By John C. Carter
Farmhouse on a Dirt Road
Her ears,
hearing him yell her name again
as she stands there,
half-way between the house and the car.
His voice, hurling obscenities,
making even the dogs hide.
Her hand—
not as convinced as his had been—
falters
in its reach for the gate.
The chair on the porch
rocking idly in the breeze,
content in its journey.
Her eyes,
gazing at the road that used to welcome her,
whether coming or going
but long ago.
How many times
had she used that road to dream,
walking with the smell of wild grass
as twilight became darkness,
forgetting even the sound of crickets
as the moon burned the horizon,
only wishing for rain
and a chance to erase, erase.
Her feet,
comfortable in their old shoes,
remembering their place,
turned,
led her back up the splintered steps
and waited to carry the pain.
The ‘I’ of the Hurricane
— a shaped poem
Reptile
What do you know of my struggle
as you walk by, uncaring,
contempt hovering in your eyes
like an angry wasp—
barely tolerating my presence, yet
as indifferent as the rocks beneath me.
What do you know of my journey
to get here, to be here in this place—
constant vigilance to protect this slice of sand
and my kindred from those who would
challenge me, leaving me with nothing
but my empty skin.
What do you know of my life,
forever in peril from those who
would taste my defeat like ripened bloodfruit
and those brethren around me
who would celebrate such a fate
as a welcome sacrifice.
What do you know?
You, with your hard feet
going coldly, undeviating.
Go then. Begone.
As I, the lizard,
go softly in the sun.
Photograph of Zelda and Her Purported Father, ca. 1930
Warily she gazes
upward.
Who is this kind man who visits
every month or so,
whose face is draped in shadows
and whose eyes hide half-truths?
Have you come to take me home
from the coldness of this place?
Warily he gazes
downward.
Who, really, is this young girl
who dwells in silence,
institutionalized by guardians of the “deaf and mute,”
but whose eyes show intelligence
as sharp as snow on half-numb fingers?
Was your birth legitimate
or the product of my indiscretion?
I suspect the latter.
If only I could know, I’d take your hand in mine
and I could call you “daughter.”
Summer in Florida
– a villanelle
Oh, give me a hint of summer’s defeat!
It’s hotter outside than 400 Hells.
I can’t stand this incessant heat.
What made me move to this forsaken state?
Was I out of my mind and senses as well?
Please give me a hint of summer’s defeat.
Just walking outside makes the glistening sweat
ooze down my back like the tracks of snails.
I can’t stand this incessant heat.
How much longer ’til the angle of light
skews just enough to announce the fall
and gives me a hint of summer’s defeat?
If only we’d have a slightly cool breeze—
Anyone who’s been around me can tell
I can’t stand this. The incessant heat’s
the same every year, and never retreats.
Perhaps I should move to Niagara Falls.
Just give me a hint of summer’s defeat.
I can’t stand this incessant heat!
Teen
– a syllabic poem
Born,
one day
heralded
into this world,
my parents brought me
home with dreams unfolding
ahead of them, not knowing
the piercing truths of night after
night of infant cries, whining over
lost toys, scary fireworks, or skinned knees.
No real friends, acne, bullied in school…what next?
“Will he ever grow up to become a real man?”
Words muttered in the darkness, but I heard them.
And in my mind I tell them my own truths:
I know what’s really behind your glares…
your lives lost—sacrificed for me.
Well, maybe you won’t have to
deal with it much longer.
Maybe we’d all be
better off if
suddenly
I just
died.
Escape
Steve’s TVs and Variety Store—
the yellow sign by the road proclaimed.
A yard sale with no yard.
Out of curiosity I stopped.
Now I wonder why.
I’m the only customer
in the store—
and it’s no surprise.
Who would want these odds and ends?
Gold spray-painted horseshoes,
plates of every design and color,
including one with a calendar of 1973
and another of the state of Utah,
single gloves with no mates
a ceramic ashtray shaped like an amoeba….
I feel the clerk watching me
like a corner bum hoping
for some passerby to drop
a half-smoked cigarette.
And with each aisle I turn,
the silence of the cash register
screams at me.
Surely there must be
a buyer now and then?
Someone in need of a jar
of buttons, perhaps?
Or a black and white television
with UHF?
Trash and trinkets
with no end in sight.
But there is an end—
the door again…
and I slip silently
outside.
Esmeralda’s Prophecies
– a found poem
Your life has been full of trouble
for which others are largely responsible,
but you are now reaching a point when
you will be able by your own efforts
to control your own affairs.
Beware of the proposals
made by a gray-haired man,
but take the advice and assistance
that will be offered you
by a middle-sized and smooth-faced one.
You will receive an offer
to go to a small town
and engage in business
far from the one now engaged in.
Accept it.
You will meet with the one
who will love you.
That love will be returned by you.
The name of this person begins with M
and you will be introduced at a place of amusement.
Your life will be long
and your last days will be your happiest.
One of your lucky numbers is 5.
Drop another coin in the slot and I will tell you more.
AUTHOR
John C. Carter was born in Delaware, grew up in California and New Mexico, and has lived in Florida for 35 years. He has a B.A. in Creative Writing from Eckerd College where he graduated with an honors distinction and was the winner of the annual Excellence in Creative Writing Award. His work has appeared in The Writers Bloc, Independent Review, Wordsmith and Eckerd Review. His interests include genealogy, geocaching, reading and photography, with his photos having won First Place at the Florida State Fair as well as appearing in Tampa Bay Magazine, FTF Geocacher Magazine, a children’s book and the CD cover for musician Livio Ferrari. He lives in St. Petersburg.
Email: spacemanspiff@tampabay.rr.com
