"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations

"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy

I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti


[Note - If any article requires updating or correction please notate this in the comment section. Thank you. - res]


Wednesday, March 24, 2021

R.E. Slater - Nightshades




Nightshades
by R.E. Slater


Evening was falling as I scrambled up onto the granary
roof gaining the lower elevation of its backside before
stepping up onto the upper level careful not to slice my
hands or legs on the rusted corrugated steel or loose-
headed nails fixing the panels down to the upper beams.

There I sat listening to the evensongs of nightbirds some
swaying on barbed fence lines, others on well weathered
wooden posts, singing away their cares across the grassy
fields having endured another windy day before settling
down into their scented beds of wheat, hay or alfalfa.

Before me the sunset blazed across western skies dipping
its last winks under the horizon then flash our a few red
rays a moment later as dusk stole across in rear guard and
climbed down onto the lower roof to sit under the upper
eaves silent in the quieting earth watching and listening.

At last I rose in the dark to jump down into long grasses
below - sometimes mowed flat to stubble, sometimes filled
in by deep snowy drifts - as my hiding spot was used in all
weathers and seasons where solitude or contemplation
might be required nestled within a dying day's breaches.

I next skirted along the upper barnyard ridges circling
around the marshy hollow below hearing blackbird and
robin, thrush and lark, in last serenades as I gained the
front buildings of the family homestead cutting through
mowed country yards to our tiny house lit next door.

Chains rattled as I sidled by under tall tree canopies
as I spoke quietly to our hunting dogs held under their 
watchful eyes knowing my habits and watching my furtive
shadow flit along the gathering darks across the dewy soils
to choruses of marsh songs by crickets and peepers below.

Day was done, as was I, and what few moments I gained
from a walk across evening fields or rolling hillsides was
but brief reprieve to the next day's early black mornings
after a long night's last hours of study and homework
before rising to school, band, sports, and daily prayer.


R.E. Slater
March 24, 2021

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