Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn ******, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

There are colors yet unknown in my finite view of Earth , artistic wonders undiscovered , to this day quite alone .. Geometric shapes where Sweetgum trees silhouette the majestic Dawn .. Enchantment with every turn go I , to study my religion by day , collect my thoughts and observations by night .. To interplay among life undiscovered  , to revel someday in its happenstance ... The weathered profiles of a million botanicals unknown or forgotten . An ocean whose riddles remain unsolved , seventy percent of our precious world where exploration has barely scratched the surface .. Dark , rainy afternoons reconfigured with burst of light , the surface of oceans ever mysterious , highlighted by the Moon on hazy nights .. I flew over Moccasin Creek to sample fresh water and take in mountain greenery ..Walked the treetops of the Oconee Forest to witness the floor of the woodlands as a squirrel , crow or eagle ..Slithered along the Georgia clay like a Black Racer , cautiously studied each image before me with the curiosity of a Red fox .. Enthralled with the Savannah Dancers of Tybee Island , precious gulls , blue ***** and brown pelicans .. Welcome every change of season , Dark pine thickets tell of death and renewal ...

                                                          II­
Jagged , blue grass approaches , green straw tops , quiet
cinnamon needle oceans connected by silver streak spider webbing ..
Warm winds divide earthen cover , lifeless termite ridden forefathers lay in testament to bitter destruction ... Our Noon star nourishes bold , sylvan seedlings , beneath her languishing February predicament however ... Grassy field roads lay locked in period of service , daylight path corrections , marble land buoy sentries within thistle , dandelion and Sawgrass .. Gold , knee high cover caresses , reaching skyward beside the field road , lying forgotten , left to the mercy of kudzu , marble and granite .. Scrags reclaim rusted encroachments , tin in battle with the tepid wail of afternoon wind as stick pines mimic the Appalachians , gently roll toward the awaiting lavender blue horizon ... As pasture returns to woodlands , blanketed in hues of brown with forest echoes , carry whispered voices into tomorrow ... Lively crows live to tell their wintry tale , resting among scuttled pulp wood entanglements , to be born again , covered in the pity of lingering broom sage ...                                                              ­                                                  

                                                        III    ­                                                                 ­Across the edge of twilight where soft lavender hues lay at
rest atop her riparian horizon .. Dandelion blooms pepper the
red clay embankments , lone bucks survey brown fields of harvested
corn ..Mourning doves cry for the end of day , wild hogs lay tracks at the rivers edge . Toms sing of their loneliness  , persimmons lay bitter along country lanes , the meat of Chestnut not harvested , the final years of tall , stately Pecans go shamefully unnoticed .. Barbed wire divisions etch Winter burned pasture , Morgans and Appaloosas graze the fertile , ambrosial green narrows .. Manmade pools dot the Crescent lady , cattle ditches appear along creeks and rivers holding Rock bass , Shell ******* , Yellowbellies and Bluegills ferociously hunting the waters surface , Alligator Snappers and Mudcats work the turbulent bottoms ... Hayfields , peach and muscadine arbors flourish , boiled peanuts and sorghum syrup , collards and sweet potatoes ...Blackberry , grape , watermelon and okra ..Water oaks have taken command of the front yard ,  moss and honeysuckle line fence rows , flowing patches of wild grass and snake berry , rocks from Cotton Indian Creeks line hand built flower beds and walkways .. Rhode Island Reds , Buff Orpington's and White Leghorns work these plantations . Sassafras and dewberry , wild plum and rabbit tobaccos . Gardenia , Crape Myrtle , Magnolia , Pine and Chestnut trees  flourish to this day .. The Old Bridge behind Millers Mill still visible , what stories this elder pass could tell before the confluence of the Indian Creeks .. Crayfish , Bream , Largemouth bass , Crappie , Yellow perch and Flathead catfish ! The tale of the Crescent lady lives forever and ever ..

Faith in the tempered evening , for the Friday night reverberation -
of hometowns just over the Shamrock green horizon
For the day end Amber-glow of well kept -
Summer gardens
Blessed is the power of tonights Harvest Moon
The Suns early dedication to the Chattahoochee flora of the coming June
For morning dew prisms that ignite rolling hayfields
For talking Indian rivers , Railroad townships and period Flour Mills

As Farm tractors brush the hayfields of Summer
White Holland turkey's and dairy cattle share
enclosed greenery ..
Late morning vegetable harvest , the cackle of
laying hens and Chinese geese , our Postman smiles
and waves with his Noon delivery ...
Hereford cattle on the move , Fig trees feeding
songbirds , bumblebees and hummingbirds working
the afternoon flowers ..
Tubular bells in town , just over the horizon strike the one o'clock hour ...

