My Poetry Poetry

This Hacked Down Hemlock

this hacked down hemlock, splayed, cracked
giant jack the rippered from her feet,
locks left for slash while toes still grip
rock and loam and clay, slain at the ankles,
clenches my muddy witness fists, having
served first (for me) as landmark, then as shrine,
once as umbrella, even, once as guardian for a
two second, tight-lipped first kiss.
Now, at the end, she retires as teacher,
a wild fine rotting pre-pulp history volume.
See here, the width of this one thumb,
covers all my thread thin years:
twenty five narrow lines clearly document
the time spent blushing hope, sweating danger,
breathing love, fear, anger, and remorse.
I suggest to you, dear wondering stranger:
All we want is nothing, all we know isn’t much,
to be thus eclipsed, and by just a thumb.

By JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.

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