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
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Author Archives: 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
Lush
In the greenish light
of an August thunderstorm,
flora wet and lush.
Copyright 2017
T. Allen Culpepper
Astronomy Lesson
Sirius chewed off a piece
of the Moon Pie in the sky last night,
dropping a meteor shower of crumbs,
and after the approaching sun
melted the vanilla icing off,
the rest fell into the horizon,
like a giant misshapen coin
sliding into the sofa crack of the universe.
Copyright 2017
T. Allen Culpepper
Heat
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
Dancer
For Maria Spelleri
Stage-dressed all in pink,
crepe myrtle dances with wind,
scattering petals.
Copyright 2017
T. Allen Culpepper
Shade
A line of shadow
cuts across the sunlit lawn,
deepening its green.
Copyright 2017
T. Allen Culpepper
