This Afternoon
The pasture has erupted in what my father called
poor man’s cotton—a joke he whispered every time
we saw a field of dandelions nod and drift away
parachute by parachute.
There are too many to launch the way I used to:
target a steady tunnel of breath at a fragile globe of fluff
till everything in front of me expands to migrating seeds,
contracts to remnant stalk.
Crows cling to sky or familiar branches as their shadows
settle their black steel voices into clicking colloquy. Beaks
like batons conjure strange needs into auguries of incidents
somber, ulterior.
Midafternoon, and all that presages sundown—— smaller
birds scuttling under live oaks, ripe peaches succumbing
to autumn and gravity, a clack of almonds hitting the tarps
or an unlucky hatless farmer.
Beyond this tableau, these puffweeds whisper their nicknames
to the still-drifting florets spilling themselves completely until
their onboard hope born of a sharp williwaw descends, declares
Spring.
Renascence
The rain had stopped, the mist swirled back to earth.
The sun hung stranded in the dead blue sky,
yet all that morning felt like a rebirth.
And those I passed seemed capable of mirth,
though they nor I could voice a reason why
the rain had stopped, the mist swirled back to earth.
The silence sought comrades and found a dearth
of quiet brothers midst the passersby,
yet all the morning felt like a rebirth.
We seek a family, a kindred’s berth,
whatever truth we find inside each lie;
the rain had stopped, the mist swirled back to earth.
The globe is but a growth of each child’s worth,
and each child fails, and some may die,
yet all that morning felt like a rebirth.
We all are strangers, cousins, common earth,
we speak each other’s silences and sigh.
The rain has stopped, the mist swirls back to earth,
and all this morning feels like a rebirth.
Gary Thomas grew up on a peach farm outside Empire, California. Prior to retirement, he taught eighth grade language arts for thirty-one years and junior college English for seven. He has presented poetry workshops for literary organizations, festivals, and conferences. His poems have been published in The Comstock Review, MockingHeart Review, and Atticus Review, among others, and in the anthology More Than Soil, More Than Sky: The Modesto Poets. He is currently vice president of the Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center, a member of the Curriculum Study Commission and of the writing group known as The Licensed Fools. A full-length collection, All the Connecting Lights, was released in August 2022 from Finishing Line Press.
The pasture has erupted in what my father called
poor man’s cotton—a joke he whispered every time
we saw a field of dandelions nod and drift away
parachute by parachute.
There are too many to launch the way I used to:
target a steady tunnel of breath at a fragile globe of fluff
till everything in front of me expands to migrating seeds,
contracts to remnant stalk.
Crows cling to sky or familiar branches as their shadows
settle their black steel voices into clicking colloquy. Beaks
like batons conjure strange needs into auguries of incidents
somber, ulterior.
Midafternoon, and all that presages sundown—— smaller
birds scuttling under live oaks, ripe peaches succumbing
to autumn and gravity, a clack of almonds hitting the tarps
or an unlucky hatless farmer.
Beyond this tableau, these puffweeds whisper their nicknames
to the still-drifting florets spilling themselves completely until
their onboard hope born of a sharp williwaw descends, declares
Spring.
Renascence
The rain had stopped, the mist swirled back to earth.
The sun hung stranded in the dead blue sky,
yet all that morning felt like a rebirth.
And those I passed seemed capable of mirth,
though they nor I could voice a reason why
the rain had stopped, the mist swirled back to earth.
The silence sought comrades and found a dearth
of quiet brothers midst the passersby,
yet all the morning felt like a rebirth.
We seek a family, a kindred’s berth,
whatever truth we find inside each lie;
the rain had stopped, the mist swirled back to earth.
The globe is but a growth of each child’s worth,
and each child fails, and some may die,
yet all that morning felt like a rebirth.
We all are strangers, cousins, common earth,
we speak each other’s silences and sigh.
The rain has stopped, the mist swirls back to earth,
and all this morning feels like a rebirth.
Gary Thomas grew up on a peach farm outside Empire, California. Prior to retirement, he taught eighth grade language arts for thirty-one years and junior college English for seven. He has presented poetry workshops for literary organizations, festivals, and conferences. His poems have been published in The Comstock Review, MockingHeart Review, and Atticus Review, among others, and in the anthology More Than Soil, More Than Sky: The Modesto Poets. He is currently vice president of the Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center, a member of the Curriculum Study Commission and of the writing group known as The Licensed Fools. A full-length collection, All the Connecting Lights, was released in August 2022 from Finishing Line Press.
