Morning Sun

The hungover sun,
still pale from last night,
blankets itself in clouds
and reaches red-fingered
for the snooze button:
Just ten more minutes;
the planets can wait.

Copyright 2017
T. Allen Culpepper


The Worms Are Coming

Though drinking only coffee,
methought the lawn did move,
and I was not mistaken:
A thousand thousand warrior worms,
making their circuitous march
behind waving blades of grass,
like the soldiers bearing branches
that made the Arden Forest walk.
Their mission remains classified,
but I fear the plot’s not comic.

Copyright 2017
T. Allen Culpepper


When the heat arrives, around half-past July,

time shifts into a different dimension:

Not-a-morning-persons sip coffee on front steps

in their underwear at dawn; restless dogs drag

their lagging humans along the streets on midnight walks;

high noon drops the dead weight of silent stillness

over thirsty lawns toasted crisp and brown,

petunias and impatiens limp and yellow,

wilted over their funereal pots, a calico cat

melting in the meager shade of a sad azalea,

her breath her only motion. A dry wind rises,

swirling dust and rustling the crepe-myrtle branches,

but it brings no comfort, no relief from the sun god

relentlessly blessing his subjects.


Copyright 2017

T. Allen Culpepper