Taps

We crawl like quail

In the graveyard

Hide dead quiet

Behind markers

At the foot of the hill

Till Larry finishes

Taps on his trumpet

For baggy mourners

In herringbone overcoats

At home near tombs

And trees, skip

Around blanket-tops

Tip small, pigeon-toed

Between headstones

Not disturbing the slumber

Not stepping directly

On the beds, crouching low

Against cold marble

Avoiding the crunch of leaves



Tess Kincaid


Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's lovely reading:
(visit his excellent blog Black Dogs here)

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group here.

scents of stories

For men and women are not only themselves; they are also the region in which they are born, the city apartment or farm in which they learnt to walk, the games they played as children, the old wives tales they overheard, the food they ate, the schools they attended, the sports they followed, the poets they read, and the God they believed in. It is all these things that have made them what they are, and these are the things that you can't come to know by hearsay...   ―W. Somerset Maugham 

Just as people are a mulligatawny mix, so are places.  They are bowls left with remnants of unique recipes, scraps and scents of stories, wanting to be savored, waiting to be told.  ―me 

image:  from my Abandoned America series, "T-Shirt Window", Delaware, Ohio