Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Working on Fregos farm in the summer of sixty nine
mary jane muscadine and blueberry wine
mixing dressed in black Johnny ,Janis and Jimmy
southern longhair outlaw kid

soft morning sun rising
drifting fog fire over the sparkling dew
working with the Mexican crew
potato shed ,melon tossing ,making hay
in the evening tune up the six string and play

driving wash board bouncing red clay Alabama roads
forty six flat head International pick up truck
front window cranked open ,the girl
she was tall tank top cut off faded shorts
all over freckles laughing sweet holing my hand
man oh man

Going to the deep cold hole river camp
rope swing heaven, big reader tree clime way up
then swooping down way out, diving deep, cold sweet water
skinny dipping deep tan love
starlight sleeping

old man Frego had a three year old filly
half Arabian ,half quarter horse
translucent white with big blue eyes
never had a halter on
shy and wily pony, ran a way from the Frego boys
they said she had the devil eye

Saw her first on a full moon night
she came right up to me
quiet at the fence
liquid moonlight eyes
deep and mysterious,soft as the night

I stood in amazement and wonder
the beauty of this creature
softly nuzzling my neck
breathing in the sent of me
we stood easy quiet and still

I got my blanket and crossed the fence
she never left my side
Old man Frego didn't have a money price
he wanted to see me work
paint the big barn three full coats of red
scrape every inch first

the barn was long and wide ,two stories tall
sun and time blister peeling red
old man Fregos prideHe handed me a wire brush and scraper
scaffold ladders ,boards , go
three weeks of sun up, sundown
just scraping, chipping,hot red dusty days
the blue eyed horse nearby grazing

The painting run another month
the three coats insisted, inspected
red weary sun fire daze
alone against the wall , finally I was done

"Now I want my horse"
"how about a hundred dollars?"
Frego said he really din't want to sell her
I was young and lean
I am sure mean lightning was in my eyes
"the horse now", knuckles white

The Frego boys chased her in
all wild eyed and stomping mad
tried to make her stand ,bull whip in hand
to put her first halter on
hell no you don't ,I spat and cussed
you back off and turn her out

The whip cracking they were laughing
the stove ax was close at hand
I took it up and flew at them
in a furious blind red rage
They turned her out
kicking high she ran

I stayed in the pasture day and night
quietly waiting
suger cubes and carrots
old flat top soft melodies
quiet conversation
slowly aging trust
I remember it was love from cosmic dust

my blue eyed moonbeam friend
eternal traveler met
the full moon rising in an August sundown
I never will forget

Got the halter on ,standing brushing her down
held her mane and jumped up on her back
she stood still, looking back at me
I swear ,she smiled and winked
the up and around she danced ran then stopped

Lying on the ground, a hand full of mane
she nuzzled me with a whinny laugh
as that full blue moon rose
on a soft southern night
Many miles and dreams we traveled
Meranda and I but youths
sweet summers past long ago
heaven waits I know

summer of '69 -
whitney blake wire extrusion
wooden reels
in that crumbling warehouse
and, oh, yes
marie zelinsky...
new hampshire farmland
rolling hills
pastures alive
with crickets
testifying
under the july sun
to the gods of plenty...
and forever conjoined in time:
Neil's small step
and my grampa's funeral
.
.
.
was I really
only 19?

Not Sandburg this time, but James Wright,
and not the voice, but the subject and its
treatment:

A Blessing

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

Nicely told, yours; held my attention all the way through,
and not in the tedious way would a barn that needed scraped
and painted, but in the way would a newly gentled horse
beneath the reins. Quite pleasant enough a poem, really.

a fine tail ( pun intended )