A new poetry anthology by Lenore, available on CreateSpace and Amazon. Just click the picture!
Sliced tomatoes in a blue bowl.
Mine to savor on another not so distant day
the image I want brought back
as I head onto and in icy roads
and hard, unyielding ditches.
White thin hair limped along his scalp, threading rivulets over his ears. Tall. A person questioned his feeding habits when they looked at him. A slight tic shuddered his limbs every so often.
The girl had shucked off the aura of school and its diesel stunk bus. She’d flung the worn leather saddle over the taut blanket onto her horse’s red back and kicked him into slow trots up and down. She turned her horse into a corner and noticed the frail elderly man approaching the pasture gate, noticed his slick black oxfords toeing dibbets of mud. "Nice Paint! Mind if I ride once around?" he called.
She squinted between the horse’s ears, seeing that her Dad stood behind the austere stranger. He doffed his cowboy hat. The girl reined in her mount, descending to the patchy turf. She rolled back the gate, frowning as a splinter nicked her thumb.
"My name is Ben Breezee. Your Dad and I walked Chuckanut and hunted black bear when you weren’t even thought of."
Not a twitch. He took the extended reins, gathering them in his right hand. One matchstick leg first dipped into the stirrup and the other bird-winged over the saddle. Ben sat wooden ruler straight. The girl’s eyes mirrored his steady becalmed ride around the squared off pasture. The Paint’s hooves clop-whopped, his teeth dinner bell dinging against the steel bit.
She exhaled when the reins once again warmed her fists.
Ben said to the girl’s Dad as they walked together to the farm house, "I’m ready now. Take me back to Laurel Manor, Laurence."
This Eastern morning easily looses the fog
She slips the halter from the horse,
and pats its haunch
As it emerges from the corral:
Palomino canter and quick step dust.
Its hoof prints fading bronze
The snort a hiccouph
And a shrug
Of its shaggy shoulders,
The blonde now unburdened
The milky mane streams
Into cool lustered freedom.
Shoes scuffed with apple orchard duff
Their leather licked dry
St. Paul , Ferndale or Seattle
Marble columns or barn boards:
The street or road conduits
Again and yet again
Into alleys bricked,
The bus boarded,
Its driver barking a goodbye,
I step from the last riser
And find you waiting,
The hillside there just beyond,
That gray stone,
A dried apple core,
That name, always that name.