An Otherwordly Moment


It’s called the golden hour, says a friend,

the leading edge of autumnal evening,

when an eerie, unearthly light seeps in

to make a familiar landscape alien,

when, perhaps, this world’s inclination

grazes the portal into another; the

street stretches empty in front of me,

with a car or two, the odd dumpster

set out at curbside early, but no

human sound or movement, nor even

the bark of a dog or fleeting motion

of a prowling cat, all still and silent

except for the rustle of a ragged

wind through the orange and brown

leaves of the great oak next door,

its branches billowing out into a vacant

sky the uneasy color of watery blue

filtered through the rosy shades

of solitude in denial.


Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper

Turner Park at Dusk

It’s cooler this evening, or not quite as hot,

and the park is quiet and pleasant.

A few children on the playground equipment,

one curious youngster investigated one

of the storm-felled trees; watchful parents

on benches beside the playground or under the shelters.

The lamps are lit, though it’s not quite dark.

There’s a friendly soccer match under way

on the adjacent pitch beside the high school,

but it must be getting hard for the players

to see each other and the ball and goals,

the yellow lights from the school parking lot

a little too distant, lending them little aid.

No on at all on the path this evening;

I can cycle around the loop without having

to dodge pedestrians two abreast or

the kids who ride in confused circles,

lost in their little worlds, heedless

of the motion of adults around them.

Odd there are no dogs and walkers–

Wait, here’s a black lab arriving, as I leave.


Copyright 2013

T. Allen Culpepper