A Poem

The 50-Yard Line

I stand on my own side of halfway
while you stand at the goal post you created.
There is no football that I can see
to toss at you.
Yet you expect me to throw  
as if my life depended on your catch.
Even if I saw the ball and aimed  
you would never claim it.

The Acreage of Unsaid Things

The Acreage of Unsaid Things

By A. Firebaugh

She stands at the worn and weathered door,

fingers resting on faded wood.

The world beyond is dusk and shadow,

but her eyes drift across years and fields.

A brother's laughter drifts back,

high and bright,

echoing off the walls that once held

their games and arguments,

their whispered plans to swim in the creek,

to play hide and seek in the building near the spring house.

When she squints, she can still see them --

Ghost-children barefoot in the front yard,

sitting side by side on the porch swing,

daring one another to make it go high and fast.

In the stillness of the evening,

at the edge of her land,

she whispers to the night:

"I am still here, waiting where you left me."

An Ode to the Osage Orange

The Hedge That Dreamed of Virginia

It was never meant for this soil,
this red clay cradle of ghosts and tobacco,
but here it stands: green brain of a fruit,
sticky-sweet and alien,
a thought dropped by the wind
and left to grow.

Its wood is stubborn,
yellow heart dense as old secrets,
once woven into fences
to keep the wild out,
or maybe to hold it in.

Not native, no never,
but neither are the stories
we carry in our bones,
the ones that sprout
where no one expected them.

It smells like summer’s syrup,
like something half-fermented
and half divine.

Children dare each other to touch it,
to hold the wrinkled orb
that looks like thinking.

And isn’t it thinking?
This tree hedged its bets
and grew anyway,
uninvited and unashamed,
a sentinel on the farm
where memory is a crop
and inheritance is thorned.

I walk past it,
and it watches,
quietly brilliant,
a brain in the brush
dreaming of fences
and the places it was never supposed to be.

A Poem

The Eclipse at Crowgate Hill

The road vanished long ago.
Time here doesn't pass,
it unravels.

I followed the birds,
thinking they might remember
where home was,
but they only circled
and screamed.

A gate stands open
but I don't remember
coming through it.
Was I meant to leave
or meant to arrive?

The fence has fallen—
wire slack,
duty long abandoned.
The trees lean away from me,
their branches like warning hands.

The sun hangs wrong in the sky,
a smudge of fire
pressed through ash.

Everything looks
like something I once knew.
A fence.
A hill.
A silence so thick
it feels like breathing dust.

I think I’ve lost more than direction.
Names slip.
Faces blur.
Even my own shadow
has stopped trying to follow.

In the stillness,
something waits—
a fragment of warmth,
a sound I almost know,
humming in the dark like memory.

You once said hope
was a steady light,
but I’ve learned
it flickers
like a match in a storm—
sometimes lost,
sometimes hiding,
never quite gone.

If I keep walking,
maybe I’ll find it.
Or maybe I’ll become it—
the thing that stays behind,
after a voice stops singing,
as the birds rise
into a sky that no longer cares
if I was ever here.

(This poem was inspired by an image called "July 11th, 1991, in Chiapas, Mexico" // Photo by Antonio Turok)

That's Just the Way It Is

The fence rows used to be clear of brush

with no cedars or pines growing high.

The state trimmed the roadside five times a year

and you could see from the Parkway roadside.

Flowers bloomed in the interstate divide

and houses were painted and clean.

No graffiti covered abandoned gas stations.

People were nice, not mean.

Those halcyon days of long ago

only four decades or so

have transformed into a world of decay.

It's not something I care to know.

The farmers' kids all left town

to find money in better cities.

To save taxpayers their dollar bills

no one cares if the roadside's pretty.

The Blue Ridge Parkway's a solid drive

if you don't want to see the sights.

The overlooks are overgrown with scrubs

and you don't clear that overnight.

Where is the pride in the public space?
Where is the joy in the living?

When all around there's debris and trash

and lots more taking than giving?

