Jack the Crow
My father used to have a talking
crow named Jack; at least, that’s
what he told me.
Maybe that’s why I have an affinity
with black birds, “The Raven” being
a favorite read.
He used to tell me many fragments
of evidence about him in his quiet
voice. How he used to raise chickens,
used to walk to the store,
always owned a wristwatch.
He taught me how to fire a gun and tried
to teach me how to change oil, but it
I dream sometimes about his talking
crow, perched on our mantle,
telling me secrets I cannot hear.
The faces we knew
when we were young have faded.
Their photographs have curled
at the edges, their features
scratched out by time.
The old house used to stand,
but first it was broken into,
looted by the family,
then casually burned down.
They took grandmother away, too,
and she passed from earth
like three of her nine sons.
Maybe she is greeted now, in some
great city, but we not longer see
her in this place.
The Journey She Took
It was long and there was
Her mother died
On a snowy evening.
It would evoke images of Frost
If it weren’t so damn tragic.
Speaking of tragic, Robert Frost’s
Reading voice, though he had
She does not believe in herself,
Her own greatness held as a myth.
Yet I know I would give up
All to just ease her or help her
Or even glimpse her.
The poem begins with
The best of intentions, but a cable
Drama about zombies is on.
It was indigo and rising
Beauty and –
Then I had to get some garlic
Cloves. The recipe calls.
Finally, I can add to that indigo
A shining visage of –
Never mind, too tired to contemplate,
Trying to read, trying to listen
But I must shave early in the morning.
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His writing has appeared in a number of journal publications, including Eye On Life Magazine, The Commonline Journal, and The Literary Yard.