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Poems by Charles Clifford Brooks III


    Charles Clifford Brooks III is a poet and freelance writer
    living in Georgia USA. He was inducted as a Master Member
    in the National Creative Society his senior year at Shorter College.
    There he also obtained a BS in History\Political Science with a
    minor in English Literature.

    He has been published in over 60 magazines, 5 anthologies, and
    printed in five foreign countries. Along with creative writing
    he also freelances for two magazines and a newspaper.

    Charles Clifford is currently Poetry Editor for Literary
    Magic Magazine
    . He was interviewed about his upcoming book,
    Whirling Metaphysics, on the Joe Milford Poetry Show.


    Fall comes down quick
    like a rushed house guest.
    Leaves are red only seconds.
    Mountains are blown naked.

    A speed bump
    of soft breezes
    buffers December.
    There is little symmetry
    in the South.


    Sunset, back wet from hard work,
    hands raw from shovels,
    firewood stands in clean stacks
    by the back door.
    A hawk sits on telephone wire
    watching cut fields.
    Men and women retire indoors.

    Orange is smeared
    behind mountains bursting
    at the seams, trees
    are an unkempt mane.
    It's a curved, unbroken line
    where bears sleep in winter.
    With so much rain
    the view is strangely tropical.

    Rugged life is in the walls
    of small homes on the edge.
    The quiet spirits a man away
    witnessing natural decay.
    Never misplaced or confused
    the bones and blood are from this earth,
    these flowers, the crops.


    Drinkin' till he got possessed,
    bossman went for Sara.
    White stomach too heavy,
    he tore at her,
    leavin' a dead slave behind.

    Almond child,
    I want to forget.
    We forget so much at night.
    Sara's ghost stayed,
    too wronged to go on.

    So now I pray down,
    and revenge clicks its teeth.
    Old Scratch comes up
    for that man
    marked by my soul
    sold for the favor.

    Legba hangs him
    by a bed sheet.
    Death is mockin' him.
    Hell hounds beg
    by the devil's feet.

    Sara falls asleep.


    At eleven-years-old
    my great-aunt
    gave me coffee.
    Staying overnight
    I slept on the screened porch,
    cool in that gentle dark.
    Waking, breakfast,
    it felt like the life
    of a prince.

    Extracurricular criminals
    we plotted on leather couches,
    smoked where Civil War
    soldiers once posed for a picture.
    These are unmentionable evenings
    made from semi-automatic weapons
    and Maker's Mark.

    A blue lady filters through,
    then saunters across
    the room. Dead come here.
    A house breathing,
    the unfeeling brick
    speaks at night.
    Ghosts watch us sleep
    and whisper


There were Civil War generals
who had hookers and booze
in their ranks.
Prostitutes capitalized
on young, brazen men
already romanced by death.


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