Augur of Familial Scenes

Brent House

Breaking clods of history to a poverty of clay & rich symmetry until patriarchs cannot breathe

& reins downlash.
                                                                                            a justified rede

Even unto the seventh generation:
passing. No farm is done in love.

Passing   a mule stooped & no longer goes                                                      so a hammer on a head

humors blood with bile

& scored dirt.


Here   flitter past field flowers & land on piles

ground rich to till.
Used to be we moved light.

Now there’s only some stem blooming out

                                                                             pulp of word

Well   did anybody hear such a sound?

& heaps saw the land scraped bare & a good many was for.


You ever get all swole up

like you been roused by a righteous copse
& centripetal rounds bone deep?



I do.

Some time I gander

at all the dust & dang

semblance kin carry to greaves.


We all pared to an altering

falling in a heavy slant of cut

like a tractor into a pond after rolling over the burrow of nutria

not at all indigenous.
Futhorc  we ain’t either.

It’s just sad when you can’t even root for your own self.

Ain’t no justice in eyre

some briary binary

& all. I been told wherever I go

there I am

still I go to cedar closets.

Need is a conferment of grace

gifts of gab raining on lealand
no morsure for rest
an ictus above the fold
tenable phylacteries.

Lord   have mercy me.


Sometimes I think our cattle ain’t gonna bear nothing more than sacks of cotton seed hulls.

I am prod to believe if they trod ruts through the fields like they did last winter there won’t be no

fields left.


I will tell you what                                                                           hooves can cut soil something wicked

& this county used to be rich woods.


I shunt start pining.


Accept once was ochre & ochre                                                                                                      & mist.

& wood the builders reject has become the sill. This is the Lord doing & behold

Hancock County

behold coming to you lowly & sitting

a donkey   a colt   the foal of a donkey.


Used to be we carry a cross.

Now we might as well throw it out the window.

This a pitiful mess.

I am just a dyvour in a plethora of good ingretients & good facture that done jaup in.


Much obliged to come home.                                                               Lord willing & the creek don’t rise.

I just can’t contend with creeks.


I am just a shieve against a flow

& the bridge is far past flooded over.

Back down on Shaw Road past Crane Creek where some my Shaw cousins live.

One won some 4-H show with an angus heifer named Nige when he was young. I never

much associated with the bunch.


I don’t want to see the crest.                                                                           Not like it’s not wet all over.


Every sleugh in these parts of the woods is all choked up.

The air is large & wet.


I thought I could pretergress beyond.                                                                                I reckon I can’t.

Thunder & wind is pelting down upon & hitherward.


If it’s not one thing                                                                                                                  it’s the other.


All kinds of cotton picking problems.

These days are getting harder & harder to be a good fallow.

I miss tin roofs                                                                                                                             good rest

what God has cleansed we must not call common

a dumosity in sodden decay

venules of fall.


The Spirit of the Land is come upon Me                                     anointing with the gospel of water & dirt

to reclaim of downtrodden                                                     an acceptable way to be silt within ground.


I might utter to a birch & hidden acres

but we been imbued with enough water to fill a gaggle of number three washtubs full.


& the creek is bigger than I can take in                                                   full enough to swallow us whole.