Monday, April 08, 2019
Our hometowns...
Nice haiku work, friends! I love what happened here.
Gavin is very clear:
Vibrant in my mind,
My home town is a ghost town.
We simply just left.
Jill Scoggins tells a great story:
Where dark swamps meet the
bright beach. Spanish moss hangs low.
Gulls cry out. Steamy.
Burning pavement on
my bare soles. Chilled in a
crowded public pool.
Azalea, evening
primrose, crepe myrtle, all in
hot pinks and bright corals.
Asphalt streets do feel
spongy. The smell of tar drifts
up from the road.
At the cabin, the
pot’s on the propane. Just-caught
crawfish, shrimp, crabs boiling.
Afternoons spent in
peel-and-eat marathons. Lunch
fades into supper.
Just as spring, summer,
fall fade into one season
in Southeast Texas.
The Medievalist is right on about Minnesota:
A valley so green,
I'm always walking uphill,
Killing mosquitoes.
And Mr. D comes right at us from the left coast:
In Los Angeles
There are a thousand cities
Mine is a hillside.
Gavin is very clear:
Vibrant in my mind,
My home town is a ghost town.
We simply just left.
Jill Scoggins tells a great story:
Where dark swamps meet the
bright beach. Spanish moss hangs low.
Gulls cry out. Steamy.
Burning pavement on
my bare soles. Chilled in a
crowded public pool.
Azalea, evening
primrose, crepe myrtle, all in
hot pinks and bright corals.
Asphalt streets do feel
spongy. The smell of tar drifts
up from the road.
At the cabin, the
pot’s on the propane. Just-caught
crawfish, shrimp, crabs boiling.
Afternoons spent in
peel-and-eat marathons. Lunch
fades into supper.
Just as spring, summer,
fall fade into one season
in Southeast Texas.
The Medievalist is right on about Minnesota:
A valley so green,
I'm always walking uphill,
Killing mosquitoes.
And Mr. D comes right at us from the left coast:
In Los Angeles
There are a thousand cities
Mine is a hillside.
