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Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Red
Red

Open Jeep
That raptured us to the bottom of
Cherokee Hill

Aunt Shirley’s
face, nails, her flip flops, elastic
band that

barely tamed
her whipping hair, weeping  
bead work

my knee aflame
reopened on blacktop
only minutes

before sirens
split the sun ripe afternoon
Red

Bank
Baptist Church at the apex of a blind
curve

Beetle
helpless on its back, cans of
Bud

scattered
empties, some full ones
church key

perhaps
thrown clear with the passengers
blood

pooling
beneath the pinioned driver
everything

except the snow
white sheet I could not help
but imagine

drawn gently
over my astonished
fevered face.
Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Free Range

Insurrection or some dereliction
a latch left dangling or machinations
long in the works, The Salt Lick Plot

perhaps, freed you from *******
tyranny of the **** cup, cold
hand of Big Ag, you were left

ambling wild eyed and stricken
by the world’s delights and horrors
delivered wholesale at a stroke.  

Watching you in the rearview
engulfed in my dust, enameled eyes
white as roadside diner crockery

I had a moment of envy green
as new mown hay that evaporated  
with the mighty pull of the barn

headlong return to your contented
ways, well-worn confines for me
the path back a song I know by heart.
Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Tableau

A cheddar wheel of morning sun
Grates up against the window screen
To curl in whorls into the room
Where side by side we sleep displayed
On shiny continental pins  
Rorschach pairs of papery wings
Masking luminescent sifted rind
Silhouettes nestled deep in drifts.
Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Trinity

Three times
I’ve seen them
crossing the yard
but three weeks ago
led leashed by the dog
to the solemn Norway spruce
that celebrates mass
and blesses her gifts
her third offering that morning.

Enamel blue sky
after a three day snow
precise transverse incision
above the southern horizon
inscribed by a thieving sun
that pockets the night
in minute slivers
we’ll never miss.  

Motor drone
born full term
into silence
triplets
soothing themselves
a low hymn sung in one voice
graces the frame
at three o’clock
tacking west to skirt the zoo.

Slender as books
of stillborn poems
wing spans a third or better
the length of each slippery
yellow lozenge
nosing ahead
through alphabets
of airy verse hacked
to pieces in prop wash.

Details, details
devil detained at the boarding gate
pilots banking for their final run
feathering sticks
dipping wings
in watery sunlight
haloed crosses peeling off
one two three
the dog and me
retracing our steps
one short of a triumvirate.
Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Vieques

Snakes were here by the grace of God, but
knowing Him, He set them down while He fiddled
with an Egyptian plague, forgetting where He’d left them.

The Navy brought mongooses to eat the snakes
so they could relax and shell the sunrise coast in peace
but mongoose got to eat, as any chicken farmer will tell you.  

Spain sent Church and State astride the horse, but conquistador and cleric
dismounted to take in a sunset from ***** Arenas while the sea breeze
whispered soft and sweet to a restless stallion and his starry eyed mare.  

Ticks in the grass, indifferent to bombs, bitter on mongoose tongue
bloated equestrians each every one, blithe captives of nothing
but the cold blue Atlantic and the turquoise bath of the Caribbean Sea.  

Bored by the endless cycle of creation and destruction, inspired perhaps
to beauty or by niggling guilt, God unveiled the egret, elegant in its simplicity
with a taste for tick and a knack for lazy symbiosis.  

The Malecón sways with rhythms we won’t bring back in our carry-on’s, a drink
down the road from the old United Fruit Company dock, short stroll to sugar house
ruins, unhurried drivers nodding to afro-son, waiting for horses to make their way.
Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Roger Angell In Central Park

My wife was game to change
direction when I wondered
out loud if you were the man

on the bench in the sun
minding his own business
beneath a Mets cap, perhaps

contemplating yet another
major league season or
daffodils and Spanish bluebells

blooming on Cedar Hill
enjoying his solitude on a fine
spring morning much like my

long dead father glimpsed
moments before basking
shirt off in the Sheep Meadow

the sanctity of privacy
and nothing more
I tell myself, steering us  

across the 79th Street Traverse
toward the teeming refuge
of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Driving In Ireland

Try buttering toast with a tulip
on horseback.  Skittish nag, twisted chaps,
flogging a slice, reins in your teeth,
waving a battered Black Parrot  
heading a slow parade.
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