Anyhow, my good friend Morgan Myers took over editorial duties for The Williamsport Guardian for the December/January issue. The local paper is known for "promoting awareness, arts, culture and education in north-central PA," and what better way to do that through poetry. Although I don't have much faith in myself sometimes, I'm quite lucky to be blessed with this writing that just flows through me.
I've got two environmentally-minded pieces on page 8 and 14, my reactions to all the "fracking" going on locally. Page 11 features an special interest piece with inspiration from a friend of mine.
Incidentally, these are the first three pieces I've had published. Make sure you pick up your hard copy at Avenue 209 Coffee House or other local outlets.
Hillsong
They’ve given the business
to my mother’s favorite hill,
just off Little Plum Run Road.
Once, a cascading glade,
the kind you’d see
in those old movies
couples, bounding
endless love in
slow motion.
Science and Progress
mounting
their noble steeds
in the name of domestic independence
these star-crossed lovers
lost, the flames from the rigs
blotting out the night,
targets of this endless
economic war.
Taken up arms
taking aim
as we, our protest signs
our faltering flags
the white fields of surrender
choked
with the soot
of a cleaner,
more “natural” gas.
Fracking 900ft
beneath the surface,
much too far
to do any harm.
Besides, these are safe
chemicals,
parts per million.
Enjoying the view
from your ivory towers
as they dig our graves
one well at a time.
Overburden
My heart is heavy.
Rock of ages.
strip mined
of what’s stuck beneath
the surface.
All this runoff
just so I could,
baring it all
and laying it to waste.
A cold coal
carbon-copy
of once-living
matter
stratified plants,
and these dinosaur’s bones
as layer
upon stinking layer,
the fecal fecundity
of fickle feelings
fossilized:
compacted
impacted
though it seems
as if it doesn’t
matter.
The hardness,
burning hot and dirty
so close to beauty
can’t see
for buried too deep.
Time and pressure,
like Superman,
taken in his hands
to make a diamond
out of me.
“Every time I hand him an olive branch, he whittles it into
a Lincoln Log and adds it to his angry fort.”
Dove done gone pecked out mah eyes
an’ made nests outta tha sockets.
At’s why ah cain’t see straight.
Well, that, an’ tha pigtails
you been pullin’
an’ takin’ off yer kiddie gloves,
no punches, neither.
We continue
to play this game
cowboys an’ injuns
wrangling me
from the safety
of my tee-pee
saving me
from whichever gods
I hold dear.
Square dancin’
line dancin’
doin’ the Texas Star
all over mah feelings.
Offerin’ up this here white flag
mah handkerchief
symbologizin’ surrender
and you give me no quarter.
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