That Day

 There were Canada geese

      Red-necked Grebe and Wood Duck 

      as I flew into the river

 

I met my wife and children 

We swam in water

      filled with diamonds and fast fish

 

At sunset we huddled together 

      in our nest 

      under the moving lights

 

In my dreams I was a man 

      who didn’t catch any fast fish 

      that day

                                       -Girard Tournesol

Giant Jim

   For Shelly and Darby

A fat copperhead

 Jim found

in the basement

 dangled limp

over barbed wire fence

 where he stood tall

telling a story

 about how the snake

coiled, hissed,

 and then bit

at his huge, greasy shoes

 when he piddled

in our damp basement

 for tools to fix

his broken Barracuda

 that sat on

cinderblocks

 in Daddy’s shed.

Jim grinned reliving

 his heroics,

With a pitchfork,

 I ripped the head off

and shit down

  its neck, I did!

Lifting it by the tail,

  Jim showed me

how it stretched

  from his toes to forehead.

He, a faithful family friend,

  endured achy joints most days,

arthritic elbows swollen

  like red grapefruits.

I was a young kid

  to whom Jim became

a giant of a man

  on an intense summer afternoon.

“Giant Jim” was first published in Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel (2018).

   

-Kevin J. McDaniel
Poet, Pulaski Virginia

At the Foot of a Mountain

In a reclusive cabin

where a wood stove hiccups

orange embers clothed

in gray ash coats,

the bottoms of my feet

feel bitter, raw air

circulating over every inch

of hard floor awash in

ghostly blue moonlight.

Through a window, I see

a lone yellow buckeye bend

in a boisterous wind

that makes me believe

it can bring down

the entire mountainside,

but I know spring

will come again on wings

of a gentler breeze that uplifts

saplings rooted sideways

in moonmilk underground.

A finalist for the 2018 Joy Bale Boone Poetry Prize, “At the Foot of a Mountain” was first published in The Heartland Review.

-Kevin J. McDaniel

Poet, Pulaski Virginia 

The Well

Beside our shack,

  a pitcher pump

waited for us

  to fill buckets

when pipes

  froze.

We heated water

  on the stove

  

for rice

  dirty dishes,

and pan baths

  taken

 

at night

  since Mama  

worried about us

  catching the bus.

 

One evening,

  I stood

at the well,

  remembering

Jesus who asked

  the woman of Samaria

to give him

  a drink.

 

I lifted  

  that rusty handle

for hard water,

  so we could get by.

“The Well” was first published in Clinch Mountain Review (2018).
-Kevin J. McDaniel Poet, Pulaski Virginia

Yellow Bus

Daddy once got

  a clunker bus

at an auto auction

  and parked it

in the field

  behind our house.

He buffed tires,

  washed windows,

scraped

  black letters

off the dimpled side

  with a knife.

  

We kids sat

  on green seats,

pretending,

  as if to ride on

  

a ragged road

  that jolted us hard

like jumping beans.

  Mama quizzed Daddy

  

about his plans

  for a school bus

that stuck out to her

  like a yellow cold sore!

Daddy ripped out

  some seats

and tacked down carpet

  inside the family camper

  

that we’d vacation in

  at a campground

every summer. Meanwhile,

  the bus became

   

a summer fort where

  my brother and sister fought.

I smoked cigars in it

  habitually.

Daddy stockpiled

  odd car parts

by the emergency door.

  One night, a spooky man,

 

old Wild Bill

  with bloodshot eyes

and a grizzled beard like ZZ Top,

  made an offer.

Daddy told him

   his vision to transform

the good interior

   into a camper,

 

but reckoned to sell

   for the right price

to make Mama happy.

   Next evening,

Wild Bill returned

   with $500 cash.

He drove off

    in that gas-gulping thing.

Daddy watched his dream

    roll down the road a ways.

-Kevin J. McDaniel
Poet, Pulaski Virginia