Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 6
                                   
Table of
Contents



RED SKY AT MORNING

Weeks of red eye
of sunset
the Everglades on fire hell
the whole state on fire
and half of Georgia too

red sun mornings greet the early arrivals
a month too soon
the rainy season
and the first named storm
slams at the metal roof
keeps me from exhausted sleep

this fog this end of days haze
this acrid taste of air
and the aquifer
bone dry
welcomes the saline sea

time
and what remains
the haunting
burning eyes

of red sunsets red dawns
we have made
hell
from now on
will bear our name

  Gregg Weatherby __

REMEMBERING THE GARDEN

The garden was beyond
the last row of pine
maybe half a basketball court of sloping land
flooded in the spring
even before Mom put out the mums
and herb pots or planted her flowers
along the verge of the house
dad would call our neighbor
old Mr. Barrows
to come with his wheezing yellow Chalmers
to plow and disc
every year we’d pick the rocks that grew there

Though we all worked it
everyone knew it was Dad’s
it was his on his hands and knees
his all summer after work
singing softly a song
I don’t remember or
making small unintelligible noises
his as he went pulling weeds
tossing rocks

some of what he said comes back
I still remember
even now:

plant garlic by the full moon
nearest Columbus Day
harvest in spring
after the first green
shoots of horseradish appear above the snow

plant nothing else til
after Memorial Day
hang the garlic
in onion bags from the cellar rafters
dark and cool

asparagus comes first
pick it before it flowers

tomatoes come in the thick of summer
and sweet corn
both so plentiful people would give them away
hang it in bags
on your door

August the kitchen would be busy
mom canning and freezing
making catsup sauce and what she called chili
somehow this fall activity is
mixed with springtime
when dad would pull the horseradish
grind and prepare it

hot and bitter
as tears


  Gregg Weatherby__

WOLF ROAD AND HOLY GROUND

It’s a steep hill a slow climb a dirt track
bordering the cemetery
Wolf Road where we went as teenagers much as we could
to neck and drink beer watch the stars move
no thought for the sleeping dead

the radio and the sound of our breaths
our world was wild
blackberries in brambles and sumac
the dark was deeper than the trees
the moon pushed the shadows in slow motion

the cemetery to the left just as steep
the family plot first grandma then
mom and dad near the top the cornfields
begin there and hay fields I think back so long
when I was a teenager every time I’m there
the startle and thought the strange juxtaposition
of holy ground and Wolf Road
I visited more often then

now through the long stretch of time
the only sound
my own


  Gregg Weatherby__