AMARILLO

AMARILLO

At six o’clock the road turned bare

as we rode through Tennessee.

From Nashville to Memphis is a long,

dark stretch of gray and brown trees

and fields where no one ever walks or works.

I’ve often wondered who owns those empty spaces.

The rains kicked up and splattered the windshield

with drops as big as plums

ten seconds at a time, then dry awhile

before starting all over again.

For hours and miles, nothing changed

past Memphis, Little Rock, and Salisaw,

until the sun came up somewhere the other

side of Oklahoma City.

Clear dawn revealed the dead end of Autumn,

but hot as Summer. The enfolding hills

of home had unfolded into horizons

all the way to the curved edge of the Earth.

The fields were golden stubble and brown

and gray and white from no rain

at this dead end since August.

These are fields where people work,

but do not walk, because there is nowhere to go,

as far as the eye could see, nowhere to go.

In that unfolded expanse,

there were sometimes brown gashes

where older rains had surprised the ground

with knife-edged, alkaline drops

and left miniature grand canyons

of momentary interest to whiz by.

Finally, we arrived home,

a place with roots deep in the Amarillo soil.

The family was gathered there,

faces of people who knew about horses

and no rain, the sharp spikes of cactus

and mesquite pounded into the surface

of that thirsty soil.

Their roots went deep enough to find

a little harsh water to nourish

the music of parched conversation

over an informal Thanksgiving dinner.

Later we weaved through the cactus and mesquite

to a line of low buttes rising a hundred feet to

flat tops where we could see across

the quiet, dusty plain,

a distant silver train caught the sun, and rolled

silently beneath us in that Autumn heat.

A jackrabbit skipped across our path

like a stone on still water, and

some tired bird of prey from nowhere sailed by,

going nowhere.

The heat of that dusty day

bled into a tired Amarillo night,

so we threw off the unnecessary coverings

left in preparation for a cold dead end of Autumn

that had not yet arrived.

Copyright

Vol Lindsey

Reviews

[W. Barrett Munn]

There are many wonderful images created in this piece. I have made much of this drive myself.

The only slight “jar” I felt was the part about wondering who owned the vacant land-that part felt either unnecessary or incomplete . The rest was excellent and spot on .

Winston

[Lorry]

Do not walk, because there is nowhere to go!!! Although I haven't done that journey, I have done parts of the old route 66, what is left of it and that thought kept reccuring in my mind, as I imagined most of the stores unboarded and thriving with life of what it once was.
If you ever find out who owns those empty spaces, please let me know as there sure are a lot of them. Ghost towns where not even the ghosts haunt maybe.
Your journey at least sounds like there was at least some activity, with fields that surely people harvest and perhaps even the odd straggling wanderer wondering where the sites to see are.
Changed days indeed.

[Vol]

I-49 east of Memphis, and especially past the Tennessee River, is rounded hills covered with trees for mile after mile of land that does little more than suck CO2 out of the atmosphere. So little of it is developed. Out here in Texas there are agricultural fields that go on for milesm and out to the horizon. But they are covered in crops. Mostly wheat, millet and cotton. I haven't ween much in the way of Soy. Other fields are used for cattle, several acres per cow. The ghosts that haunt Gouge Eye where I live are quiet and keep to themselves.

[Lorry]

I hope it isn't too rude to ask, but how does a place get called gouge eye? Whatever your answer, I'll be hearing it in the same voice as a cartoon swashbuckling adventurer, or perhaps a growl, like a Scrooby doo villain, moaning he'd still have both eyes if it weren't for them meddling kids. 😊

[Vol]

Not rude at all! It is a fascinating place.
https://www.legendsofamerica.com/tx-alanreed/

[Lorry]

Many thanks.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

I was born and raised in the city, but I have fond memories of spending time at my grandmother's house in the country. She lived on a farm, with corn crops gathered on either side of the long dirt drive leading to her house. The farmhouse sat at the top of a hill. I remember the dirt and dust, feeding the chickens and rabbits, picking the green beans and corn, and sitting in the rockers on the front porch with her snapping the beans and shucking the corn. This poem reminds me of that time. It's aged and withered, has gathered dust and cobwebs in the corners of my mind; but it is still present nonetheless. I love these glimpses into your life. There is a sort of sacredness to the simplicity of life. We strive to make it so complicated. Well done.

[Vol]

Thank you for your kind remarks! The past will always be there, with all of us doing what we always did... we're just up here remembering...

[Soren]

A colorful and vivid description of the landscape and the diversity of the country. It is as diverse as the people that occupy it and equally as beautiful. I have lived and driven through some of this area.