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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4285 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Message From a Woodpile Mark Schaeffer haystack of timbers sheered lengthwise like crooked 2x4's on icy carpeted ground splinters, ghosts of raw dreams whatever I brush goes through my hand heap from which issues cats with one ear ploughshares beaten into plows the warning from Keats about doggedness smoke that trails me as I circle around it things by the toe one hawk riding the farm friends in circles in a dream telling me what they know simple tools: hammers, planes, tongs the woodpile on the ground months before I ask why turkey shots rocking the hills like artillery suggesting the long way around in the sky, clouds measured by degrees of wool on the ground, my one chance my sister’s nudes on tile, a tiger painting, tiger stripped messages I didn't see between frost and 5 am from the attic overlooking the farm breathing in the dogwood my folks uprooted every spring on new roads through the 50's a shovel handy in the trunk tormented by dreams I can't fulfill past rays of weed or even hope turn my back on it and still it’s there place from which these things will issue all my life |
