SENTINEL POETRY #26 Online Magazine Monthly, January 2005
A field in November
Turned over like a waiting bed.
Alluvial tsunami lines
Crowned by late November sun
Shining like a sheet of hammered lead.
The earth lies startlingly still,
Like a day old corpse,
All surprise emissions spent.
No movement left to indicate a breath
Or that there ever had been life,
No warmth to indicate a flow of blood.
In reptilian passivity,
Waiting for its prey
To stumble closer
In a rash attempt to drink.
On the field’s edge
A cord of clay
Unsure of where allegiance lies.
Sucking on my percolating boots,
Like a baby at its mother’s breast,
Enticing me to wade.
Roscoe Holcomb, Virginian
The resin of the raw wood smoke
To every naked inch of morning light
As the molecules of day arrive
Packed tightly as a box of figs
Or survivors on a raft
To rub the splintered edge of pine
Across the out-stretched arms of stripling sun
To catch the residue of tar spat out
Through remnants of the porch stacked old
The banjo string
Baited in to feral shape
Stretching out its European peasant roots
Conjuring the antique pattern
Of the fossil chord
Holding up the beating heart
To bloody mark the path
Here the dislocated black and white are one
An articulation of a faith
That has no words
Needs no living memory
The tongueless ones that live among the trees
To touch the dark and ancient breath of birds