Sunset Poems

 A ChatGPT poem about sunset:

The sun dips below the horizon,
A fiery orb of orange and red,
The sky a canvas painted in hues
Of pink, purple, and deep blue spread.

The world is bathed in a golden light,
As day turns into night,
A symphony of colors play
In the sky, a natural sight.

The clouds, like cotton candy swirls,
Add texture to the scene,
A peaceful calm descends upon us
As the world is bathed in serene.

The chirping birds bid us adieu,
As they seek their resting place,
The gentle sway of trees,
Adds grace to this peaceful space.

As the last rays of sunlight fade,
We bid farewell to the day,
But the memories of this sunset,
Will forever here stay.

My poem about sunset:

The fiery orb paints a swath

of pink and purple as clouds

populate the darkening sky.

Evening begins with spectacular promise

as the gold of the day 

grows dim and sublime.

You take my hand in yours

its warmth like the sun in my palm.

I surrender as you move close

for a kiss.

So, which is better? I won't be upset if you say the AI poem. I took all of five minutes to write mine, after all.

Fly Me to the Moon

My name and my poem are both up in outer space, flying around the moon today.

We even went on the Dark Side of the Moon!

I first wrote about this back in August, but the launch was scrubbed and didn't happen until last week. It took the rocket 5 days to reach the moon and now it's circling our heavenly satellite, taking pictures as it goes.

It's been about 81 miles from the surface of the moon. Exciting stuff! Check out nasa.gov for more information if you're interested.

I've always been disappointed that we didn't pursue the space program more fully than we did, so I am glad to see forward movement. I know many people think this is a lot of money spent for nothing, but many inventions come from the work done to make this happen.

At least, you know, once upon a time, there was Tang. And ink pens that wrote upside down.

And that cellphone that never leaves your hand is a result of the space program, too.

Poem

There's nothing left to do but surrender

When you know that you have reached the end.

Some cuts are too deep for the healing

And the scars that they leave are your friends.

It was written in the stars

that this is who you are.

Even with the pain, even with the strife

You know you live a beautiful life.

                            -- A. Firebaugh (c) 2022

Up, Up and Away!

My poem is going to the moon!

I received this notice in my email:

Synchronicity
Artemis Journal will fly to the moon with Artemis 1 spaceship

 

For over a year, Artemis Journal has been in conversation with NASA regarding sending our Artemis Journal to the moon and landed a virtual seat on the Spaceship taking off this week.

How perfect is this as we launch our 2022 Artemis Journal this week at the Taubman Museum.

Synchronicity is a concept first introduced by analytical psychologist Carl G. Jung "to describe circumstances that appear meaningfully related yet lack a causal connection."

So, apparently, the issue in which I have a poem is going to be on a flash drive (or something) on Artemis 1 when it finally makes it way around the moon!

And my poem will be going around the moon, too!

My blogger friend Colleen wrote about this and has pictures (apparently, she has the journal; I've not received it yet). 

Artemis 1 is an unmanned spaceship making a six-week flight around the moon and back. This is the first step in returning humans to the moon - and from the moon, we go to Mars.

The initial launch, scheduled for yesterday, was scrubbed, but the next date is September 2.

September 2 is also the date when Artemis (the publication) is officially releasing its journal to the public and to contributors.

Tickets are available here if you're interested. I have no plans to attend at the moment.

While I don't have the journal in hand, here's a snip of the page I was sent showing my poem and the painting that is accompanying it.

A Poem

If you had seen what I had seen

The you would be as I have been

Never would you question me

If you could see as I can see.

Like the yarn caught in my thumb

Women's work makes the heart grow numb.

Manly men move hither and yon

Acting as if women's work - is none.

Blunder, bluster, pounding of chest

whilst holding closer to the inner vest

the beauty of life that soon departs

without knowing what is in a heart.

Gather round the corner store

where men boast and often bore

Leaving woman to her home and hearth

or hemorrhaging, giving birth.

Separate loves and separate lives

leading to life's little lies

Too soon the ending comes to be

If only you saw as I can see.

