Draft Poems

I wrote my first self-defining poem when I was a Senior in high school and it was included in a student literary magazine. I felt good about myself when the mother of a former girlfriend gushed over it. I hoped she made her daughter read it. Actually, I hoped she made her daughter like it. Here we go.

My Aunt Claudine, aged 90, passed away a year or two ago. As I child I spent a lot of time at her farm in Wisconsin. It is her and Mel’s farm I write about here.

Picking Rocks

The black shining birds trailed us walking,
pecking at the empty nests
where we’d picked the rocks,
frost-heaved to the surface,
a problem for the planting.

Jerry, a neighbor kid,
bent with my cousins and me,
tossing our prizes to the wagon.

Underhanded, the rocks arced,
flew across the morning sun,
dropped with a thud to the wood deck,
sometimes clicking against others
in the still flock.

Mel turned the horses for a new row.
Dark as stones, weighted by need,
walking, watching, the grackles troubled the turned earth.

“Hey, look at this,” Jerry said.
I turned, looking up.
He threw, straight as a hawk, one rock at my head.

The blood mingled with my tears.
“You be careful.” Mel said.
“It was an accident.” Jerry said.
My cousins kept picking rocks.

And, in the next row,
we threw rocks high again.
Watching their fall onto the wagon,
I kicked at the furrows and
guessed the number of rows remaining.

The walking birds behind hopped sideways,
looking down.

Next:

City Hall