I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush,
the Dutch elm whose long-gone limbs
I remember as if they were my own.
I am from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls and the pass -it -on,
from perking up and pipe down.
I'm from He restoreth my soul with cotton ball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.
I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,
fried corn, and strong coffee.
From the finger, my grandfather lost to the auger
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under my bed was a dress box spilling old pictures.
a sift of lost faces to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments -- snapped before I budded -- leaf-fall from the family tree.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 7:22 AM UTC
Dakota is my name,
Archery is my game,
I shoot every shot the same
The bullseye is where I aim
And winning is my thing.
I say hello,
Everytime I hit yellow
Archery is not a bore
When you get a high score
The fans adore.
I put up a fight
Never shoot in the white
Black is bad
Shoot a blue,I am glad.
But a red is pretty rad.
Some people play piano
But I shoot arrows
They are my ammo
Always a straight shot
A loser I am not.
Feb 13, 2020
Feb 13, 2020 at 8:21 AM UTC