
>from a peckerwood tree,
>back striped like a cardinal's robes.
>Tom an orphan raised by Granny Leboix.
>
>red as salmon eggs
>
>Me six and a half, him older
>by half, Tom was by bestest friend.
>Summers with my mangy
>redbone, Blue, we would raid
>Old Man Crockett's watermelon patch,
>old Crotchety Crockett.
>When heat waves painted mirages
>across the tobacco fields,
>we would hid in bushes
>along the Apicolalacha River
>and watch the Beniua twins
>skinny-dip in their drawers.
>
>Winter we bucked wind
>to search draws and shore
>for treasures riding on the floods.
>Spring was for crayfish,
>bullhead and wild strawberries
>Summer we sunburned
>and Fall stained our lips
>with the last persimmons.
>
>red as a trip to the woodshed
>
>But we were not of a kind,
>though I could sit at his table,
>he never sat at mine.
>His time at our house spend
>delivering goods baked
>by Old Granny Leboix.
>As we grew Daddy would hint
>I needed new friends, and come
>4th grade we separated,
>Tom through with schooling,
>his kind worked instead of learning.
>
>Then the sun set
>and red turned to black -
>the Beniua twins found drawerless
>near the river, near a mile
>from where Tom pulled
>a rusty wagon to deliver Granny's pies
>and elderberry jelly.
>Near naked, bruised
>to new shades, they threw Tom
>into the square just as Daddy and I
>pulled in with the buggy.
>
>red as cheap wine
>
>Blue trotted over to Tom,
>sniffed the nearly dead body
>and hackles raised growled
>at the crowd of men around Tom
>and jumped the meanest man there,
>Old Crotchety, who let off both
>barrels of his shotgun, buck hitting
>the dog and enough hit Tom
>to allow the men to get home early.
>
>Four years latter, a drifter up near
>Baton Rouge confessed to what he done
>to the twins before the floor
>moved beneath his feet.
>
>Such things happened then.
>We forgot and moved on,
>Why did they have to shoot my dog?
>
>red as blood soaked dust
>red as a dog's breath in July
>red as hemlock berries
>red as oak leaves In October
>
>Christmas red,
>independence
>and Valentines traded
> in the 4th grade
>
>January guest Nat at: http://gardawg.homestead.com/gardawg.html,
>
>Submissions: http://www.writershood.com/index.html
>
>Poets for Peace. ˇPoemas sí, balas no!
>
Perpetua Pullman
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