Remembering
—Poetry by JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN
—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
These words mean me
But they are not me,
They are the sum total of letters
Added to reflect something that is
Somewhat true.
I am what I seem, depending on what I may
seem to you.
I aim for truth, even in these
Broken lines, and typed-out sentences,
I aim to share
Fragments of myself. Why?
Because the writer who lives inside me will not
stop talking.
I’m from the mountains, with
Small town in my blood. I’ve learned
How to talk without dropping my Gs.
(Sometimes I add them back like seasoning,
just for fun and flavor.)
I know the one red light, or no red
Light at all.
I love green lights.
I haven’t always gotten them, sometimes
rolling up to red.
That’s when we back up and try again.
I love when life works out
With a twist no one saw coming, when
A kid from the country
Shows some mountain intellect.
Like a down-to-earth Christopher Nolan movie.
Is the top still spinning?
Nope. It fluttered.
Don’t put me in a box, don’t pretend
You know the shape I make.
I’m going to tell you about all that,
The snow angels of experience
I would fish out of the air,
And growing up the mountains, rooted
In rocky soil, I reached.
I love those mountains still, and
There is a mountain in me
That won’t go away. Try to break it down,
You can’t.
But they are not me,
They are the sum total of letters
Added to reflect something that is
Somewhat true.
I am what I seem, depending on what I may
seem to you.
I aim for truth, even in these
Broken lines, and typed-out sentences,
I aim to share
Fragments of myself. Why?
Because the writer who lives inside me will not
stop talking.
I’m from the mountains, with
Small town in my blood. I’ve learned
How to talk without dropping my Gs.
(Sometimes I add them back like seasoning,
just for fun and flavor.)
I know the one red light, or no red
Light at all.
I love green lights.
I haven’t always gotten them, sometimes
rolling up to red.
That’s when we back up and try again.
I love when life works out
With a twist no one saw coming, when
A kid from the country
Shows some mountain intellect.
Like a down-to-earth Christopher Nolan movie.
Is the top still spinning?
Nope. It fluttered.
Don’t put me in a box, don’t pretend
You know the shape I make.
I’m going to tell you about all that,
The snow angels of experience
I would fish out of the air,
And growing up the mountains, rooted
In rocky soil, I reached.
I love those mountains still, and
There is a mountain in me
That won’t go away. Try to break it down,
You can’t.
One Blue Stone
A DECORATION OF WHAT WAS
A spider has woven a constellation of fabrics
in the backyard.
They hang in the air,
a stack of unseen bones, seen
best only through a microscope,
wrapped
as a decoration of what was.
I tuck away,
listening to the rush of wind,
so ready for the winding path.
Next day, there is
no time for tissue-rattling, preparing
to shake some clay from my feet.
I’ve got wounds to ignore.
While others lie quietly in the ground,
waiting for the current age to join them,
I try to be a stone that slides,
making sense of the earth’s moves.
An earthquake tries to wake me up,
and I spend the day uselessly planning
until night falls again.
All of the trees are now decorated
with the blinking torch of insects and I hope
they navigate away from the webs,
I hope they do not find themselves
entombed by morning, like so many of us do.
A spider has woven a constellation of fabrics
in the backyard.
They hang in the air,
a stack of unseen bones, seen
best only through a microscope,
wrapped
as a decoration of what was.
I tuck away,
listening to the rush of wind,
so ready for the winding path.
Next day, there is
no time for tissue-rattling, preparing
to shake some clay from my feet.
I’ve got wounds to ignore.
While others lie quietly in the ground,
waiting for the current age to join them,
I try to be a stone that slides,
making sense of the earth’s moves.
An earthquake tries to wake me up,
and I spend the day uselessly planning
until night falls again.
All of the trees are now decorated
with the blinking torch of insects and I hope
they navigate away from the webs,
I hope they do not find themselves
entombed by morning, like so many of us do.
Stones on Stone
COINS IN THE RIVER
Our thin stream will not carry
the wares of a full-blown boatman.
No Chiron here, just a few fish swimming,
thin shadows that are easy to miss.
Almost time for the turtles again.
The hard-shelled creatures roll,
mating with each other in the barely-
there current, locked in a battle that must be
like love. But isn’t.
Two times the creek has overflowed,
both of these instances in the middle of night
while we slumbered to the dull sound of rain.
Thankfully, the rage has swept past,
the water itself digging a trench around us,
then moving on to the next destination.
Perhaps then, in the night, we might have
taken an unsteady walk in the dark
to toss a coin of gratitude into the mud-tide.
Our thin stream will not carry
the wares of a full-blown boatman.
No Chiron here, just a few fish swimming,
thin shadows that are easy to miss.
Almost time for the turtles again.
The hard-shelled creatures roll,
mating with each other in the barely-
there current, locked in a battle that must be
like love. But isn’t.
Two times the creek has overflowed,
both of these instances in the middle of night
while we slumbered to the dull sound of rain.
Thankfully, the rage has swept past,
the water itself digging a trench around us,
then moving on to the next destination.
Perhaps then, in the night, we might have
taken an unsteady walk in the dark
to toss a coin of gratitude into the mud-tide.
Stone With Rose
PROMISES
This is the Bible
my mother said did not burn,
even though the rest of the house
was consumed.
The corner of the book still bears
a mark of memory.
It’s strange how such sentiments
of faith will never be sediments, instead
caking the bottom of the cup,
everlasting flavor for each sip,
or at least so long as I’m doing the drinking.
It is communal wine of heritage-
keeping, even if the story is altered, even
if person changes place.
Even then.
Call me what you will, I cannot not be where
I’m from, rooted though wandering.
Abraham still tried to slay Isaac until
a ram appeared in a thicket, a voice of narrative
saying, Time for more than sacrifice, lay
your sword down.
The story may be retold, recast the characters,
throw the manuscript pages into outer space,
supplant the major elements.
The core is still the stitched fabric of a yarn
that, yes, kept us, and carries us on,
passages read around a fire.
____________________
This is the Bible
my mother said did not burn,
even though the rest of the house
was consumed.
The corner of the book still bears
a mark of memory.
It’s strange how such sentiments
of faith will never be sediments, instead
caking the bottom of the cup,
everlasting flavor for each sip,
or at least so long as I’m doing the drinking.
It is communal wine of heritage-
keeping, even if the story is altered, even
if person changes place.
Even then.
Call me what you will, I cannot not be where
I’m from, rooted though wandering.
Abraham still tried to slay Isaac until
a ram appeared in a thicket, a voice of narrative
saying, Time for more than sacrifice, lay
your sword down.
The story may be retold, recast the characters,
throw the manuscript pages into outer space,
supplant the major elements.
The core is still the stitched fabric of a yarn
that, yes, kept us, and carries us on,
passages read around a fire.
____________________
Today's LittleNip:
You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.
—Jack London
____________________
Welcome back to another Prodigal Poet, JD DeHart, who first appeared in the Kitchen almost exactly seven years ago, on 10/7/15—but we haven’t heard from him for awhile. Thanks for the poetry today, JD, and don’t be such a stranger in the future!
if you’re down in Livermore on Sunday, Verse on the Vine begins its new series: Livermore Poets Laureate, Past and Present (3pm). Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
____________________
—Medusa
JD DeHart
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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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
