Cottonwoods

[indar]

Through tangled vines that climbed the branches
blooming blue umbrellas,
I walked the path layered with leaves
through a cottonwood windbreak
to the widow's garden

seeking peonies in spring,
or late summer chrysanthemum.
Duke rested his dog head in my lap
while I watched the dizzy dance of ants
or prodded grasshoppers into action.

Corn rows stood at the end of our street
and beyond the corn my cousins' house
on their turkey farm:
open sheds of bulky birds packed wing to wing,
wrinkled necks stretched to observe.

Uncle Luntz said turkeys are dumb:
when it rains they look up and drown.
The cousins laughed and asked: who's dumb?
The bullet-back Hudson was missing paint
where the goats ran up and slid down.

Winter blew off Trotter's Hill so deep
the ragged remains of cornstalks went under.
Dad stopped going to work.
Our house was empty during the day
at night voices shouted in bedrooms.
Mom gave Duke to a neighboring farm
and the furniture to Goodwill.

I was sent to the city to live with Grandmother
who was bent and slow with arthritis,
accustomed to quiet, Quaker lace tables
and African violets planted in pottery
shoes, a straw hat, children with baskets,
placed on crocheted doilies lined up on ledges.

I learned to walk where floors didn't creak,
close doors without noise. I set the table with
Haviland china and answered Grandmother's
questions at dinner. Grandmother taught me
to say my prayers and avoid other children
who were not Lutheran.

In my room, dolls, and coloring books sat unused,
in the back yard was a cottonwood,
between garages the damp musk smell of
layered leaves offered passage back
to turkeys, goats, chrysanthemums

and the certainty that one day I could
rescue from the wire cage in that dark barn
where I'd gone to give him a last goodbye,
the dog to whom I'd made the promise
I would return.

[Qwerty]

What a wonderful poem. Proof, once again, that poetry can be as good as prose in telling and showing a story with an arc from a beginning to a middle to an ending that gives us something to take home. Thanks.

[Tom]

Still tremendous, L. The promise is breathtaking. Such a strong poem, I am so moved.

T

[Colm Roe]

Still lovely, and it gets better with every read.
Thanks for reminding us

[indar]

Thank you Qwerty, T. and Colm. for the read and your generous comments

I posted 2 old poems as a result of a discussion some of us had on Phil's poem , Dowd's Wharf. I mentioned an experience I had of almost palpably feeling the presence of my earlier self (Memory Lane) and Tracy brought up Cottonwoods so I reposted them both.

I learned a trick in the process. I have several versions of Cottonwoods and wanted to go back to almost the earliest one. It did the unique TTB thing of coming out as a block print with some words conjoined and several versions of (font)(font)(font) interspersed. I posted it on Poetry Circle, copied from there and it translated to TTB perfectly.

[Matty11]

I have several versions of Cottonwoods and wanted to go back to almost the earliest one.

Echo the applause of your other readers Linda. The write oozes with life experiences. Have you settled on this one for your final version?

best

Phil

[AlienFlower]

This really flows, Linda. It's impossible to stop reading until you reach the end.

A few nits: If it's your final version, you might want to touch up the punctuation a bit. 

Although it's entertaining, S4 doesn't contribute a lot to the poem and I wonder if you need it. I keep looking back at it for a hint of the weather you mention in S5, but don't find any.
I'd also be tempted to drop the poem's last two words ('for him'), but that's just me.

Thanks for the wonderful read!

Jackie

[indar]

Thank you Phil and Jackie,

Phil, this is almost my final--it has all the elements I want to include. Over time I kept honing it down until I squeezed all the life out of it so back to this earlier one. Now I need to get rid of the sing-song rhythm that crops up here and there (Jack and Jill went up the hill). I tend to do that in my writing often. S-5 needs a good trim re: the pottery and I need to ditch a few modifiers.

Jackie. I will take a good look at the punctuation but I never know if I'm right. This write is pretty much autobiographical and S-4 seems important to me. My family only lived in this little rural town for a short while. It was my mother's home town and she came from (looked down upon) farm families. I wanted to include the experience of happy funny relatives I interacted with there to the uptight prim and proper grandmother who adopted my father as an older child and, I believe, made him a "perfect child project" (she failed) .

This poem is among those I have written that is not about some current event. Some day I will self publish when all my poems are perfect
 

[Matty11]

Winter blew off Trotter's Hill so deep
the ragged remains of cornstalks went under.
Dad stopped going to work.
Our house was empty during the day
at night voices shouted in bedrooms.
Mom gave Duke to a neighboring farm
and the furniture to Goodwill.

Looks fine to me Linda.

Did you mean S6:

I was sent to the city to live with Grandmother
who was bent and slow with arthritis,
accustomed to quiet, Quaker lace tables
and African violets planted in pottery
shoes, a straw hat, children with baskets,
placed on crocheted doilies lined up on ledges.

Actually, I like the listed details there (and even the break surprise on pottery). I feel such detail is relevant to the write. Just my opinion!

best

Phil

[Tracy Mitchell]

I agree with the suggestion of deleting "for him" at the conclusion. Stronger without.

Still loving the poem.

T