Tall Corn Oakley

I swear by June the corn looked down
even when I stood astride eight 
growling cylinders of Deere.
On the fourth I put two
of my broad-shouldered boys
‘tween my my number twelves and the hood
and still couldn’t reach the first husk.
August, as hot months go, went
like a fairy tale
of clouds that swallowed
ear after ear of golden eggs.
Not a kernel knuckled under
to the early September drought.
And fall didn’t stop my climb
to the top. Where I ended up
you won’t believe,
but I tell you true: That crop
gave Harvest Moon a whole new meaning —
sure as I’m standing here. 

Oakley On Mud

Mud! We’ve had fields so muddy
a man would sink to his knees
if he was walking on his hands. 
I’ve seen butterflies land on a cabbage 
and push the whole head under.
You know how muddy a field is
when you shine a flashlight on it,
and it won’t support the spot. Why
once a flock of crows
flew over a sinking tractor —
the downdraft spun’em to the ground.
I sunk in over my head once 
ten years ago. Held my breath
fifteen minutes ‘til they dug me out.
Look here — See this dirt under my nails?
Never did clean’em
so I wouldn’t forget. 

Oakley on the Level

Now, with laser controls
you can pick bacon from your teeth 
while you pull the planer
and still get the grade perfect
for irrigating. Years back
you had to study the land, plant
every bump, dip and ripple
in your brain. 
One fellow I knew
put a half-glass of water
‘tween his legs in the tractor,
cut the slope by the tilt of the water.
Another could tell by watching his collie
walk alongside him. Me — I used
the sun and the bill of my cap. Ah,
back then when you pumped water
in one end of a row
and it flowed to the other 
just right —
felt like you were flowing with it. 

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These three poems appeared in Sou’wester in Fall, 1985.

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David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions and has appeared in numerous journals. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8

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If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like contemporary dark stories and poems, you may also want to check out The Chamber Magazine.

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Strathfieldsaye, Dja Dja Wurrung Country

i.
creekside—
river red gums
creak

ii.
perched
on a river red gum branch—
an Aussie wood duck 
goes gnaarrk…

iii.
amidst birdsongs—
Eastern banjo frogs
resonate

iv.
I walk along this creek—
all fellow walkers 
say hi

• Ginko is the Japanese term for a haiku walk, which involves going on a walk to find inspiration for haiku writing.

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Michael Leach is an award-winning Australian poet and academic at Monash University School of Rural Health. Michael’s poems reside in various outlets and his two books: Chronicity (MPU, 2020) and Natural Philosophies (RWP, 2022). Michael lives on unceded Dja Dja Wurrung Country and acknowledges the traditional custodians of the land.

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If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like contemporary dark stories and poems, you may also want to check out The Chamber Magazine.

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The Ghosts of Wilson, KS

At the Opera House, the spectral shadows march 
militantly through the sunken Sokal gymnasium,
chanting “a strong mind in a strong body”,
while dining in smoky air, from a ghostly kitchen.

Above the basement, on the second floor,
Blind Boone tickles the mystic ivories,
summoning the eldritch  tornado, 
while the shadowy dancers on the third floor 
ballroom flit and skim across the hardwood floors,
a chilling inch above the sawdust.
They are wraiths to a worldly audience,
ephemeral in history, transparently 
strolling through the burnt-out shell of the Opera house; 

At night sleeping with the ghosts at the Midland Railroad Hotel,
I  hear echoes of whispery voices in the carriage 
of the Butterfield Overland Express, 
the tinny reverberations of the player piano,
and the phantasmal banjo of the medicine show.

But I awake to the whistle and grumbles 
of the Union Pacific Railroad outside my window.
The train no longer stops for anyone, 
not even me, a sojourner amidst
the phantoms, manes and lemures,
crowding the train tracks and the sidewalks 
in front of the Wilson Czech Opera House.

The Saline River

Graphite nails scratch the blue slate skies  - the wild cedar grows.
Limestone posts ghost the Smoky Hills- burnt  white by sun.
The river brown, sluggish- like mud swallows nesting.
In sunburnt bison pastures - herefords dot the smoky hills.
Dead cottonwoods choke the dirty brown of the Saline River.
The creeks are dry twigs - spilling drought into the land.

Baseball in Thunderstorm

Sun setting to the west where dark blankets lie upon the land.
Wind turbines reflecting like white spotlights, bubbling up,
then flattening out in the darkling sky
like a white ball slamming into brown leather.
The American flag stiff and straight
as the front moves through the baseball field.
Wind gusts throws red dirt into our eyes, coats our throats,
and explodes the stadium lights in left field.
The ball gets lost in a scramble of dirt, players,
and umpires, between shortstop and second base.
When it settles with a fist thrown down, and a slam of rain,
Players run for yellow buses, and parents to dusty pickup trucks.

God’s Handmaiden

The hand, warm and calloused
gently grasped my small fingers,
stroking them in a gentle beat 
to the sounds of the pastor's voice
sending love 
coursing through my body.

Those hands could dig a hole 
in the garden, pick the mulberries
and pears, take the apricots
and make jam. 
Sitting with her snapping beans
looking out the picture window 
at the trumpet vine blooming orange
along the porch posts.
 
Later I’d eat the green beans with bacon
and have a dish of ice cream with strawberries.
Her still voice whispers prayers 
between the line dried sheets 
and the basket quilt, snuggling me asleep.

A Baseball Lunch

Thursday, 
5:30pm,
meeting daddy for lunch,
where I’ll tell him about the baseball game in Lucas.

I’ll ask,

“Did you play on that field?”  

I’ll explain my confusion about errors
and did they have a 10 run rule?

“Tell me again about the time Satchel Page played in Sylvan Grove. 

 Did you get to see him play?”

I brought you my flowers to show from my work. 
The ham and cheese sandwich, 
bought at the home convenience store is soggy.

“I don’t think you would like it”.

“ I’d leave the flowers for you
 but I’m afraid the wind would blow them away.”

Plastic fields of flowers.
Polished granite stones stand strong.
Spring wheat sways in wind.

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Barbara A Meier( Pseudonym) is a writer living in Lincoln, KS. She has been published in The Poeming Pigeon, Pure Slush, Metonym, Young Ravens Literary Review, and The Bangor Literary Journal.

She has three chapbooks published: “Wildfire LAL 6”, from Ghost City Press, “Getting Through Gold Beach”, from Writing Knights Press, and  “Sylvan Grove”, from The Poetry Box. She loves all things ancient.  She works in a second-grade classroom and in her free time she likes to drive the dirt roads around Lincoln.

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Please share this to give it maximum distribution. Our contributors’ only pay is exposure.

If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like contemporary dark stories and poems, you may also want to check out The Chamber Magazine.

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