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 gibberish |
 THE CIVIL WAR AND WHORES There were Civil War generals who had hookers and booze in their ranks. Prostitutes capitalized on young, brazen men already romanced by death. ~~~~~~~~~ Want to leave a comment on these poems? Please visit our Message Board or write Ye Editor at bethjacks@hotmail.com. Thanks! |
|
Back to USADEEPSOUTH index page |