Rose ribbon rolls out
above belfry silhouette
as created sun
sets over an erection
to deity’s unmade son.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
Rose ribbon rolls out
above belfry silhouette
as created sun
sets over an erection
to deity’s unmade son.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
Note: I attended a poetry workshop conducted by Tina Chang, who gave us the difficult task of writing a poem in the person of someone we detest. There aren’t too many people I detest, but Fred Phelps was one of them, so here is my attempt to speak in his persona.
“They all dared to accuse
only me of hate-mongering,
blind to the hypocrisy of their
own “say no” campaigns,
and though I felt no love
for them and their wicked
ways, I acted always
for their benefit,
condemning their actions,
trying to prise them away
from their iniquitous obsession,
calling them to leave it,
to repent before
the point of no return,
when the wrath
of an angry God,
worse by many orders
of magnitude than
any human hate,
a God who loathes them
for their abomination
and will consume
them body and soul
in the flames of his fury,
and as they burn,
they will turn to one
another and acknowledge
whom they should have
despised.”
Copyright 201
T. Allen Culpepper
On tiptoe, my palms against the smooth wood paneling,
my fingers clutching the cool aluminum frame of the
roll-out windows that will soon be a factor in many tricycle
accidents resulting in minor head injuries, I can just
peak outside and see our dog, stretched on the splintery
deck, pine trees dropping their straw-like needles,
the little lake’s blue-grey waves, a dull-green fishing
boat anchored in the slough, sun bleaching the driveway
sand; hear the buzz of the screened-out mosquitoes,
a distant rhythmic splash; smell fish and sap, gardenia
blossoms and outboard-motor fuel, the last of which
will many years later, when the trailer is gone, the trees
have been cut, and the dog has gone wherever good
dogs go, remind me always of my late uncle skiing.
Note: This is the result of an exercise I did in a workshop conducted by Ben Myers at the Nimrod writers’ conference in Tulsa, Oklahoma, October 2015.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
Flora) the Goddesse of flowres, but indede (as saith Tacitus) a famous harlot, which with the abuse of her body hauing gotten great riches, made the people of Rome her heyre: who in remembraunce of so great beneficence, appointed a yearely feste for the memoriall of her, calling her, not as she was, nor as some doe think, Andronica, but Flora: making her the Goddesse of all floures, and doing yerely to her solemne sacrifice. –Gloss on the March eclogue from Spenser’s Shepheardes Calender
A humble goddess, Flora,
rooting herself in dirt,
but hardly a modest one,
dressing in gaudy colors,
spreading her petals
for all and sundry,
present at every celebration,
willing even to comfort the sick,
always at the funerals,
though she owns no black.
Her great joy is the springtime,
when fluids begin to circulate,
her heyday the heat of summer
if the heat doesn’t dry up her business;
in the quieter autumn she stays mum,
in winter keeps to her bed.
Some have called her whore and harlot,
but she prefers the gentler courtesan,
dispenser of attainable beauty,
perishable, fleeting, but yet perennial.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
I confess I killed the blanket flower,
snuffed out its autumnal blossoms
petaled in hues of mustard and rust,
brought from the nursery fully quick
but now dead brown out by the walk.
It was not an act of willful murder,
and yet I acknowledge herbicide
by negligence: I know that it handled
its tangled roots much too roughly,
knew even then I was confining them
in too small a pot, the only one I had,
bigger than the nursery container,
but still, I left them no room to stretch
and thrive, unwilling to make the minor
sacrifice of returning to the store
to pay the higher price for a larger pot
and lug home the heavier clay. And
then I fear I might have overwatered
the poor thing as well. Harboring yet
the faintest hope of its resurrection,
I can’t just throw it heartlessly away,
even knowing that the cause is all
but lost. I regret my careless actions
and wish that I could make amends,
but I know a jury of seasoned gardeners
would find me guilty in two minutes.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper