Gray bones,
having defied weather
of an uncertain century,
prop the structure
with proud erectness.
Dusty tobacco,
its earthy cologne,
in prominent notes
of manure, sweat,
sod and corn,
the blood of every
board and plank.
Rodent, fowl,
serpent and spider,
those familiar church
worshippers,
trample the cattle’s
communion, both
holy ritual and
hidden shelter
of tiny players and
secret lovers.
— © Rick Baldwin
The nail
resists being struck
folding at the impact
is straightened and hit
again buckling
and bending
into its own shape
eventually pounded
and pummeled
deep into the
wood coffin.
— © Rick Baldwin
Life is a forever
burning fire
from which the
flame of you
fleetingly
flickers; before,
in a flash,
separating and
spiraling into
its own
extinguishment.
— © Rick Baldwin
a wooden line of lovers
like rotting fence posts
each stake more weathered
and hollow than
the previous
until the last
completely broken and
serving no purpose
— © Rick Baldwin
When she carved the pumpkin
her hands sunk deep into it
then, as she scooped the flesh,
she thought of the murder–
how the face went soft,
yet wide-eyed and open-mouthed,
the stringy seeds spilling out
onto her dress
as she twisted the knife in;
his body thrusting forward
not expecting the delivery
or that she would fight back,
now a pile of damp pulp
on the old, wood floor was
all that remained to be cleared
before the celebration–
her steady hand putting
flame to the candle,
and placing the toothy head
in front of the house
as a beacon to those who
would come knocking
that night.
— © Rick Baldwin