Knock Off Poem

I am the wine-man for the county

and I travel open roads.

Looking for a buyer before

the bottles explode.

I see people singing in the vineyards

I hear them cheering football teams

And the wine-man for the county

is still living out the dream.

I know I need a small vacation

But the main roads don't shut down

And when they do, I'm stuck in traffic

Or sleeping in some little town.

And I think about you daily

I still love you all the time.

But I'm only just a salesman

Trying to sell out my wine.

(Knocked off from The Wichita Lineman, a Glenn Campbell song that I am trying to exorcise from my head)

You Who Allow Yourselves to Feel

You Who Allow Yourselves to Feel 

By Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 - 1926)

You who let yourselves feel: enter the breathing

that is more than your own.

Let it brush your cheeks

as it divides and rejoins behind you.

Blessed ones, whole ones,

you where the heart begins:

You are the bow that shoots the arrows

and you are the target.

Fear not the pain. Let its weight fall back

into the earth;

for heavy are the mountains, heavy the seas.

The trees you planted in childhood have grown

too heavy. You cannot bring them along.

Give yourselves to the air, to what you cannot hold.

In Praise of Mortality: Rilke's Duino Elegies & Sonnets to Orpheus by Rainer Maria Rilke / Translated by Joanna Macy

Artemis

I have a poem in Artemis, a poetry and art journal, again this year. I am very honored to share space with former Virginia poet laurates as well as two national poet laurates in this work of art.

My poem is called The Earth Journey. You can see an early draft of it from my blog in 2017 here. The poem as published is more polished.

It is also one of the few poems I've had published that wasn't workshopped when I was in college. This is a relief because I was starting to think I couldn't write anything current that was publishable. I guess I can!

Buy a copy for yourself today at Store – Artemis Journal.

Remembering the 343

 

They ran in while others were fleeing.

Hot helmets clinging to sweaty heads

as each climbed flight after flight of stairs

helping, always helping, as bodies streamed downward

while they moved up,

boots so heavy they could barely lift their legs

as they reached another level.

Their breath sounding deep and heavy, hollowing their chests

as their oxygen began to grow low

from effort and time.

They felt the rumble as the buildings fell.

They could not run.

They could not flee.

They died heroes.

I shall not forget the 343.

                    -- A. Firebaugh

Reading Poetry

Last night I read three of my poems at an event at the Blue Ridge Library. It was called Artistic Hands and Poetic Voices and was held in conjunction with the library, Open Studios Botetourt, and Artemis Journal.

The event was attended by three artists and five poets. About 25 people came, most of them family members of the people reading or showing their art.

I do not like to speak in front of people, although I do when I must. So I was nervous reading my poetry, but I think I did ok.

Me, myself, and I before the reading.

A crowd shot.

Maurice Ferguson, who organized the event, and read poems.

Curt Alderson as the first poem reader. He has a snappy personality.

Me doing my poetry reading. I kept an ink pen in my hand while I talked.

A Perfect Day

Waking with sleepies in my eyes
my heart soft from a dream
where people were nice, friendly, calm
life is good.

Shower is hot, bacon is warm, eggs scrambled
like a jigsaw puzzle in a box
a little exercise Tai Chi in the grass
just to be good.

Reading on a novel where the heroine is moving
forward to become a better someone
because character building is what it takes
to make a novel good.

Sipping on a cool glass of water
hearing turkeys gobble in the distance
watching a deer graze in the field
this is good.

Hearing from a friend someone who loves me
regardless of who I think I am because that is
not really who I am
because I am good.

A soft kiss, a quiet sigh, holding hands
in the twilight watching the sun sink below
North Mountain, catching the first glimpse of starlight
oh it is good.

_____________________

Linking up with Kwizgiver's April Challenge. You can find the prompts here.

Thursday Thirteen

It's National Poetry Month. Here are 13 stanzas from some of my poetry. These are actually unfinished. Some I hadn't looked at in years. They were in my poetry folder on my computer.


---
The day the harpoon
cut my hand in half
I was clinging to you
like a mollusk to a hull.

