A Mid-West Memory

Along the winding road

Gallows trees creak and groan

Abandon lost along with love

The empty eyes of home

Rain-soak streaks of sadness spy

What was long since bled

Every tree or sheaf of wheat

Pasture, fallow, dried, and dead

The empty holds the memory

Of mother, departed love

No more to sing or dance or play

Voice, the mourning dove

Oh son and daughter, laughters loss

To grey and sad so fade

Father left four coins on eyes

The final boat was paid

Left alone, whiskey hold

The spirits led astray

Father coughed a fit of blood

A bitter crimson spray

Dust whirls before the glass

To catch the morning light

But their breath runs cold

Souls left, their final flight

I am alive and well! I am living in Australia now and am writing like a FIEND alongside the love of my life. It is all very hush hush and even after publication I won’t be talking about it here, but rest assured, I’m still creating, and I’m still living. I have been listening to The Handsome Family’s Far From Any Road and love the country gothic feel of it, so I took a stab at this style.

The Hand We’re Dealt

Cards are dealt

Quick flash to each on the table

I tip my Stetson back

With a broad smile as I eye my hand

One man meets my gaze

Grumbles something crass and crude

Eyes his own cards

And folds quickly on the first round of bets

The next ups the ante

And growls surly for my decision then

I ease back puzzling quietly

Then push forth my pile with simple “all in”

The man beside me whistles

Taps his own chips with a reticent pace

Before he shakes head

And quietly folds as the first did

Then just one and me

He meets me with a sinister grin

Shows his cards

A straight flush three to seven of clubs

I nod solemnly

Set down my own hand with defeat

And show him

A glorious spades royal flush

The table is flipped

The man draws iron and cries

“Cheatin’ dog!”

With cards still fluttering down

I leap from my chair

A hard tackle sends him sprawling

I force back his hand

And with a deafening boom

Little is left of his head

Death March

His boot heels dragged

Through the lone dry grass

Sparse and brown from the wilting heat

His Planter’s hat

Wide brimmed and flat

Hid his eyes from the muddled hues

Above him cried

A vulture who eyed

The gait of a thing soon dead

How long he’d gone

Or what he had done

Few knew and yet fewer would tell

He did not curse his plight

As another man might

But prayed it be enough to atone

As the sun then set

And a pale man was met

He welcomed the stranger into his arms

He gasped a last breath

And walked calmly to Death

He fell down to the hard packed earth

The only witnesses here

Are two who men fear

The reaper and his malodorous bird