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Sestina: Tucker BurtonDec 9th 2019
Once there was a man named Tucker Burton,
His hands were rough from carpendery work One day he built a horse-drawn carriage; The finest the town had ever seen. It had embellished, painted, strong oak wood, As fine as it was, it had no horse. It was for a lack of horse, That the carriage of Mr. Burton Sat out like a hunk of wood. The only good it could do was to be seen, For it was the finest of any carriage. It stayed as an ornamental carriage, Until a tall man on a horse Stopped on his travels when he had seen The carriage. He went to Mr. Burton And told Tucker he liked his work So much he wanted a mantle made out of wood. Tucker Burton said it would be a lot of wood, Heavy too. He’d have to use the carriage To transport it, but that it wouldn’t work Because the carriage had no horse. With no excuses, the man told Tucker Burton He’d have a fine mantle meant to be seen. The man said, “Use my horse, I want to have seen It get done.” So as Tucker transported the wood He made a mantle, as fine as any Burton Could make. Finer even, than the carriage. The man was so happy he gave Tucker the horse As payment for the fine work. Tucker Burton became a master of wood work. Him and that fine horse of his were seen Growing old together. His last workings of wood was a casket, delivered in the carriage. It was for the funeral of Old Burton. Pulled by his horse-drawn carriage, Inside of a casket of his own wood work Laid Tucker Burton, never again to be seen. Half-Mast HeartI live in the land where flags fly half-mast
Everyday is another tragedy The stories shown on the news are aghast Telling tales of blood in every city Where can family, peace and true love be found When all that we fight for is somewhere lost Or what we want is buried in the ground Tell me, is what we fight for worth the cost Freedom, liberty, what do they stand for Ideas and visions of a great nation While soldiers with hopes are sent off to war Their dreams crushed by the call to their station My soldier, this flag I will fly for you A mark of my half-mast heart, I miss you CHERRY BLUECherry blue hand soap on the corner of the stained kitchen sink
reminds me of that time we sat under the cherry blue sky. We talked about my mother, and the stains she left on the house when she forgot the dishes in the sink and decided not to come back to finish them. Cooked meat left clinging on rough unwashed plates. Then we talked about your father and the time when he was teaching you boxing. Only you were the punching bag and he wasn’t teaching. Do you still remember how he would sing you lullabies in tones and shades of deep stringed orchestras as if he hadn’t just done what he had done? Remember how we used to say we wouldn’t be like them. How my lips would never wear the same cherry lip gloss as her, and how you would never have the same blue bruised knuckles on age worn hands Do you remember? Can you still smell the cherry blue? Like an ocean of fruit trees spread over miles of forgotten-orchard lands. How the winds take the scent on the breeze to blow through like a tide that recedes It comes. It goes. Like cherry blue promises that feel as tough as steel. Then you look to the surface and see a glass reflection, smeared by the oils of the hands that have touched it stained by my dishes and stained by your lullabies How did we get here? Where my lips are glossed cherry and your hands are bruised blue?
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BLACK EYELASHES He has black eyelashes, long and thick.
They dress his face like the brush stroke of a painting And they flutter like the wings of a butterfly He is the envy of women everywhere
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