You flung me ashore,
no water, no food,
left me bleeding in salty
tangy water, with sharks
circling all around.
----
Dawn breaks down the darkness
sending sunshine trickling
like water over rocks,
gems glistening on sandy beaches.

Dawn beams down on earth
warming soils, bringing growth
to sprigs of trees,
petals to flowers,
soft like clouds.

Dawn shines over mountaintops
sending shadows on towns.
Children quiver, close their eyes,
thank God, they see
a light.
----
See, the zebra had stripes
with spots and sprinkles
but God, Almighty, looked,
laughed, and lightly sent Angels
to correct His mistake.

The God, Almighty, neglected
to mention His errors
to the writers of His Ways,
those dudes who wrote that Bible.

Like Paul and Peter, the one
with Pumpkins, who splattered and bled
all over some town.

While God, Almighty, watched
Sonny & Cher on a big screen.
----
Deer bathe serenely in sunlight
Acorns at their hooves.
Autumn comes.

Leaves turn dull brown
flung to the earth
by ruthless winds.
Rains slash skies,
gray, dark, light dimming
like a mother
drowning love.

Autumn comes.
Guns bark out death
while leaves fall
and I leave you.
----
Jezebel jerks and whirls
a spinning top, telling
tales, mothers’ wail,
waves swell, water falls
people fall, buildings tall
hear the cries
turn of eyes
hearts of sighs
no goodbyes.
----------------------------
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here if you want to read other Thursday Thirteens and/or play along. I've been playing for a while and this is my 599th time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday. Or so sayth the Blogger counter, anyway.

A Place I've Never Visited

Maybe the grass is maroon
glowing brightly in darkness
beneath two moons that skim the mountains
made of mushrooms
with a horizon the color of a brilliant sword
honed to the finest point.

Maybe the trees walk in that bright moonlight
clasping hands and greeting each other
old friends with many things and nothing
to say as the long drawn out evening wears on
because this place has no sunshine
not really
only a hazy glaze that brightens into twilight
a shimmer that fades quietly away.

Maybe the animals talk and there are no people
not people like we think of people, anyway
and the beings that inhabit this place do not
destroy or create hierarchies or consider one
better than another because they know
true equality exists only when you can see
that the planet will outlast you
and you're only an ant, if they have ants.

Maybe this place exists in the Delta Quadrant
far away in another galaxy
light years and generations away
a place I will never see
or maybe it is on the dust mote
beneath my feet and I am the shadow,
my sneakers the moons
my heartbeat the rhythm,
the only sound of this world.


_____________________

Linking up with Kwizgiver's April Challenge. You can find the prompts here.

My Lovely Rose

Come live by me, my lovely rose

whilst I bad poetry must compose.

Your smell so sweet, your petals so dear

fill me with longing when you are near.

 

Your beauty bids a sunflower blush

and makes an evil wind fall hush.

For none compares to your fragrant kiss

To love a rose is to live in bliss.

When the World Smells Like Dead Pig

You don't want to eat
or drink, really, because
dead pig makes you want to gag
but there it is, a smell
trapped in the pockets of your sinuses.
All you can do is smell it,
hope that the antibiotics
do their thing and clear your nasal passages
so that the stench goes away.

As things clear up you start to think maybe
you should eat something again
(lost three pounds so far)
or at least drink a Boost
and then you read your Facebook page,
see that the White House Press Spokesperson
doesn't know how to change the settings on
an Amazon Echo
and blames Amazon
for her own failure.

Then the husband who doesn't believe in conspiracy theories
tells you he thinks the missile mistake in Hawaii maybe
wasn't a mistake but preparation
because we're going to bomb somebody
just to see a big boom.

You see words like shithole and president in the same sentence
then hear about earthquakes, mudslides, fires
and third-world countries in Alabama,
and after a while
you start to think it isn't just your sinuses
causing you to smell dead things.

Maybe you're smelling dead things
because after one last stupid tweet,
morality and all that is good in this world
rolled over and died.