—Poems by JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN
—Anoonymous Photos of the Rolling Hills of Tennessee
BOY
The boy with two uncles named Marvin
who does not like to be called Boy.
But he is one.
An endless series of uncles, and one
jabs him in the ribs.
Too many aunts and uncles, from the days
when you had to have a large progeny
to work the family farm.
Old Testament times.
Stone-throwing that still goes on.
How’d you like that, boy?
How’d you like that?
Huh, boy?
His mother is an isolated name
in a sea of letters, the last born of her clan,
bearing a different title.
By the time the boy was born,
the migration had become, kids leaving
when they became teenagers.
Picture them either dozing on the couch
at graduation, still in cap and gown, if they
made it that far, or loping in droves
over the hills for another life.
Blame it on all the soda and fast food.
The junk television.
When he is an older man,
he will go back, but he won’t stay.
Home just won’t be the same anymore.
He will love it, miss it deep down,
there will always be a mountain inside him
next to a lump of emotion when he thinks
of the place.
He will want to return.
But he won’t.
There is a part of the boy that will
always walk in the woods with his father,
journeys woven into the fabric of who he is.
His father, who crawled under trains,
the scream of the whistle stealing your
senses.
After disability, you just do what you can.
Maybe an August trip to Myrtle Beach.
That was when school didn’t start
until the end of August. Summer was allowed
to meet a conclusion.
These days, the kids have to go back early
to get ready for their series of tests that never
seem to end.
But the boy always had his birthday
untouched by school’s icy hand.
Wouldn’t be that way now.
Even as a man, he thinks, am I still a boy?
When did I become a man?
Is it official yet?
THE COAL DRIED UP
It was supposed to last forever,
I guess.
The town was once booming,
a place of dynamite and drinkers,
the money flowing—
accounts for the name.
Now the town is a locust’s hull.
The people mostly buy drugs now, or drink, or both.
They watch static-filled screens.
It seems like everyone has an alcoholic in the family.
One of the boy’s many uncles filled this needed role,
occupying a mobile home by a small pond.
Science fiction VCR tapes, the stale smell of smoke,
many brown bags.
The boy’s grandfather carried a perpetual hump
because one time, in a ride to work at the mines,
he was riding in the back of a pickup truck.
There are no rides in the back of trucks
without this hump arriving in thought.
The driver was going too fast, hit a slick spot—
grandfather went flying.
Who knows where he landed?
But the landing was not good.
By the time the boy was born, coal was dying.
They still call for it.
Give us our mines, they tell the politicians.
But the mines aren’t working much anymore,
the sink won’t be fixed.
The coal lords would rather save a dime,
close a mine, I guess,
than do the right thing.
So, the miners go home, blaming high-minded
elected officials that want to save the sky and rivers.
Blame the coal lords.
Blame them for this greed.
Do they care if the mines come crashing in
or crashing down?
I doubt it, as history has taught me.
SEEMS AS THOUGH
this may be the last poem
I will write. Is that the case?
I'm not really sure.
Is it the thousand thousand
not yet messages from editors?
Not really, although I have been
told my submissions do not
fit the current needs, and even that
an editor's process is a mystery
unto itself. Whatever that means.
It just seems that my words
are making their way into new
directions, no longer ready to stack
up like stanzas.
As I put together my second
poetry collection, stringing experiences
and moments, I begin to think,
Maybe I will make a return after
a short creative nap.
Or else my words will continue
as long strings of prose, as researched
writings, who knows? Egads. I almost
just rhymed there.
Yet, definitely time for a poetic
break, at least for now.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
OVERSTAYING
—JD DeHart
Poets know not to overstay
their welcome.
They linger on the page for just
a while,
a quick word, a brief description,
rhyme or no rhyme.
They say what they need to say,
sometimes veiled in metaphor,
then go skipping away.
__________________
Our thanks to JD DeHart for his fine poetry today about living in his part of the country! Out West here tonight, Los Escritoires del Nuevo Sol will present a Valentine’s Day Reading at Sol Collective on 21st St. in Sacramento. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
Cheer Up—It’s Friday!
—Anonymous Photo
—Anonymous Photo
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