Casey Road

 

Casey Road

Tell no one of this road remote 
beneath modest mountain
between curtains of forest. 

A few tire track slots blocked by chains,
signs POSTED (a complete statement) 
driveways snaking into mystery.

Here’s a clearing, a garden of beans,
a cabin with roof of blue tarp. 
A gutted pickup. 
Folks who own little but a chunk of forest
if you can own the wandering deer, moose, bear. 

Two hours walking, no traffic not one. 
We old lovers gather trash, mostly beer cans, 
one cracked soccer trophy 
and oddly in dirt among wild daisies
a shiny silver padlock—no key. 

Pileated peckers gouge old trees; 
quail with frowns flee our footsteps. 
Shush of pines, rattle of maples, 
scent of blue sky,
distant rush of river rapids,
accidental brush of our hands,
clink of cans we find we carry.

This peaceful paradise of modest trash— 
will the rich unlock, award trophies 
to themselves? Please—tell no one.

…..

First published in The Russell Streur Anthology 

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Joe Cottonwood · Casey Road

Like Apples, We Survive

 

Like Apples, We Survive

Gray lizards with skeptical brow 
scuttle over stone chimneys from an age 
when men cleared land with ax and ox,
cleared a northern jungle for pasture, 
for orchard.

Boulders remain. Farms lost 
to deep snow, subzero nights, 
to grim gaze of starlight,
pastures reclaimed by conifer
while humans flee to town.

Left behind, hardy apple trees 
survive— surprise!— 
a delight to the hiker, 
a tongue-load of fructose 
amid this deep forest 
where to make a living
you must go on living.

…..

First published in Adirondack Anthology. Thank you Steve Kenworthy, editor

Hear me:

Joe Cottonwood · Like Apples, We Survive

September brings…

 

September brings…

September brings a turtle to my bathroom 
sleeping on the glass-top scale 
where the digital gods 
declare her weightless 
as if an angel in a shell 
has alighted 

September brings hummingbirds 
carb-loading at yellow pinhole flowers 
on my red plastic feeder 
for a thousand mile journey 
to a tropical spa 

September brings turkeys 
de-bugging my garden 
while squabbling and gobbling 
like families evermore 

September brings adolescent deer 
graduating from fawn school 
shedding their spots for 
fashionable brown coats, 
flashing white tails 
like flinging caps to the sky

…..

Hear me:

Joe Cottonwood · September brings…

San Gregorio General Store

 

San Gregorio General Store

How I love the young woman 
with slender fingers who takes 
my book from the shelf—blows 
dust from the top—bends to read 
my poems apparently near-sighted 
index finger following words. 
I feel caressed.

Her black leggings are torn, 
a train-track from ankle to thigh 
that I travel with my eye. A dancer? 
Sways her hips to the bluegrass band
but—Oh!—scarlet drops fall to the page. 
A gushing—her hand to her nose. 
“Crap!” she says runs to the bar
grabs a napkin drops the book 
among beer glasses and she runs out 
to the barbwire ranch land
pressing her nostril. 

How I love the swarthy man 
in cutoff jeans wide hat
looks like an off duty cowboy
on a stool at the bar
lifts the bloody ruined book 
pinches a quarter tween thumb and finger 
looks questioningly at old George
who shrugs and accepts. 

Limping favoring one hip
takes the book to a truck tailgate open 
watched by skeptical black angus 
under soaring red-tail hawk
where the young woman is waiting
with a grin and a bottle of wine. 
Together they read. 

…..

First published in Misfit Magazine. Thank you editor Alan Catlin.

San Gregorio General Store out in the ranchlands of coastal California has a little bit of everything and a whole lot of genuine character. A bar, live music, a few groceries, lots of hats and sweatshirts and coffee mugs,  exotic soaps — oh, and books (sometimes mine). It’s a special gathering spot for us locals and also seems to draw folks from all over the Bay Area. 

Hear me:

Joe Cottonwood · San Gregorio General Store