Some days we'd lay about the milled plank deck
eyes to the sky
shoulders pinned
deliberating
on the hickory trees
and pillow clouds
and heavenly contrails

the warm caress  
of a mid-summer wind
whispering through the hayfields
coondog at our side
sandhill crane still
feet in the shallows
of the Haldimand pond

a soft trickle coming
from the Pickerel stream
creaks from the woodshed whistle
as the Massey Ferguson
putters her way
up the county line

catharsis in place
(in this ethereal space)
just a garden variety day
...with fire ants
and fowler toads
and golden honey bees

Your eyes are not portals to your soul
They are not some archaic metaphysical equation
Ancient mathematicians formulated to confound

They are pastures for nymphs
They are branches for fruit
They are laurels for poets

They rend me open like a flaming axe
They tie my stomach like knotted roots
I lose myself in their dusky wilderness

In them, I observe universes
Perpetually exploding and collapsing
Your pupils are black holes
At the center of galaxies
Balancing energy and force
Bending light inward

Like a sickle glistening high over hayfields

In them I hear songs
And sagas narrated by savage tongues
Of catastrophic floods and rebirth
Aryan myths about oneness

In them I see IVs dripping
Candles flickering behind carved pumpkins

I loiter in them like a pauper
With a styrofoam cup

Gazing on them is nearly intolerable
Like glaring at hydrogen bombs blinding

It is like Hebrews
Uttering the name of El- who cannot be named
El- who is above mortal matrices

The eye that never sleeps
The ear that always comprehends
The self that waivers like the sea

Eternity ends when you blink
Infernos extinguish when you sob

I tremble before them
As if they're holy relics
Decaying into perfection

Oh look upon me one last time
My love

Oh glance at me before
I petrify into pillars of salt

Look upon me
Before I transfigure into an amnestic god
Bearing light pure

Peer once more into my binary pulsars, frozen
In a fathomless abyss.

Lightning , stars and muscadine wine
Counting 'Angels Fire ' by increasing moonlight
Rain cooled midnight , lonely , solo whippoorwills ,
fresh cut hayfields
Coyote calls , crying for the morn
Nervous new acquaintances , be of free will
and let your love soar ...

My morning chaw of Levi Garrett was thirty minutes of superb pleasure ..
At peace in God's chosen country of Dove , Killdeer , morning dew and rolling hayfields , the smell of turned earth and afternoon Summer showers , the taste of green grass and blackberry in one precious plug , a working mans companion the whole year through .. A pack on the tractor , one at the barn door and one at the nightstand where my weary bones took ease at sundown ..

We've great faith in Mother June , hope for sunny morning -
miracles with myriad songbird tunes
I've shady Weeping Willows to rest beneath and contemplate my viability , still able to galavant the grassy hillsides , mocking many- a -latent physical disability
Privy to dirt roads crossing cool streams , wild Blackberry rows beneath pungent evergreens
Hayfields that reach the painted horizon , a blue water impoundment
with infinite wonder and surprise* ..

The east appeared with gleam , sweetish and balm
Convective , white light did shine upon the fallows
Hayfields became lambswool , brown thrashers sang of rainbows , of life principle bestowed resurgent , appeased , arable piedmont cropland , genuflect before the bluest of blue , before the mother of cloudburst , upon the gray toned and the disturbed , the humbled stricken tenders of the lowland barrow within the earshot of crackling cane , across the froth of over washed brookside , oak liquor tipping the surface of pooled hollows , wire grass laid to rest among yearling pine and sycamore

A kid can flee so easily
Running out the open door.
They’ll climb a tree and find a world
So different than before.

Some dig a hole and pile up snow
To make themselves a fort
Or take their leave across the fields;
A different kind of sport.

Crawling through the hayfields,
Picking berries in the grass.
Celebrating little streams;
Watching them flow past.

Cats and dogs and little frogs
Birds and squirrels and ponies
Draped in mirth and soiled with dirt
The earth is not so lonely

Stepping through the stony fields
Hoping that first kiss will last
Playing past the summer glow
The days flow by, it starts to snow

Suddenly a memory grows
It grows into a dream
Moving on into the haze
Entranced we fail to count the days

It’s just a game we have to play
The rhythm of the years descend
Pretending all the dreams are real
We pass our time inside the wheel

Then at last, in the light of day
We look around and feel the sound
Of the trumpets blaring in our ears
Gently teasing all our fears

We deny the facts but that won’t last
Stemming tears we’ve gathered here
Passing time inside our minds
Believing things we cannot find

So clouds drift by, time ticks away
The games we played are getting older
From little kids just playing soldier
The world now sits upon our shoulders

you absolutely melted me
in blackberry fields wild
Barefoot dancing in hayfields
Rolled up ...

Warmth inside rising
igniting a fire
for southern Baptist tithing ...

Melons ripe
chasing lightening bugs
laughter delights...

Mosquitoes bite
dinner bell rings
Harvest veggies bring
drooling sights...

As full tummies
return under quilts
from past Grammys

       ... end with sounds

           ..... of goodnight rounds

❤️❤️❤️

Heaving lungs, hay feverish watery eyes
As asthmatic curses, reveal the hayseeds rustic charms
Youths in hayfields, under blazing cloudless skies
With itchy, hay-mottled, sun burnt arms
In the evening,the haymaker's drunkedly dance the hay
Remains of the haybox, now eaten away as...
Evening beckons, to make hay of the day.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                   The Sunday Evening News in a Time of Elections

                    “Good things of day begin to droop and drowse”

                                           -Macbeth III.ii.58

Suddenly the yellowing afternoon is still
For Indian Summer breezes have slipped away
While clouds of silent midges swirl against the sun
For reasons of nature known only to themselves

The treeline is blue as evening comes on
But the hayfields glow golden for a little while
Until Old Sol falls asleep at last
And the firstling stars come out to play

A rabbit shyly nibbles at the dewing grass –
The day is over; we have to let it pass