The Poetry Of.
Kim Rush.............................
Hills
Weeds bend necks across a rocky path
clutching at legs as I thread my way
on mended feet.
Sweet-grass-green fragrance simmers in
waves of shivering summer humidity
pulling at the age in me.
Black bodies of crows wing their flight above the
bushy heads of maples, pines, spruces, oaks,
and the not so bushy head of me.
I push a wake of silence with me.
Rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks
skitter for cover
walking sound and life away.
A bed of soft moss invites me down
I lay with the green, absorbing the sun
on aged hills that were once mountains.
I pluck weed seeds from my socks
and they fall to the ground to grow.
Creative Writing 220
"Teacher, what are you?"
The question asked.
The question answered: (show the reader)
A Harley under specks of rust.
Liquid eyes closed.
Unsure hands
catching my children into life.
A toucher of soft female wonder.
A spot of thinning hair.
A bonsai tree of potential.
A wordsmith, laying crooked word walls.
a moment of life
Flashing Colors
A flash of young yellow-gold stopped me on a grey day.
She offered invitation to a peace rally, trying to stop a war
unnoticed by me.
She brought to surface a color, forgotten, stashed, long
covered by the dusty dwindle of living.
When hormones ran my body wild
and I invincible,
I met a guy, who was more than I.
His name forgotten, but not his knuckled touch,
I remember him as red.
He circled me behind Griffin's candy store,
fists held up as I.
I stared at his red lined eyes
watching for movement,
that I did not stop.
After closing my eye and mashing my lips
he left me on the concrete
steaming revenge,
but he came back after cackling peers rounded the corner,
his nose dripping red,
and offered me a hand up.
I slapped it away—the last touch.
A year later the paper read
he was lost to Vietnam.
Colors flash
Yellow-gold, red, and the black of death.
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