Friday, December 9, 2022

Time Machine In The Boondocks Of The Southern Peloponnese, 1959/2022

 
The hens that once clucked 
And cackled near the mucky 
Pigpen in the next door 
 
Neighbors’ backyard and laid 
The fresh eggs my mother fried 
For our breakfast to the tune 
 
Of the rooster that craned 
Its neck to crow before 
Laying each chicken in turn, 
 
And the once ubiquitous 
Always sad-faced 
Ass that brayed 
 
In the vacant lot just 
West of our house 
In the torrid afternoon heat, 
 
Its Priapian appendage hanging 
Limp as a wet knee-high 
From the long since departed 
 
Neighbors’ sagging clothesline, how 
Is it they all flew the coop 
And I’m still here?
 
 
 
 

 

3 comments:

  1. Excellent poem, with vivid details, sounds, rhythms, emotion, all working together. Bravo! Another one of your poems that will last.

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  2. This one keeps coming back into mind for me. It is a rich experience, emotional and moving, with such memorable specific details.

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  3. Aye, your discerning poetic eye has once again read this poem so very carefully and I thank you once again for your comments. BTW, while I was writing it, I remembered a poem of yours written quite a few years ago in which you describe the act of writing poetry as something akin to what chickens do when they scratch the ground looking for seeds and the whatnot to eat--do you remember it?

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