Saturday, March 10, 2012

~Rustic Places~Capturing Essences~

Sometimes there're places that hold a strong sense of presence for us...


  1. I wrote this years ago, but the photo made me dig it up to share:

    Out in the Garage

    I bought a house
    for my daughter and I
    to live in
    after two years
    in different apartments
    and I desperately wanted
    to give her a home
    that will grow in her memories
    as a place of comfort
    where she will know
    that she belongs
    but it wasn’t until
    I pulled up the garage door
    to that smell of old air
    that dusty
    cut grass
    lawn mower
    engine oil
    enamel based paint fumes
    mingled with wet cardboard boxes
    intoxicating memories
    of grandpa,
    and husband
    who have all gone
    with the years
    but come back
    with that waft
    of yesterday’s odor
    that welcomed us
    and let us know
    we’re home.

  2. "that will grow in her memories
    as a place of comfort
    where she will know
    that she belongs"

    This is especially touching, Patricia. The whole poem is so tangible through your sensory details.

    Thank you, for sharing it with us!


  3. OK...if Patricia can leave a poem on the fiction site, so can I. :)


    an image
    a flash
    my mind recalls
    the smell of straw
    the swoosh of swallows
    the specks of dust
    dancing in sunbeams
    and the tiniest of mews
    coming from places
    hidden deep within
    all accompanied by
    the ever present
    crooning of the likes of
    Conway Twitty
    and Tammy Wynette
    on the old transistor
    Dad never turned off

    1. No you can't. You do fiction quite well. Keep the poetry to those poetry places. Give me a little story; you have one in you. ;)

    2. Sorry...I'll keep my poems from straying in the future.


    It was a dark place. Corbin Jenks visited it often. Sometimes to get a tool, or a part. Sometimes to get a switch for his father to whip him. There were times Corbin went in there after his father died and screamed until his lungs hurt worse than any whipping he remembered.

    Antoine Jenks wasn't a brutal man by nature. God-fearing church goer. A successful farmer. A loving husband, doting father to Corbin's sister who could do no wrong, and an impatient teacher to the son who more than anything wanted his father's approval. Antoine's problem was simple. He drank a bit. Correction: He drank a lot. And when Antoine drank a lot, he was a lousy son-of-a-bitch.

    If he brought the wrong tool, Corbin was hollered at. If a chore wasn't done quickly and thoroughly he got whipped like an old mule. And when Antoine brought Corbin out to the shed. Corbin knew there was hell to pay.

    A father's love and approval was all that was required of him. But it was never offered; it was never an option. So the day his fallen hero fell off of his tractor clutching his chest, Corbin watched him writhe and gasp, until he gasped no more.

    So that morning they put Antoine under the soil, Corbin went out to the shed one last time. He felt this need to hang around for a while. To collect his thoughts. To exorcise him demons. But, his thoughts were his demons. So he hung around long enough to end those thoughts. And when they cut the rope to bring him down, Corbin was finally equal to his father. Side-by-side, under the soil.