R. W. Haynes
In Zavala County by the Clear, Cold River
Somebody left a decapitated rattler
On the Nueces River bridge one summer,
And his still-proud, diamond-backed ghost
Haunts the place still, summer and winter,
And will, till what’s left finds what’s lost
In his mind or in mine, in both perhaps.
I camp below the bridge on our piece of river
Just above the waterfall. Wordsworth said
“The sounding cataract haunted me like a passion”
(As good a line as you’ll see on the subject),
And I can substitute “rattlesnake” for “cataract”
Without losing it all, not all at all,
All I owe to that old self-indulgent sport,
The wonderful Woodrow Wilson of the Wye.
If you sleep too close to the falls all night,
You’ll wake up deaf as a post, all right,
And on the Nueces you don’t want to find
That rattlesnake rattling his rattles in your mind.
Somebody left a decapitated rattler
On the Nueces River bridge one summer,
And his still-
And will, till what’s left finds what’s lost
In his mind or in mine, in both perhaps.
I camp below the bridge on our piece of river
Just above the waterfall. Wordsworth said
“The sounding cataract haunted me like a passion”
(As good a line as you’ll see on the subject),
And I can substitute “rattlesnake” for “cataract”
Without losing it all, not all at all,
All I owe to that old self-
If you sleep too close to the falls all night,
You’ll wake up deaf as a post, all right,
And on the Nueces you don’t want to find
That rattlesnake rattling his rattles in your mind.
Chickasawhatchee Tornado
This is a dream my grandmother had
Down on the farm.
She heard the racket, looked out the front,
And saw it headed straight for the house.
She ran to her widowed bed
And on her knees she asked for help.
Until the thing had spun away
With all the sheds and the smokehouse
And most of the pecan trees that stood
On three sides of her little place.
The shrieking twister
Circled the house,
Wrecking and howling,
Twisting roof-
Held the center.
It left, and a great rain
Thundered into action,
But she could barely hear it
After the monster.
And with the elation
Of her survival
Came the impulse
In the moment of bliss:
“Lord, I can’t wait to tell
My husband about this.”
Survivors
The deafening pandemonium
Of war’s shockwaves, shrieks and roars of fearsome
Human and inhuman conflicts which come
From the cacophonic martial harmonium
Give little rest or silence, calm or choice
To soldiers tense with agonized power
To listen for any still, small voice
Whispering wisdom in this distracted hour.
Yet the survivors, those who knew
A kind of grace in this chaos of force,
And who recall the tribute that is due
To fallen friends, compassionate remorse
And a kind of dedication, a gift from death,
Pause at times to listen, holding their breath.
© 2008 R. W. Haynes