ct-bailey
American
C.T. Bailey has authored a number of professional articles which have been published in various industry trade publications. He is also an award-winning and published writer of poetry, prose, and fiction. His works have appeared in numerous anthologies, literary magazines, and on several creative writing websites. Recently, his short story 'My Father’s House' won a national fiction writing competition in the paranormal genre and is published in 'Vicious Spirits,' a collection of ghost stories and paranormal literature. He is completing a collection of poetry entitled 'Incidental Blue,' which should reach booksellers by early 2013. C.T. performs spoken word poetry at various live venues regionally and is best known for his original piece 'Paper or Plastic'. He attended East Tennessee State University, majoring in business, and has studied English at Northeast State Community College. / / Visit C.T.s website at www.ctbaileywrites.weebly.com .
Leaves of thirty-three autumns
have covered the forest floor
along the bend in Laurel Creek,
that secret place, where cold
mountain water laps against
round, polished stones
and bare feet. Loamy
Tennessee silt once sifted
between the toes here,
leaving high-water marks
on our ragged jeans.
We feasted at waters’ edge,
eating over ripe blackberries;
blooms of honeysuckle
gave more laughter than honey.
Our berry-stained fingers traced
the words in sand
shyness would not say aloud.
Sometimes, I visit the stream,
kick the leaves over my shoes,
listen for the heavy north wind
to convict the pride of tall poplars,
but I dare not venture to the bend,
fearing somehow, someway,
I might reshape the memory
of you.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
I remember dad lying
in a hospital bed breathing,
but not much more than that.
Hours were spent watching assistants
come and go.
Televisions droned through the hallway
from other rooms,
echoing through my head
like an old movie playing at
4 a.m.
after pulling a drunk.
Rousing moans from dad
punctuate the tedium.
Sweat pools under my thighs
from the high-quality,
leatherette upholstered chairs
that only one hundred thousand dollars
of medical care could provide
in a hospital room.
Mornings
brought the same parade of people
pressing and probing dad.
Occasional visits from the resident physician
yielded timeless comments like,
“we just want him to be comfortable,”
and my personal favorite,
“have you been here all night?”
Stupid question.
After all the “outpourings” of concern
from friends and relatives
(who I haven’t seen nor heard
from since the dirt was shoveled over his casket),
their visits can only be topped
by the Sunday-after-church-crowd,
who desired only to brand dad
with their version of beliefs -
God bless them.
As they were leaving,
I could most certainly detect the pride
they felt in themselves
for their courageous visit to the dying.
And then came death.
And here I am at 4 a.m.
in the morning two years later,
listening to a two-bit movie drone on the TV,
wondering if dad listened to the
Sunday-after-church-crowd.
© 2010 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:27 PM UTC
read by some.
lived by all.
a quiet life of faith.
executions in the name of religion.
a mother holding a folded flag.
friendly fire.
tears that stream for a dead child.
weeping because of guilt.
dying in a hospital bed.
a visitor you haven’t seen in years.
finding renewal in the arms of a lover.
finding a lover in the arms of a friend.
twenty-three seconds left in the game.
a ticking clock echoing in a widow’s home.
granite steps and marble columns.
protesting from a grand stage.
being imprisoned by loneliness.
living alone to recognize freedom.
accepting that you are different.
desiring to be different.
anything.
everything.
© 2010 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:26 PM UTC
383 small block, double-hump heads,
fuel injection, supercharger
a midnight cruise
flaming hot licks on black lacquer paint
street lights blowing past
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.
Road signs, blue eyes, blonde hair,
cherry red lips framed in a billet mirror
long legs hang under
a plaid mini-skirt straddling
a 4-speed.
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.
Exhaust fumes, tire smoke,
high octane fuel, perfume
waters both mouth and eyes
Detroit steel never smelled this good
Red fingernails dig denim at 5500 rpm.
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.
Chrome bumpers, chrome grills,
chrome smiles, chrome thrills.
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.
© 2010 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
By nine, trucks old and new
line the street, spilling into the yard.
Jim Beam and George Dickel
lubricate the chord progression.
Drinks go down, volume goes up.
I’ll be reading in the backroom
as Pap raises a glass to Hank Sr.
When the last burning drop of homage
trickles down his chin,
he gyrates across the floor,
flat-top in hand, looking for Jim.
Some other picker takes his spot
by the fireplace and bellows
about a cheatin’ heart.
One Saturday, I rescue Huck Finn
from under the pale, bearded face
of a picker who stumbles into my room,
collapsing across the bed.
His dreams of Ryman Auditorium
go without interruption.
I slip to the floor,
settling down on the raft.
A slow, steady current carries
us downstream to another shaded
swimming hole.
© 2011 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
Grandma’s old straw hat
rides low on her brow.
When hilling potatoes,
sweat rings the brim.
Twine provides a strap.
Sometimes, when a gust
tumbles past tomatoes
and green onions,
a calloused hand
pushes the hat back
to feel deliverance
from summer rays.
The brim shades a spot
two-feet wide over
thick-skinned Half Runners,
caresses long weepy
leaves of corn when she
brushes past, edges tattered
by forty years of okra stalk
shaving flesh and straw.
Ice water renews
her will under hat and sun;
as winds feign,
wrinkled fingers hold
fast to its lip, beating
hot air cool around a weary face.
When crickets serenade,
the hat becomes a bucket
for the day’s last peppers.
Today, a ‘For Sale’ sign greets;
the gate swings wide.
In the shed a plow sits idle
while the straw companion
hangs from a nail.
A swig of gas in the tiller,
brim shading my brow,
sweet soil tumbles over tines,
my sweat mixes with hers
under the garden hat.
© 2010 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
When Death comes,
he will not find me
with hands in pockets.
No, I am going to tip my hat
and look the other way.
Going to act like I didn’t
see him coming. He will
be surprised to learn
he's the only one in the room
not in on the joke.
When Death comes,
I’ll ask if he can spare a buck,
see if he has an extra stamp,
and *** a smoke.
I’ll not inquire about
the weather,
tell him about the family,
or pretend to like his coat.
I’ll just point down the hall
and show Death the door.
When Death comes,
I’ll not shake hands
or be a gentleman.
If he taps me on the shoulder,
I'll brush him aside
with a boorish smirk,
check my watch,
mention he’s looking older.
Then I’m going to ignore him
and pick the lint from my lapel.
When Death comes,
I’ll get my best poem
and read it aloud
but I won’t let Death hear.
If old friends visit,
I’ll make them brownies
and we'll talk about Death.
As life begins to disappear,
and you believe Death has me,
put two sugars in my coffee.
When Death comes,
I’ll be ready.
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC