By Phil Flott
1962 Sky Blue Chrysler
On my beautiful Chrysler, already so old fender rust was appearing. Its frame aimed slightly up like a jet on the brink of taking off. Comfortable, large seats, power steering for the big wheel and God’s plenty for space. As I was pulling out the GEM store parking lot a sheriff stopped me. I had a beard, when few did, just because I’d wanted one for years. I would always look back and forth when driving as my Dad had taught. Instantly I knew he suspected me of being an early doper. I barely knew what that stuff was but I knew the easy, peaceful lifestyle to which I aspired. When I pulled away from being checked the sun in full daylight started to set in the west. I saw a full orb confusing red, yellow, and orange, my reward of beauty.
I Walked Through Wood Doors
I knew from far ago, delightedly home at last. Strolled into the kitchen, incoming sunlight patterns so familiar, felt how I belonged. Set my white duffle bag on the hallway floor, knew I wouldn't be needing it anymore. Entered the bathroom, refreshed my face with tasty water, loved the mirror there, in peace smiled, in love with the real me. Went into the backrooms. feeling for remembered light switches, rested me in a lightening darkness, outside the spot through the tress where I saw August's moving clouds connecting the sky, this earth, this day - home.
let us draw water from their well in front of their house, as much as we needed. Solidity of iron and clarity of water, the magic of pumping, summoning liquid from the center of the earth. He loved to trim his hedges, the great scissors making sprigs fly off the bushes. Sweat rolled down his bare back and sides as he held to the task. The father of family does such. One rainy afternoon he hauled both me and brother home, deposited us in the kitchen on the speckled design linoleum floor. I now don't know if I ever in my early life felt more shielded.
She Stood, a Bush
of yellow flower blossoms in September sunshine amid my brown, fallen leaves. I suspected flowing phloem and xylem even at that late date in the year. She clasped her hands against her trunk, averring all that gold was hers. A failed miner, I tried to remember how to stake a claim, took out my augers and drills, stared boring. My carbon tips on the ends of the bits dulled. Not even my diamonds ends could penetrate.
Phil Flott is a retired carpenter. He has poems published in Mulberry Literary, Sangam, Poetic Sun, Pensive Journal, Vita Poetica, Passager, and others.