Sample Poems by Gary
Thompson
At Livingston Park
The
towheaded boy
in black swimming togs
is clinging to the fence
that keeps the
ducks and geese
and lordly swans
safe in their shadowy pond
away from little-
boy hands.
His hair is newly wet
and spots of water soak
dirt dark around
his white,
white feet. Maybe a boy-
sized hole is where those prints
start from?
Maybe rocks are piled
there to block the way for boys
not birds?
The boy
is rapt,
his body draped
against the fence, his attention
upon the flock. He is
making
secret wishes to catch
dreams he's trying to live-
a pageant of birds in
place
of ordinary days.
Weeping willow branches
grace the shore the
birds
are swimming near.
The boy's aglow
with innocence. The swans
are
white, so white they shine.
All's touched by sun, except the sand
his shadow
blackens.
Speaking in the Unknown Tongue
It is
eight minutes to eight
beneath a bare, swaying bulb
and the women are
speaking
to God, their best-skirted bodies
swaying to music they
make.
Whatever words-if they are words-
being tongued, someone has
scrawled
in neat hand on the blackboard:
When did Mississippi become a
state?
Some raise a hand or hands,
eyes closed, to their Lord
and speak
with so much passion
their bodies seem to float
off the floor. What state
in the
union has more colored
than white______, the hand asks.
And what does God
say
when service is over and the women
walk down dark paths to their
homes
speaking of children?
Ans: On Dec. 10,
1817.
Baptist Deacon
He's a ways down
the
Lord's road now,
tapping with his cane
keeping the weeds away.
Those
big ears,
they heard a calling
in carpet-bagging years,
and he set off
wandering
following Jesus off
into terrible shadows,
his cane shooing
people
back unto the path.
He searched his best.
Now he's mostly
ghost-
worn shoes, white Sunday suit,
cane pointing to the
light.
The Mattress Factory
Two women sit and
rest
after a morning of making
mattresses.
The old one's drowsy
eyes
droop as if dreaming
of a bed somewhere-
maybe that soft one,
that
rope-and-sack relic
her husband passed on in.
The young one's eyes
have
already taken off
work, gazing out
the loading-dock door
toward
evening.
She wears a straight sack
dress and kerchief
pulled tight around her
head.
She's looking good,
poor but good, and she knows
what a bed is
for.
Certain enough, hunched
against a far wall, a workyard
Casanova
appears to snooze.
But beneath the brim of his hat,
his eyes peek past the
crone
and rest on the curves
of the pretty one.
Behind the
threesome,
unfinished mattresses are piled
three high, ticking
waits to be cut
and sewn,
questions float in shadow and light
waiting for answers-
Are the
two small windows
cut into the face of the building
the unblinking eyes of
God,
or simply a world watching
this most human
of human
predicaments?
Making a Date
Crumpled
hat
in his torn back pocket,
the shy tobacco picker
has walked to town
to
woo his girl.
She's not convinced,
a bit stand-offish
but listening,
pinkie
scrunching her nose and cheek
in a portrait of thinking.
Her
scuffed white oxfords
two-step with his dark boots.
Smitten, the picker
fumbles
through his only good pocket-
so what is she waiting
for?
Saturday Off
Her
countrified
Mona Lisa eyes
draw us
into her world-
a world of
work,
work, breathe,
work.
But it's Saturday
and she's off
the
afternoon
and evening.
Now she lounges,
leaning
against the
whitewashed
porch pillar,
languid
and open
in a rough-
cotton
smock.
Her face
is too relaxed
to smile, but joy
traces the
cheekbones
and edge
of a mysterious mouth
that Leonardo
would surely
love.
Somehow the bones
of her body have gone
on vacation,
except for
the arm
she leans on
and the oddly-placed
feet,
which seem to
resent
the work
they still must do.