the cockerel of dawn

(by hardtack) Dec 09 2011

the first morning he tried to crow
the sounds he made were not unlike
the sucking of mud on old boots
as the marsh tries to claim your sole.

on the second morning, his crow
was more a murmur, the rustling
of a thousand tiny fiddlers
racing against the rising tide.

by week's end, it was a confident crow,
loud and strong, the commander of his flock
but unformed, uninformed, as symmetric
as a sponge, clinging to the floating docks.

it trembled, the crow, his conflict
was the pride in his voice, stubborn,
and the fate of the cockerel,
silence, not seaside metaphor.

so he crowed, a cadence to dawn,
summoning the sun from slumber,
rising, by his order, above
the barrier islands, his throne.

there was no crow on his final morning.
from his roost he was roused, before daybreak,
and strung by his feet from a crooked oar,
his voice bleeding into the sand.

No responses yet

Mama Osprey defending her nest

(by hardtack) Aug 04 2011

3 responses so far

At least one of these Horseshoe Crabs is very confused

(by hardtack) May 10 2011

Andrew David Thaler 2011

No responses yet


(by hardtack) Feb 27 2011

on soil
of sand
and clay
for ground


One response so far

The legend of Rock Out Guy

(by hardtack) Feb 22 2011

there was a man who sat by the old highway
and he'd rock out every day
by the pier he would play
on his aging steel frame
and he'd rock out every day

alone he would sway by the old grocery store
and he'd rock out every day
with his old fender amp
plugged into a street lamp
he would rock out every day

he'd carry his load down West Beaufort Road
a lonely streak of gray
now the old pier is gone
and so is his song
the man that rocked out all day

we never knew your name
but still you found fame
when you played by the old highway

3 responses so far

an unbroken chain

(by hardtack) Jan 17 2011

he said
to no one
in particular,

Is it who
I am
that matters,
or what I say.

And why
should the record
of my thoughts
be subject
to the rigors
and whims
of someone else's

when the truth
at the heart
of all things
is the echo
in your head
that calls itself

and the drum
in your chest
that beats to the rhythm
of an unbroken chain
that calls itself

And the only report
is the staccato of rain
on a tin roof
beneath which
we add
one more link.

No responses yet

Happy Monkey!

(by hardtack) Dec 24 2010

In Sanjay Gandhi National Park, Mumbai, India

No responses yet

somehow I missed these pages

(by hardtack) Dec 14 2010

what do you do with those blank pages in a notebook, lab book, or journal? Not the ones at the beginning or end, but the pages you accidentally miss while writing, or skip when they stick together. Do you go back and use them for something else or just let them lie empty?

somehow I missed these pages
nestled in a mountain of thoughts
two blank pages that appear
in the heart of the furor
blank and waiting

a pause, lull in the ringing sound
a moment without movement
an empty page, not the beginning
nor the end of the journey
but a moment forgotten, ignored

how many blank pages are there?
prolonged moments of sublime nothing
between the rise and the fall
these empty pages are a testament
to all those moments that leave no mark

a child on the street, begging for coins
a glass of scotch among old friends
the ticket taker on the train
or the quiet taxi driver.
moments that mean nothing, but are everything.

I shall fill these empty pages
with moments from the void
that were, but are never remembered.

2 responses so far

How to always have a clean(er) pair of underwear while working in the field

(by hardtack) Dec 10 2010

begin with three pairs
wear pair one for one day
wear pair two for one day
wear pair three for two days
you now have two pairs that are cleaner than pair three

now start the cycle again, but this time
wear pair one for two days
wear pair two for two days
wear pair three for two days
you still have two pairs that are cleaner than pair three

continue extending the days
after each cycle, the "fresh" underwear
will always seem much cleaner

wear pair one for three days
wear pair two for three days
wear pair three for three days
repeat forever and enjoy your field season.

3 responses so far

the song they all sing

(by hardtack) Dec 09 2010

On a spice plantation in India,
it echoes through the cashew trees. The song
that slowly changes, the song they all sing.
The same song they sing on the Beaufort docks,
while mending their empty shrimp nets. The song
that sharply rises, the song they all sing.
And on a coffee farm in New Guinea,
among the hog hands of Carolina,
in the California vineyards, the song.
A somber hymnal, the song they all sing.

How can it be that men who work the earth,
from distant nations, alien cultures,
all sing the song? In their own languages,
yet still, the same song. The song they all sing.
The drought is too long, the rains are too short,
the frost too early, the spring comes to late,
and no one remembers a time before,
when they could not predict changing seasons.
And the ones who see sing a song. The song
for a broken world, the song they all sing.

One response so far

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