Dying Tree Struck By Lightning

Dying Tree Struck By Lightning

A lightning bolt smashed that tree,

And the wind finished it off.

The bark is now shredded.

The trunk is broken in half.

Parts of its heart are now

Exposed, violated, burnt open

By an ancient summer storm.

Still a branch emerges,

Trying to salvage it all, 

A tiny, scraggly, childish reach,

A baby's fist in the face of death,

To save fifty feet of dying tree,

A hundred years of growth abandoned.

I Saw A Cloud Like an Angel

I saw a cloud shaped like an angel,
Or maybe it was more like an eagle,
While driving between Opelika and Columbus one morning.
I hoped it was an eagle,
Swooping down, claws opened,
About to catch a trout from somewhere beyond the rooftops.
I hoped it was an eagle
While I watched it fading...fading...fading away.
I hoped it was an eagle and not an angel;
When angels fall to earth,
They don't get back up.

The City

Clickety-clack
Go the trains
Go the dice
Go the rains
Go the mice
Go the pains.
Everything's rollin'
Growin'
People fly like flies
Without legs
Birds without eggs
Home somewhere ahead
But no homes in the city
Houses but no homes,
Mice sneaking in after hours,
Leave the lights off
I'll scurry through.
Pardon you
I was just passing through
Got someplace to get to
Edge me off the map awhile
Take me off the grid
Let me breathe on the z-axis
Let me jump from the y.
Let some other day be my
Day to fry
Hooked in at all my ports
To the electric blood of night,
No pillow drowns the siren wail
Of the city baby, the baby city
Blue-red lights
That can't get enough milk
From the single mom.
It bleeds
Not blood but ice
Crunching in the steps of strangers
Marble statues walking by each other,
Cells in the same body not talking
No one wonders.
The devil commutes,
Takes the interstate over the bridge
Into the city
Grumbles on his way
About the traffic
Never looks out his window pane
Doesn't make eye contact
Doesn't want trouble today.

The House

The House

A young couple, newly married, get into their car.
The house sits at the curb and whines,
Its red-painted door shining in the morning,
"Come back to me, sit inside,
Make my hearth beat,
Preheat the oven,
Light the pilot light,
Let me live with you."

The man tightens his lip,
And he doesn't look at the house,
Not willing to say anything of comfort to it,
Afraid his voice might shake his resolve,
But the woman cries, and she holds up her hand.
"Stay," she says. "Please, don't follow us," she says.

They decide that a house is too big a committment.
They leave theirs to wait on the side of Highway 280
Between Opelika and Columbus,
Like people trading in their dog for a turtle,
Or a screeching bird.

The house stays. They told it to stay.
"They'll come back," it says.
Its neighborhood watch sticker turns white and peels.
Nobody to watch it now.
"They'll find me," it says to itself.
Its head turns as the cars pass by,
And it listens for their little van
For the four doors opening wide like bird wings,
Children laughing from school and daycare.

"They'll come," the house says,
"There'll be a Thanksgiving here,
The overwhelming turkey-cooking smell,
Cranberry sauce, stuffing and the stuffed.
They'll be crammed wall to wall,
Bumping butt to shoulder as they try
To find their seats at the family table.

"These cars will see me in the cold November,
And they will want the warmth inside,
The orange glow of Autumn candles,
Televisions tuned to the Auburn-Alabama rivalry,
Everybody's belly full.

"The drivers will open and close their fingers
By the air-conditioner ducts in their cars,
And wish they were inside, 
Back in their warm beds, 
Not commuting, but dreaming in my dreams.

"My family'll come and they'll bring their children home,
And in the morning: Styrofoam,
Crinkling cellophane and too many plastic pieces,
And daddy, without his slippers,
Will step on sharp little monsters in the carpet,
And jump back like spiders were biting.
Mother will be making breakfast,
Pancakes and eggy breakfast casseroles,
Eggnog staining the inside of green glasses.
The hangover of too much Christmas will settle in
And I'll sleep under the white blanket on my head,"

The house stays in Alabama near Highway 280.

The cars go by, and the house stays;
Its masters told it to stay.

The signs grow like weeds in the front yard:
First Realty, Rice Realty, Century 21,
For Sale By Owner.


The signs disappear.

Paint peels.
A few of the shingles shift.
The front steps rot.
Cats have kittens in the crawlspace.
Chimney swifts hatch in the chimney,
Bats chitter in the attic, a constant noise.
The house has forgotten their car,
The warm slide of its tires in its driveway, 
The familiar jangle of keys.

The cars out on 280 have a warmth the house envies,
Commuters huddle in their coats,
Air-conditioners breathing across the radios
A man and woman chat about inconsequences and latest news.
Journey plays between blasts of hiphop and Lady Gaga.
No one looks for their bedrooms beyond the windows here again.


To the house, these are breaths of winter, 
Sighs only
A bleb of life that might look, 
See only ruins of memories,
And forget it in the next commercial.

The house shivers.

It waits on its own porch,
Termites and carpenter bee larvae in its bones.
It looks over the helmet heads gathered.
It looks over the rumbling bulldozer.

"I stayed. You told me to stay,"
The house breathes out.

WELCOME ONE AND ALL TO JARED GULLAGE'S MODERN POETRY INVENTIONS.  I am going to use this blog to showcase my efforts at writing poetry.  In all humility, I submit my poetry to the world that I might reach out to people who enjoy reading poetry, learn more about writing poetry, reach a broader audience and attract it to my writing in general, and hopefully entertain someone along the way.  If you come to this site, expect to see poetry that I have created.  Perhaps, one day, I will create a chapbook and publish it.  That is yet another goal here, I think.

Please, please, please, please feel free to make comments.  I want to learn.