By Jessica Jacobson
Just perked up by that extinct railroad track
Been waiting for days to be cared for
I stand tall and open my leaves
Breeze sometimes blows me over
Giving me a headache
Having to look at that obnoxious rust of the railroad tie that sits next to me
My roots start to hurt being hidden underneath the rocks
Someday hoping I can be picked up
Brought into a house with soil touching my roots
Sun hitting my face
Water being given to me
Delicately purple, a flower's way of life for me
“All of my poems are sentimental to me. I don’t write for any particular reason. Experiences make more words than thoughts.”
* * * * * * * * * *
“The Harvest”
By Ron Parkinson
Father,
Uncle, Brother, Son
Father,
Uncle, Brother, Sonthe old baler clanks out the chorus.
He wheels her around,
lines her up with the fence post
near the neighbors abandoned barn.
There
was an ancient Ojibwa encampment
where
the Ontonagon enters the lake,his son plowed up arrowheads, axes
this land more suited to warriors than wheat.
They chanted legends around smoldering smudges,
leapt off herring boats bobbing at anchor,
jumped from high wheeled tractors,
brushed off their shirt, said goodbye to the dog.
Father,
Uncle, Brother, Son.
the
gleaner sings its songof spinning shafts and sprockets.
Winters he welds broken chain,
straightens cams and rods,
how long can the old girl last?
Bales slide off the chute,
sag to the stubble
like body bags in Vietnam.
Father, Uncle, Brother, Son.
Names neatly chiseled on the granite pillar
across the street from True Value,
where the old men
still sharpen their knives.
Names reflected in the pool
where the children
launch their hopes of leaves and twigs.
Thunderheads roil Gitchee Gumee
like forgotten battles.
He turns the engine off,
listens to the gears wind down,
one last cough before she dies,
watches the sun collapse into the lake,
the air thick with blood.
Blows the chaff from his nose,
walks home alone.
