Two Cabin Poems

Some Hidden Work From The Hard Drive

Photo by James Bruce on Unsplash

Greetings, friends!

Something I am hoping to do with Talebones is to use it as a venue for sharing work that has sat—untouched and unseen—on my computer. Sometimes for years. These bits and pieces may be a bit random, but they have meaning to me, and it’s nice to finally have a place to share them!

The following two poems were written at the family cabin—hence, “cabin poems”—and they describe real events. In the first, our impromptu funeral for a stray cat we found struck by a car. The second, an outsider’s view of the lives of our misanthropic neighbors down the beach in an honest effort to see things from their point of view.

These odd poems have never belonged anywhere in my shared online world, so I hope they find their audience here. Let me know what you think!

Also!

My flash fiction piece, Cliffsong, is eligible for a Lunar Award here on Substack! If you haven’t already, check it out and let me know what you think.

For more bits and pieces like this, along with fiction fun of all shapes and sizes, subscribe for free!

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Thoughts by the Grave of an Unknown Cat

it was not dignified,
we thought,
to leave you where you had fallen;
and your kind
as we all know
are very concerned with dignity.

who knows how long you had lay there
on the rural road back from town;
a motionless snip of flame
already snuffed out.

so funeral arrangements were made,
hurried, but no less sincere.

we buried you carefully in the quiet woods
across the path from the wild apple tree,
with three sprigs of herb robert
seven wild roses
and a spotted feather.

I dream of you, sometimes, your spirit
sleek and bright
haunting the woods where you sleep,
your ears twitching at every fluttering thrush-song
your ghostly breath
a cool breeze
that makes the songbirds pause
and listen.

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Explosives

they say she died in a car accident
the elderly mother of those two grown-up boys;
that she was the one who kept them in line
rattling voice
TV screen glow
canetip tapping on the floor.

now they spend their days drinking
cursing at the dog
smoking in the yard
lighting M-80s on the beach.

when they explode
thunder rumbles up and down the narrow channel
echoes dying away on the wind,

and neighbors in their waterfront cabins
mutter under collective breath
too Pacific Northwest polite 
to call the cops.

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