"beaters" poems - Hello Poetry

The oxygen secreted from the walnut tree, the snap-pole green beans growing up the side of the rusty garden fence, and bags of aluminum cans stored in the shed with the old cash registers from the antique store. These are the golden frames caught and edited onto organic film, etched into grey matter, projected from a foggy lens onto reflective marble. We abandoned the clubhouse because of spiders; they took the place for themselves after a storm. Our new abode was the patch of grass between the walnut tree and the fence in the back corner of the yard; shady, rough terrain from fallen walnuts, and the grass always had a slight dew in places. "The place where the snakes live" is what we called it when we were sprouts; now we could catch them in both hands. One night, the wind blew over the shed doors; flimsy, sliding rail, aluminum thing. We slinked in and got to play with the old adding machines, foreign tools, jars full of door hinges, and rusty hand-crank egg beaters. Eventually, the roof of the shed collected so many years of twigs, walnut husks, and foliage fallen that tiny trees began to pop their heads up from the clutter. Crickets underneath the gutter guards- two types; the black singers and the ones you have to dig for that will draw blood if they get a hold of one of your fingers. Sometimes, if bravery was roused and boiling, we would drift closer to the railroad tracks in attempts to catch yellow jackets, or even hornets. One popped their stinger into the back of my neck.

0

Mar 24, 2015

Mar 24, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC

tyler-lynn-pulliam

Cousin Punches

The oxygen secreted from the walnut tree, the snap-pole green beans growing up the side of the rusty garden fence, and bags of aluminum cans stored in the shed with the old cash registers from the antique store. These are the golden frames caught and edited onto organic film, etched into grey matter, projected from a foggy lens onto reflective marble. We abandoned the clubhouse because of spiders; they took the place for themselves after a storm. Our new abode was the patch of grass between the walnut tree and the fence in the back corner of the yard; shady, rough terrain from fallen walnuts, and the grass always had a slight dew in places. "The place where the snakes live" is what we called it when we were sprouts; now we could catch them in both hands. One night, the wind blew over the shed doors; flimsy, sliding rail, aluminum thing. We slinked in and got to play with the old adding machines, foreign tools, jars full of door hinges, and rusty hand-crank egg beaters. Eventually, the roof of the shed collected so many years of twigs, walnut husks, and foliage fallen that tiny trees began to pop their heads up from the clutter. Crickets underneath the gutter guards- two types; the black singers and the ones you have to dig for that will draw blood if they get a hold of one of your fingers. Sometimes, if bravery was roused and boiling, we would drift closer to the railroad tracks in attempts to catch yellow jackets, or even hornets. One popped their stinger into the back of my neck.