Stone Mountain

By Trudy Osteen Crow
July 19, 2008

He didn't like okra.
His mama cooked it
to the texture
of raw slugs.
Her tongue
could chew anything -
including young girls
deemed unworthy
of her golden son.
Words,
leave trails that wind
like viscous ribbons
through the mind.
Stone Mountains
to climb. Pit vipers
through time.
She won.
I hope her choice
made him happy.
I wonder if
he ever learned
to like okra?
When properly cooked,
the mallow pods
pop delightfully
on the palate
and leave no
viscid residue behind.

Strayed

by t.o. crow
July 19, 2008

Love leaned,
then snapped
us back
like the spring
of an old screen door.
Back,
to hearth
and home.
Back,
to lukewarm.

STORMS

by TO Crow
July 18, 2008

Suddenly
Rain fell
in torrents
leaving behind
the scent
of decay
and the promise
of new
beginnings.

Heart STUNG

Does he ever feel her hand in his

or see her in a passing face,
or wish that it were her embrace
that lays him down at night?

Does he look up at the stars above

and think of the girl whom once he loved
and of all the dreams and plans they made
before being swept apart by fate?

Does she slip into his dreams unbid?
Does he feel her arms? Her legs? Her kiss?
Her heart thumping wildly against his chest
as if it were Summer of '65?

And LOVE!

Oh, how love was sweet
in his '59 Impala with red leather seats
on a cul-de-sac to a yet-named street
to a Carolina girl and her Georgia guy

- whose hand's imprint she feels in hers
as though it were yesterday.
So young, that girl whose heart was stung
by a Georgia "Yellow Jacket" wearing madras plaid.

And although years and youth have passed
that sting still lasts . . .
and lasts . . .
and lasts . . .

Lover's Lullabye

t.o. crow

Whisper me your lies,
let them disguise reality
with all their little bends and twists
until reality no longer for me exists.
Before we embrace, and sweet salt taste,
Sing me a lover's lullabye
about sun and moon and starry skies.

Whisper me your lies . . .

Pretty

t.o. crow

They never called her pretty so how was she to know?
They teased her as a "fatty." She couldn't fit small clothes.

She could wrestle with the best of boys and pin them to the ground
until her "nubs" began to sprout when 'tween time rolled around.
There was always something wrong with her - nothing ever right -
The only comfort that she found was on her blue, Schwinn bike.
There, she channeled big, tough "Jim" who followed every dream.
She could fly a plane or fight in war or any skill you named.

She was strong and kind and loving but that seemed to matter not
for they focused on her "tummy" her other traits forgotten.
Each day she waked she had to face her Mama's consternation
and Granny often chimed right in comparing her to cousins:
"So tiny, feminine - petite," she said. Their clothes are not size dozen!"

So, what was she to do but slouch? To stoop her shoulders low?
And from that purchase see the world and not be noticed so.
Her vanishing tactics failed to work, added misery to her pain.
She ate cake each day to compensate and lost more self esteem.
More scorn for that she did attract, which hurt her deeper still,
and the girl who once was pretty inside herself withdrew.

She gave up trying to please them all and into depression sank.
No one noticed the sponge she'd become or the negative she drank.
They never acknowledged her intrinsic worth so she internalized
all the "bad" they labeled her with and carried it through her life.

That little girl that I once knew so very long ago
was really very pretty but how was she to know?


Feb. 05/2008

Revelations

by Trudy Osteen Crow

It is his third attempt at a four-in-hand

on his red power tie. “It's silk,”
he explains offhandedly. “It got wet.”

Mute, She nods knowingly.

(Though, in truth, she knows nothing of wet silk.)

One more effort and the knot is satisfactory.

The red noose is tightened, tugged twice,

then patted into position

against his starched, white dress shirt.

He gazes into the mirror - toward the future -

while she gazes into his white-shirted back

and remembers her baptism in the murky waters

of a now nameless Alabama river.

The muddy current snatches at the white innocence

of her 10-year-old's dress as

the minister admonishes “Trust in Jeeesus!”

then covers her face with a folded white handkerchief

and tilts her into the silty water -
"In the name of

The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!"

She struggles for air and is suddenly righted.

The congregation's jubilant “Amens!" greet her

as she sludges toward them,

her soiled dress clinging fiercely

to the goosey flesh of her developing body.

She shivers, seeking cover from their scrutiny,

the first fires of passion quelled by the chill reality

of the river's water.

“. . . after a brief goodbye,” He says

drawing her back to the present.

He turns to face her and the white of his shirt

is muddied by the red silk of his tie.

She shivers, as he tucks with finality, a folded

square of white handkerchief

into his pocket.

Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Award

Original: 1980's

Revision: Dec, 2008

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