Ghosts of grandfathers
curling like smoke over the grill,
long gone it is to rust and ruin.
I remember the charcoal smell
of that perfect patty, still.
Vapors of tasseled hammocks
creaking on old hooks,
now they’re buried in tree growth.
I remember the swing
of being toes in the air, still.
Shafts of arrows long ago
thumping into target bales.
straw and fletches have gone to earth.
I remember the glory
of aiming true and releasing, still.
Shades of old garden ladies
cocking straw hats toward the sun,
their proud pansies are gone to seed.
I remember the life
of soil on my fingers, still.
Moonbeams of swimmers
gliding through water,
now they’re just ripples of wind.
I remember the cold
of that first brave dive, still.
Wraiths of child laughter
echoing in a piney breeze,
now lost to work and parenthood.
I remember jumping free
on those pine beds, still.
Only the shreds of memories remain,
of merry meetings and farewell sighs,
and the light of the ghosts on the water.
©2003 Joanne Sprott
Scratch-off Cowboy
Not like the olden days, no,
sitting ‘round a smoky table,
holding sweat-stained cards,
holding his face statue-still.
No, this cowboy was scratching,
scratching silver dust from
a single shining card,
still trying his luck.
A mesh hat shaded his effort.
Brown marble eyes
with no white in them,
searched for the easy out.
His small, smooth face,
beiged by filtered sun,
contrasted with his arms,
leather-ridged by work.
He scratched so patiently,
looking for that break from
the badges of life stamped
on the stains of his jeans.
But no luck today, just
silver shavings on
hot pavement, cardboard
tossed in the trash bin.His eyes, deeply, looked up.
But they did not see me.
He walked away without a prize.
Pier Fishing
It never stops—the wind rushing,
constantly roaring past my ears.
They never cease—the waves breaking,
committing suicide on the sand.
Birds tack into the wind, suspended,
hovering still-lifes pinned against the sky.
Why don’t they just go the easy way?
There’s water in three directions.
In the slower currents beneath the surface,
fishes hide from hooks laid to pull them
into the rush of wind and crush of wave
where the gasp of death awaits.
The pier and I are all that stand still,
baiting, waiting, baiting, waiting,
while the shining earth glitters and rolls
under poles and line and feet.
We wait for that rush of adrenalin
from the battle of hands against fins,
until silver scales break the water, and—
our eyes meet, just as he lets go.
Water and wind rush by, hour by hour,
until the jerk, the hook tearing flesh,
and on the pier she flops, silver scales
and fearful eye shining in the sun.
I put her in a bucket to stop her gasping;
she turns restlessly in her new cage.
So delicate, so beautiful, so strong,
but she’ll be shark bait on the next cast.
And we think we stand above it all, so still.
But it never stops—the cycle of birth, hunger,
and death, the death that preserves the next life.
It never stops—life rushing to its final shore.
©2007 Joanne Sprott