Greetings, readers. Welcome back to Wednesday Words. Today I’m sharing one of my poems that, I’m thrilled to say, was just published in the June issue of The Florida Writer magazine. But first, I want to fill you in on changes I’ve made to my website.
- This blog is no longer taking new subscribers; the Subscribe boxes on my website are deleted.
- The Contact page on my website has been removed.
You can reach me if you already have my email address, or if you reply to this blog email, I’ll get your message that way.
An original Charlene poem
This poem is based on some of my childhood memories. Perhaps it’ll prompt you to reflect on happy times from your own childhood.
Again, I’m so happy it appeared, just two days ago, in The Florida Writer magazine. That’s the official magazine of The Florida Writers Association.
Thanks for reading!
Trucks and Hills
by Charlene Edge
The old blue truck pulled into Oak Hill Avenue,
a street of no oaks and no hills, only houses
like ours growing families and pets.
Mrs. Curtis, grey-haired and sun-wrinkled,
climbed down from the worn leather seat.
Her husband, pot-bellied and silent,
stepped out from the driver’s side,
met her at the tailgate, smiling.
My mother, hospitality personified, hugged them,
waited with me as they let loose the gate. Presto—
Earth’s treasures lay in baskets and barrels:
clusters of spinach tied with red bands,
Eastern Shore sweet corn crowned with gold tassels,
plump tomatoes pressed at their skins,
piles of green beans, fat cabbages, yellow squash and
dozens of eggs, brown as my summer arms.
For a while, the Curtis’s farm lay only in my imagination
until my parents drove me out to it: a foreign country
of dusty hay, clucking chickens, rows of soy fanning into the distance.
A cat with mewling kittens paraded by. Oh, we must take one,
Mrs. Curtis said. And we did.
*
After the move, the Curtis farmers delivered
to our house on Druid Hill Avenue,
as did a different truck, dull red and clunky.
Each truck parked out front past our lawn, on
our street graced with a gentle hill at the end
where a Loblolly pine sprang from the black road’s middle.
The red truck signaled the Junk Man’s arrival—
carrier of non-living items in boxes and crates:
defunct toasters, rusty can openers, cookie tins, hammer heads
missing arms, car jacks, and mysterious stuff—I didn’t know what.
Once, my dad dragged junk from our basement, offered
soldering tools left over from his hobby gone idle,
preferring, I think now, to show me stars through his telescope
set in our yard along Druid Hill.
BIO
Charlene Edge is an award-winning poet and author of Undertow: My Escape from the Fundamentalism and Cult Control of The Way International, her cult memoir.
Her most recent book is From the Porch to the Page: A Guidebook for the Writing Life.
For book descriptions, visit https://charleneedge.com.
Charlene on YouTube
Her book launch for From the Porch to the Page is on YouTube here.
