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joe-cottonwoodPoems
Four old men, digging a grave on a hillside one with a pick, two with shovels all with stories passing them around stories, pick, shovels taking turns not a single earthworm in this ****** soil plenty of rocks. Don is the oldest, at eighty-plus a good man with a pick breaking, pulling clods of clay. After thirty years in a San Quentin prison cell, he’s walked across the USA three times. Big guy, gray ponytail, not one wrinkle on that copper body, power of a bronco behind gentle eyes. Terry is bald, seventy-plus, in the Air Force he was trusted with nuclear launch codes, then thought better of it and hit the road, dirt-bike racer, merry prankster, grinning beatnik, psychedelic dancer, always good with tools wields a shovel like a pencil writing the hole as a poem. David is almost seventy, bearded like a prophet, wizard of China raised like a farm boy, adventures in Alaska, heroic high school English teacher, telepathic with animals and teenagers, can speak to horses in haiku. Digging is therapy. A hard job, the work of death. A time for muscle and sweat, our language of grief. We joke, I’ll dig your grave if you’ll dig mine. We agree, each canine has an individual personality but also each carries dog spirit. As one leaves you welcome another different, individual but the dog spirit renews rejoins your life making you whole. On this land already I’ve buried four dogs, two cats. Dakota will make five, good company. Terry says “When Dakota arrives in doggy heaven or wherever dogs go, she’ll report there are good owners here.” A good review on doggy Yelp: Fear not, next puppy. Four old men, digging a grave on a hillside among spirits.
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Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 9:55 PM UTC
Four old men, digging a grave
Four old men, digging a grave on a hillside one with a pick, two with shovels all with stories passing them around stories, pick, shovels taking turns not a single earthworm in this ****** soil plenty of rocks. Don is the oldest, at eighty-plus a good man with a pick breaking, pulling clods of clay. After thirty years in a San Quentin prison cell, he’s walked across the USA three times. Big guy, gray ponytail, not one wrinkle on that copper body, power of a bronco behind gentle eyes. Terry is bald, seventy-plus, in the Air Force he was trusted with nuclear launch codes, then thought better of it and hit the road, dirt-bike racer, merry prankster, grinning beatnik, psychedelic dancer, always good with tools wields a shovel like a pencil writing the hole as a poem. David is almost seventy, bearded like a prophet, wizard of China raised like a farm boy, adventures in Alaska, heroic high school English teacher, telepathic with animals and teenagers, can speak to horses in haiku. Digging is therapy. A hard job, the work of death. A time for muscle and sweat, our language of grief. We joke, I’ll dig your grave if you’ll dig mine. We agree, each canine has an individual personality but also each carries dog spirit. As one leaves you welcome another different, individual but the dog spirit renews rejoins your life making you whole. On this land already I’ve buried four dogs, two cats. Dakota will make five, good company. Terry says “When Dakota arrives in doggy heaven or wherever dogs go, she’ll report there are good owners here.” A good review on doggy Yelp: Fear not, next puppy. Four old men, digging a grave on a hillside among spirits.
Don Moseman spent 30 years mostly in a 4 by 8 cell in San Quentin Prison, now is a wildlife photographer. Terry Adams is a poet, mechanic, and dirt bike racer. David E. LeCount is a haiku master, a retired high school teacher.
#dogs#yelp
joe-cottonwood
Written by
joe-cottonwood
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 9:55 PM UTC
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