| Issue 3:1 | Poetry | Mark DeFoe |
From The Upshur Poems: Tanka from an Appalachian County
by Mark DeFoe
Brush of ruddy sun.
Rich ocher smudge of humus.
Cobalt wash of sky.
Cream and pale green and salmon
dapple of sycamore bark.
Our Geese at the River
Wild and raucous,
they rise through river mist, necks
reaching, wings beating
out soft thunder, crescendo
on the flash of morning’s gold.
True, some have black hair,
white, white skin. They live out on
Fike’s Run. Never told
a fortune, stole a horse or
carried a knife, I know of.
Winding is the way
to reach this Almost Heaven.
It’s green as Ireland,
Mountain Mamas round each bend,
but drive one foot out the door.
Burning the Bridge to the 21st Century
By God, I’ll not vote
for no levy til Bibles’
back in our classrooms.
Damn teachers don’t work a lick—
spend their summers reading trash.
Dandelions, they
sprout happy yellow faces,
sucking up pastures
and oak groves. Windows downtown
stare blankly, covered in grit.
Photo: Small Girl in Sundress,
Backdrop of Lush Foliage
Pa Pa’s matos loomed
over me. His squash and beans
grew monstrous big.
Mi Mi said that man loved plants
more than her. I knew better.
Post Card: The Hatfield Clan
And Devil Anse Posed
Before the Ancestral Cabin
Stern women, tykes with
pistols. Anse sits, regarding
the camera, hands
gentle on his Winchester.
Beneath his black beard, a grin?
Clash of Cultures
Granny in bonnet
hoeing spuds. Next door, a girl
in headset, shades, pink
bikini roars past, wheeling
her big green riding mower.
The stock boy trapped while
stacking soup. Grizzled Codger
shakes his finger. Boy,
the Rapture is coming. Them
Arabs should read their scripture.