Part 6 (1/2)

HAG-HOLLERIN' TIME

Black Julius peered out from the galley fly; Behind Jim Island, lying long and dim; An infra owl-light tinged the twilight sky As if a bonfire burned for cherubim.

Dark orange flames came leering through the pines, And then the moon's face, struggling with a sneeze, Along the flat horizon's level lines Her nostrils fingered with palmetto trees.

Her platinum wand made water wrinkles buckle; Old Julius gave appreciative chuckle; ”It's jes about hag-hollerin' time,” he said.

I watched the globous buckeyes in his head

Peer back along the b.l.o.o.d.y moon-wash dim To see the fish-tailed water-witches swim.

H.A.

MACABRE IN MACAWS

After the hurricane of the late forties, Peter Polite says, in the live-oak trees Were weird, macabre macaws And ash-colored c.o.c.katoos, blown overseas From Na.s.sau and the West Indies.

These hopped about like dead men's thoughts Among the draggled Spanish moss, Preening themselves, all at a loss, Preening faint _caws_, And shrieking from nostalgia-- With dull screams like a child Born with neuralgia-- And this seems true to me, Fitting the landscape's drab grotesquery.

H.A.

GAMESTERS ALL[7]

The river boat had loitered down its way; The ropes were coiled, and business for the day Was done. The cruel noon closed down And cupped the town.

Stray voices called across the blinding heat, Then drifted off to shadowy retreat Among the sheds.

The waters of the bay Sucked away In tepid swirls, as listless as the day.

Silence closed about me, like a wall, Final and obstinate as death.

Until I longed to break it with a call, Or barter life for one deep, windy breath.

A mellow laugh came rippling Across the stagnant air, Lifting it into little waves of life.

Then, true and clear, I caught a s.n.a.t.c.h of harmony; Sure lilting tenor, and a drowsing ba.s.s, Elusive chords to weave and interlace, And poignant little minors, broken short, Like robins calling June-- And then the tune: ”Oh, n.o.body knows when de Lord is goin ter call, _Roll dem bones_.

It may be in de Winter time, and maybe in de Fall, _Roll dem bones_.

But yer got ter leabe yer baby an yer home an all-- _So roll dem bones_, Oh my brudder, Oh my brudder, Oh my brudder, _Roll dem bones!_”

There they squatted, gambling away Their meagre pay; Fatalists all.

I heard the muted fall Of dice, then the a.s.sured, Retrieving sweep of hand on roughened board.

I thought it good to see Four lives so free From care, so indolently sure of each tomorrow, And hearts attuned to sing away a sorrow.

Then, like a shot Out of the hot Still air, I heard a call: ”Throw up your hands! I've got you all!

It's thirty days for c.r.a.ps.

Come, Tony, Paul!

Now, Joe, don't be a fool!

I've got you cool.”

I saw Joe's eyes, and knew he'd never go.

Not Joe, the swiftest hand in River Bow!

Springing from where he sat, straight, cleanly made, He soared, a leaping shadow from the shade With fifty feet to go.