The old man had a moonhead, round, pockmarked, yellowed. He sat by the fire slowly turning a poker stick, pulling it out now and then to appraise, dulleyed, the red glowing tip, a dying star. He said he hadn’t been over the levee in 14 years, since the last time he left Jackson. It was too dark to see the peculiar camps, trailers hoisted 20 feet into the thick Southern air on pine and steel scaffolds, otherworldly, high enough to ride out the flooded oxbow, but that didn’t help with the snakes. Best move y’all’s tent to the road, he drawled, river’s risin’. I lay in a cacophony of bullfrogs until sleep poured in, dark and swirly, teeming with catfish and crawdaddies.
- 87,987 hits
Tag Cloud of Limingaars poetica Audio Poem autumn beauty bird birds Buddhism cat clouds cold crow crows death depression desire dogs dream dreams fall fire flash fiction grief haiku haikus heart home kiss life light loneliness lost love love love poem lovers lust moon morning naked nature night nude ocean poem poema poet poetry poets Post by Voice rain Ray Sharp river sadness sex short poem short story skin sky sleep snow song sonnet spring stars star tattoos summer sun sunset tanka tattoo tattoos of stars time trees water wind winter
Copyright Notice© Ray Sharp and Bard of Liminga, 2008 to Present. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without written permission of the author and web site owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ray Sharp, Bard of Liminga and raysharp.wordpress. com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.