—Poetry by Kimberly Bolton, Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Images
THE BEAUTIFUL INDIFFERENCE OF AUGUST
Beautiful indifference of August!
Its lavish heat saturating the air.
All the season’s pompous affairs now in stasis.
Heavy-laden limbs of trees sag low with the weight of heat.
Dust devils rise up from passing cars on the old dirt road.
Summer has fulfilled its responsibilities:
The farmer’s yellow corn is ready to harvest,
The haying nearly done,
The threshing of wheat begun,
And the canned preserves stored in jars down in the cellar.
Out in the pasture, cows poke their wide, soft noses
Into the parched grass.
The deafening static of cicadas boils over into the still air.
The distant hills bake in the heat, as the sun begins its descent,
Bathing everything in smeltered gold.
The beautiful indifference of August!
It holds back the Great Wheel of Time by its own sheer effort,
Delaying true autumn as long as it can,
Even knowing how much we long for it.
Each day of languid heat is more onerous than the last.
How superfluous August is!
Determined to hold on before the month runs out.
Yet, if it were not for August,
We would value October less.
Beautiful indifference of August!
Its lavish heat saturating the air.
All the season’s pompous affairs now in stasis.
Heavy-laden limbs of trees sag low with the weight of heat.
Dust devils rise up from passing cars on the old dirt road.
Summer has fulfilled its responsibilities:
The farmer’s yellow corn is ready to harvest,
The haying nearly done,
The threshing of wheat begun,
And the canned preserves stored in jars down in the cellar.
Out in the pasture, cows poke their wide, soft noses
Into the parched grass.
The deafening static of cicadas boils over into the still air.
The distant hills bake in the heat, as the sun begins its descent,
Bathing everything in smeltered gold.
The beautiful indifference of August!
It holds back the Great Wheel of Time by its own sheer effort,
Delaying true autumn as long as it can,
Even knowing how much we long for it.
Each day of languid heat is more onerous than the last.
How superfluous August is!
Determined to hold on before the month runs out.
Yet, if it were not for August,
We would value October less.
STORIES
My stories belong to hills and hollers of my ancestors.
My words push up through the earth,
Like slow-growing trees,
Trees that tell the stories that are never finished,
As each descendant pioneers its own generation.
Memories move over these hills,
Chasing each other through the trees,
Reminding me where I came from,
Where I’m going.
Where it is I may end up.
The wind picks up the thread of each story
It has continued to tell for millennia,
Looking to find an ear that will listen.
My stories belong to hills and hollers of my ancestors.
My words push up through the earth,
Like slow-growing trees,
Trees that tell the stories that are never finished,
As each descendant pioneers its own generation.
Memories move over these hills,
Chasing each other through the trees,
Reminding me where I came from,
Where I’m going.
Where it is I may end up.
The wind picks up the thread of each story
It has continued to tell for millennia,
Looking to find an ear that will listen.
THE WIND
Wind curls around the tree,
Brushes the tips of the grasses until they ripple
Like waves on a green lake.
It buffets against me because I am in its way.
The wind has no use for me.
Does not recognize whether I am young or old.
Does not care if I am beautiful or plain.
Does not determine if I am wise,
Or not as smart as I think I am.
The wind does not care if I tell the truth,
Or lie through my teeth to get to the top.
Does not bother itself to be concerned
Whether I am kind and generous,
Or vain and self-aggrandizing.
The wind only pushes at me,
Gently edging me forward with no honeyed promises
Of what is ahead for a solitary soul like me
That dares to get in its way.
Wind curls around the tree,
Brushes the tips of the grasses until they ripple
Like waves on a green lake.
It buffets against me because I am in its way.
The wind has no use for me.
Does not recognize whether I am young or old.
Does not care if I am beautiful or plain.
Does not determine if I am wise,
Or not as smart as I think I am.
The wind does not care if I tell the truth,
Or lie through my teeth to get to the top.
Does not bother itself to be concerned
Whether I am kind and generous,
Or vain and self-aggrandizing.
The wind only pushes at me,
Gently edging me forward with no honeyed promises
Of what is ahead for a solitary soul like me
That dares to get in its way.
THE HIGHWAY
This highway I travel today and have driven so many times
In past wanderings on my way to somewhere else,
Where others, in their cars, trucks, SUVs, RVs, Porsches,
Harleys, Fords and Chevys, go their own way to wherever it is
They go.
This highway was once a thoroughfare,
Was once a road heading out of town,
Was once a prosperous trade route,
Was once a rutted wagon trail,
Was once a backwoodsman’s footpath,
Was once an old animal path through dense woods.
It is a route on a modern-day map
That saw millennia of generations leaving,
On foot, by wagon train, by bus, or moving van,
Some never to return,
Others who felt compelled to come back
To the place where their journey began.
I think of them as I drive this lonely stretch of highway
Near sunset, and I think I see them out there,
Ghosts in the twilight, traveling along with me through a landscape
Of lost memories, and a past that sees my headlights coming at a distance,
And vanishing beyond the hills, to hide itself.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache.
—Catherine the Great
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Kimberly Bolton for today’s poetry, which moves us like the wind and reminds us of our recent Seed of the Week, “Those Good Old Days” . . .
This highway I travel today and have driven so many times
In past wanderings on my way to somewhere else,
Where others, in their cars, trucks, SUVs, RVs, Porsches,
Harleys, Fords and Chevys, go their own way to wherever it is
They go.
This highway was once a thoroughfare,
Was once a road heading out of town,
Was once a prosperous trade route,
Was once a rutted wagon trail,
Was once a backwoodsman’s footpath,
Was once an old animal path through dense woods.
It is a route on a modern-day map
That saw millennia of generations leaving,
On foot, by wagon train, by bus, or moving van,
Some never to return,
Others who felt compelled to come back
To the place where their journey began.
I think of them as I drive this lonely stretch of highway
Near sunset, and I think I see them out there,
Ghosts in the twilight, traveling along with me through a landscape
Of lost memories, and a past that sees my headlights coming at a distance,
And vanishing beyond the hills, to hide itself.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache.
—Catherine the Great
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Kimberly Bolton for today’s poetry, which moves us like the wind and reminds us of our recent Seed of the Week, “Those Good Old Days” . . .
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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Just remember:
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for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
