When he writes about a tree
my poet does it well
reminding me of many things
while I just try to spell.
He tries to help me see it
in every small detail
because, I guess, it’s
close to him
he feels the tree
so well.
There’s a pecan tree out back
majestic in its spread
we sit out on the deck and watch
the birds fly there and back.
Nonie feeds them often
gives them those seed cakes
and so they come and sit
and then quickly move away.
I can’t really describe the tree
don’t have that many words
once did perhaps but now
they’re gone
leaves in autumn burned.
It is the finest tree of course
best I’ve ever known
but more a glowing cloud
than what the poet doc
would know.
He might talk about
the limbs imbue them
with some muscle.
Clever stuff he was a doc
could have it turn around
in the wind and cough a bit
make leaves fly off
somehow.
I would just say it is a tree
it catches rays and runs
with all the trees and forest seas
when all the green is done.
It’s out there now
quite hollow bare
and not having
much fun.
Ice attached few weeks ago
that’s all I’ve got
I’m done.
Just ice and snow
assembly lines
but no more alcohol.
Just love and birds
my Nonie girl
the donkey out there
braying.
But it’s enough
you know it?
I won’t mention
my chair.
And I”m no poet
just a man
sits around
in underwear.
But Nonie cleans
and folds it
compliments
me too.
As I wander about the house
writing free at last
waiting for some pecan pie
new leaves dancing
less gas.
Em Whisper Jack (autor desconhecido). A fictional account by the writer. I’d like to write a story tonight but I’m afraid. You might think it’s real. And I don’t want to steer you wrong. This is not like that. This is fiction. Pure and simple, like that. So let’s get on with it, shall we? It’s all a play, of course. Shakespeare clued us in. But there are plays that don’t worry about reality. None of the main characters ever go to work. It’s a trust fund universe. It’s great
