Selected Poems
Uncle
When I was young, he was just another hay man
a broken prince of opinion and to impress
never travelled, but knew the whole world.
That morning, he took me to a make-shift cornfield duck blind
to sit and stare at the fearless crows, feeding. While
in his pocket, he fiddled with red-tube Remington shells
Unlatching the break action and breech loading
his skeet choke 12 gauge shotgun
snapping back both barrels, and setting the hammer locks
Without warning, he raised the scatter gun to his shoulder
and hatred suddenly mumbled, sinister
“Nuisance birds”.
“Wait” and “No” were trapped in my throat, a pointless cough
of a snot nosed shocked city boy and time stood still.
Black birds toppled over clumsily, at the roar of the first barrel
Survivors leapt and fled with my hope
only four foot high and nearly free.
Then, the second barrel screamed.
One bird became shattered beauty
against a slate sky. Innocence tumbled to the grass
at hissing of spent shot in distant cornstalks.
Cawing echoed stupid in border poplars, as he retrieved the dead and
clenched birds by gnarled claws, strapped each upside down dripping to fence posts.
It was a warning to others, when he was not around.
Then that damned scarecrow scraped his fingers clean on the fence rails
Fear remains, trapped in those trees
and still shakes, pleading
“Enough”, each time he reloads.
a broken prince of opinion and to impress
never travelled, but knew the whole world.
That morning, he took me to a make-shift cornfield duck blind
to sit and stare at the fearless crows, feeding. While
in his pocket, he fiddled with red-tube Remington shells
Unlatching the break action and breech loading
his skeet choke 12 gauge shotgun
snapping back both barrels, and setting the hammer locks
Without warning, he raised the scatter gun to his shoulder
and hatred suddenly mumbled, sinister
“Nuisance birds”.
“Wait” and “No” were trapped in my throat, a pointless cough
of a snot nosed shocked city boy and time stood still.
Black birds toppled over clumsily, at the roar of the first barrel
Survivors leapt and fled with my hope
only four foot high and nearly free.
Then, the second barrel screamed.
One bird became shattered beauty
against a slate sky. Innocence tumbled to the grass
at hissing of spent shot in distant cornstalks.
Cawing echoed stupid in border poplars, as he retrieved the dead and
clenched birds by gnarled claws, strapped each upside down dripping to fence posts.
It was a warning to others, when he was not around.
Then that damned scarecrow scraped his fingers clean on the fence rails
Fear remains, trapped in those trees
and still shakes, pleading
“Enough”, each time he reloads.
