—Poetry by Kimberly Bolton, Jefferson City, MO
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
AUTUMN CAUGHT MY EYE
I was supposed to write a poem today.
Instead, autumn caught my eye.
The crows down in the field pecking at the gleanings.
A brisk wind snatching the leaves from the trees.
And I am here at the back door,
Savoring my morning coffee,
Watching the crows and the leaves.
Mother Nature doing her work.
This is the poem.
I was supposed to write a poem today.
Instead, autumn caught my eye.
The crows down in the field pecking at the gleanings.
A brisk wind snatching the leaves from the trees.
And I am here at the back door,
Savoring my morning coffee,
Watching the crows and the leaves.
Mother Nature doing her work.
This is the poem.
WAITING
This autumn day sits in silence,
As if waiting for it knows not what,
But it will wait all day if that is what it takes.
Even the fat, round pumpkin on the vine will wait
In its own particular silence.
The rock in the quiet stream waits.
All at once the flower closes up shop,
Sinks back into the earth, and waits.
A heavy cloud anchors itself in the sky, waits.
I wait, too, for I know not what.
This autumn day sits in silence,
As if waiting for it knows not what,
But it will wait all day if that is what it takes.
Even the fat, round pumpkin on the vine will wait
In its own particular silence.
The rock in the quiet stream waits.
All at once the flower closes up shop,
Sinks back into the earth, and waits.
A heavy cloud anchors itself in the sky, waits.
I wait, too, for I know not what.
PAYING ATTENTION
I caught him by the back of his collar, Time, I mean,
Running past me as fast as he could.
He braked to a halt on his heels, like a small boy
Impatient to be outdoors with his friends.
But for the moment, I held on tight.
I’d been too busy lately to pay attention to the trees
Changing color, to the pods of milkweed bursting at the seams,
To the rain tapping at the window.
Too busy to listen to the story you want to tell.
Okay, I’m listening now.
I caught him by the back of his collar, Time, I mean,
Running past me as fast as he could.
He braked to a halt on his heels, like a small boy
Impatient to be outdoors with his friends.
But for the moment, I held on tight.
I’d been too busy lately to pay attention to the trees
Changing color, to the pods of milkweed bursting at the seams,
To the rain tapping at the window.
Too busy to listen to the story you want to tell.
Okay, I’m listening now.
KIN
I made a visit to the old family graveyard,
where everything that once was is now.
Here are simple ordinary people whose lives
Have now disappeared somewhere between the two dates
etched in stone.
Here, beneath the grass at my feet,
my grandmother, but in my memory,
she is in her apron turning her attention from the stove
to smile at me as I bounce into the kitchen,
all long legs and page-boy haircut,
before she turns back to the business of frying chicken
for all the company she is expecting.
Next to her, a grandfather I never knew,
except through an old black-and-white photograph.
He is wearing a checkered, button-down shirt,
sleeves rolled up to the elbows and holding
a swaddled baby, me, in his muscled farmer’s arms.
Nearby, an uncle.
A fleeting memory of a tall, silent man
entering through the back door, letting in the cold,
stamping snow from his boots before dumping
an armload of wood into the box next to the wood stove.
He rarely spoke, but when he did the low rumble of his voice
vibrated through me, like the low rumbling of the earth
shifting under my feet.
Beside him, his wife, my aunt, who was his exact opposite.
Her hearty horsey laugh still rings in my ears when I think of her.
Her specialty, homemade angel food cakes, any flavor you wanted,
lined up on the kitchen counter, making your water just looking at them.
There are those here who succumbed to a variety of deaths:
cancer, heart attack, one killed in a car crash,
another whose arm was chewed up in a combine accident.
Still another dead by a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Just over there, underneath the elm tree,
a great uncle, veteran of the Great War,
who survived a mustard gas attack,
suffering nervous tremors the rest of his life.
Not far away, my grandmother’s sister,
who served as a Red Cross Nurse in the Second World War,
interned in a Japanese Prisoner-of-War camp.
There’s a cousin I remember, a little older than me,
who once gave me a ride on the back of his Harley,
then was drafted in ‘sixty-eight, and six months later
killed in the jungles of Viet Nam.
