poetry by phil flott

Contest with Wood

I set the soft cedar chunk on the bench, to drive a nail into, a 16 common, all 3 &1/4” of it, one tap to start it, then bury the nail with one swing.

My challenger was built like a Greek god; a football player, now my summer apprentice; he knew that, but I knew this.

Because I loved him  I knew my lesson would not be lost on him.

My years of experience at cocking the wrist of my hammer hand at the perfect moment sunk the nail under the surface of the wood.

No me gloating, just his delightful awe that such a thing was possible with that matter.

That day I, the once 98 lb weakling from grade school days, filled the niche of champion I aspired to, witnessed by a ‘Greek god.’

Fifties’ Alfalfa Incident

Baling in the blistering sun young teenagers, wanting to work, be considered real ‘men.’

The old hands chirped friendliness except that one abrasive guy who’d never felt the sun  on his closed heart.

Too many on the same wagon hooking the bales. 

My younger brother’s hand  aligned under the mis-placed iron  the smart aleck man mis-wielded.

Quietly  a red blood stream, stigma of the baling hook,  melded between bones— weathered iron and flesh became one. 

From that day brother was bigger  our grouches small  of no account.

I Wouldn’t Cry an Inch

You are so faithless   but I know how that got started.  You were too big for the Bag,  so you lay very still in her. 

your eyes quit following the white rose wallpaper,  the breeze filtered in through the flat, muslin curtains   waltz of a formless white cloud,  a sprawl at the end of your young ceiling.

Instead of eating dreams of golden daffodils  you had to bathe from the Mississippi’s brown silt,   frantically looking for two dead sisters.    After all, your high head could be next.

You rest faint in a fever of fear.  You know you should, but you just can’t breathe.   when you catch your breath,   whom are you going to let take it from you? 

Finally they deliver you bowls of gumbo.  You slurp up what makes you feel full.   You don’t need a soul to rock you,   shouts the mirror. 

Phil Flott is a retired priest. He has recently seen his poems in Passager, Pensive Journal, Sangam, Vita Poetica, and other places.