THRILLER

I was almost seven, a kid exploring the world.

The path behind my grandfather’s house opened

like a cave to a steep decline into the looming trees

and the haunting darkness drew me in.

At high noon, a damp light bled through

the canopy of sweet gum, walnut, and locust to

glimmer in the stagnant pools where the ravine

bottomed out in moss, and ferns, and leafy mud.

Halfway down the trail was the carcass of

my cousin’s abandoned tricycle bound

tight to the ground with vines. Dead trees,

soft from rot, formed barriers to climb or

crawl under, mushrooms lay ghostly in the depths

to taint the air like chilled fingers from the dirt.

My stomach quivered at the mysteries so close

to the bright rooms back there where folks sat

and laughed over cake and coffee. In the weird

air I tiptoed through the quiet until the bog leaked

over the tops of my shoes. A primeval willow,

its hollow trunk a fissure my size, beckoned.

I left the track in search of magic, bent over,

and stepped inside.

Someone had mounted the skull of a cow one

foot above my head! One horn curved up, the

other down, to form an image from which it might

be possible to infer the necessary existence of

Salvador Dali. 

Reviews

[Ken e Bujold]

Fantastic poem Vol. True tour de force. Had me thinking of one of my fav's at many points, the great Seamus Heany. And trust me the praise is warranted. Genuinely enjoyed your weave of memory to the picturesque capturing of a land's magical qualities.

Ken

[Vol]

Ken,
I've always thought about the little things that make us, something someone said, some little event to small to mention, and then there are things that FORM us, like my Grandparent's farm, all the best parts of me were molded there, I could write about that place and time to the exclusion of all else if I wanted to.
Vol

[Ken e Bujold]

Why not. Heaney greatest work, and especially in his early works was predominately about his pastoral roots

[Vol]

You can't bathe in country water, and ever be completely okay in the city. It is like the difference between heaven and hell, any cross-pollination would produce a bitter fruit.
Vol

[Chris Shaw]

My inner child came out to play. She loved this piece because it reminded her of Uncle George’s garden. Completely overgrown and full of adventures, while he was confined to his wheelchair. I was about seven too. The peach trees and the weather vane at the bottom of the garden in sight of the church, were of particular interest, and the wild roses and grapevine. I just wanted to share that with you Vol. Your wonderful description jogged my memory. Hidden in the corridors of my mind for years. Thank you so much. We all have a little treasure.

Chris

[Vol]

Chris!
I know right? If I didn't have the refuge of my past, I'd probably not write poems... and it's the secret little things I love thre most.
Vol

[Poetic Beauty]

The magic and wonder to be had exploring the woods and nature as a child and even as an adult. The trees of beauty and the bike being overtaken by nature. Nature always finds a way.

[Vol]

PB,
If all my life is a collage of colors, those memories of my grandfather's farm are the Gold...
Vol

[Poetic Beauty]

It sounds like quite the extraordinary place to have an adventure

[Lorry]

You were almost seven and you knew of Salvidor Dali? The only way I would have known of him is if he was a friend of Fred n Barney, captain caveman or Hong Kong phooey!
We had a path near the end of our garden too, but no matter how I tried, I was too terrified of the fourteen feet sunflowers, because my head tried telling me stories that they were man eating plants and I'd have barely made a sufficient lunch for them!
I reckon I'd have known without being told that a cow skull with one horn up and one down would be the equivalent of a no entry sign, which I would have adhered to as if my very life had depended on it! 😃

[Vol]

Lorry,
I love Dali, and visited his museum in St Pete, Florida, and had two of his paintings (copies of course) hanging in my classroom, but his influence on me was unrecognized till I was much older...
Vol

[Pete]

where i grew up was a similar type place - we called it the 'bat cave'. cow horns and moustaches have things in common - mad cows and eccentric artists alike.

[Vol]

Pete,
Pity those kids who grew up without those secret, dark places...
Vol