There are others, most having died long before I came along,
but still a part of me, sharing the same lineage.
Mothers who died giving birth.
Children who never had a chance to grow up.
Old folks ready to meet their maker when the time came.
So many of them I remember gathered at the family table,
whose places have long been empty.
Yet, still I hear them, the sound of their laughter
as they swapped stories of those who came before,
passing their memories around the table along with
the fried chicken and mashed potatoes.
They are all here now in this small country cemetery,
members of my family going back as far as pioneer days.
I would have them all back if I could, my kin,
sitting together at their places ‘round the table,
sharing stories with them of all the kin who came after.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The leaves fall from the trees like little secrets falling in
I made a visit to the old family graveyard,
where everything that once was is now.
Here are simple ordinary people whose lives
Have now disappeared somewhere between the two dates
etched in stone.
Here, beneath the grass at my feet,
my grandmother, but in my memory,
she is in her apron turning her attention from the stove
to smile at me as I bounce into the kitchen,
all long legs and page-boy haircut,
before she turns back to the business of frying chicken
for all the company she is expecting.
Next to her, a grandfather I never knew,
except through an old black-and-white photograph.
He is wearing a checkered, button-down shirt,
sleeves rolled up to the elbows and holding
a swaddled baby, me, in his muscled farmer’s arms.
Nearby, an uncle.
A fleeting memory of a tall, silent man
entering through the back door, letting in the cold,
stamping snow from his boots before dumping
an armload of wood into the box next to the wood stove.
He rarely spoke, but when he did the low rumble of his voice
vibrated through me, like the low rumbling of the earth
shifting under my feet.
Beside him, his wife, my aunt, who was his exact opposite.
Her hearty horsey laugh still rings in my ears when I think of her.
Her specialty, homemade angel food cakes, any flavor you wanted,
lined up on the kitchen counter, making your water just looking at them.
There are those here who succumbed to a variety of deaths:
cancer, heart attack, one killed in a car crash,
another whose arm was chewed up in a combine accident.
Still another dead by a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Just over there, underneath the elm tree,
a great uncle, veteran of the Great War,
who survived a mustard gas attack,
suffering nervous tremors the rest of his life.
Not far away, my grandmother’s sister,
who served as a Red Cross Nurse in the Second World War,
interned in a Japanese Prisoner-of-War camp.
There’s a cousin I remember, a little older than me,
who once gave me a ride on the back of his Harley,
then was drafted in ‘sixty-eight, and six months later
killed in the jungles of Viet Nam.
There are others, most having died long before I came along,
but still a part of me, sharing the same lineage.
Mothers who died giving birth.
Children who never had a chance to grow up.
Old folks ready to meet their maker when the time came.
So many of them I remember gathered at the family table,
whose places have long been empty.
Yet, still I hear them, the sound of their laughter
as they swapped stories of those who came before,
passing their memories around the table along with
the fried chicken and mashed potatoes.
They are all here now in this small country cemetery,
members of my family going back as far as pioneer days.
I would have them all back if I could, my kin,
sitting together at their places ‘round the table,
sharing stories with them of all the kin who came after.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The leaves fall from the trees like little secrets falling in
the grass,
Then forgotten just as quickly.
Do you have a secret you need to tell?
Tell the trees, they will keep it to themselves.
—Kimberly Bolton
_______________________
—Medusa, thanking Kimberly Bolton, for her songs about autumn and about all her family members who have shared autumns with her in the past~
And Hanukkah 2021 begins this evening; see www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2021/11/26/when-is-hanukkah-2021-jewish-holiday-explained/8672190002/. Happy Hanukkah to all our Jewish friends!
Then forgotten just as quickly.
Do you have a secret you need to tell?
Tell the trees, they will keep it to themselves.
—Kimberly Bolton
_______________________
—Medusa, thanking Kimberly Bolton, for her songs about autumn and about all her family members who have shared autumns with her in the past~
And Hanukkah 2021 begins this evening; see www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2021/11/26/when-is-hanukkah-2021-jewish-holiday-explained/8672190002/. Happy Hanukkah to all our Jewish friends!
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Just remember:
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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!
