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A Little Lite Verse
A Little Lite Verse
A Little Lite Verse
Ebook124 pages54 minutes

A Little Lite Verse

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21 September 2001

A little bit about A LITTLE LITE VERSE by Darnell Fulgham:

Born in a sharecroppers shack in 32, I thought we were well off, still do. To Memphis in the War, with picture shows, free books, and indoor plumbing. Went home again, played football, drafted for Korean Conflict, sent to Panama instead. Studied art at Southern MS and architecture at Oregon. Met a middle child like me from Kansas. Tired of the rat race, herded chickens for a while, built a throwaway back in the woods and added on as three boys came, put in a drafting board upstairs, stayed 20 years, moved up the hill and built a better solar shack. Its where we are today. I planned to do a few good buildings but got into a rut, became a hired gun, and couldnt do it any more. Ten years or so ago I took to writing verse. Ive filled 12 notebooks full so far. It was fun to do. I hope its fun for you. Heres a random sample:


FOSSILS

A razor scrapes the face of canyon walls.
Into the chasm at their feet it falls.
Through time it cuts the fossils free to find
Their way into collections kept behind
Closed doors, in crates on which curators have
Cemented labels: Bones too short to save.


THREESCORE AND TEN MORE OR LESS TO GO

At sixty you know you cant be a Greek god again,
But does this mean youve lost all that you had?
Growing older, is it all that bad?
Is what youve got in some ways better than,
Or has life really lost its zingaling?

The ways of love wont launch a thousand ships
And lust no longer leads you by the nose.
The flood more slowly swells, more gently flows.
Its siren songs not quite so sweet, but drips
Its honey still, and still can sting.


LOCAL COLOR

He went through the alley past the Methodist Church
And forced the lock on the banks back door.
He carried a chrome plated .22 and wore
A flour sack with eyeholes over his face.
Except for Mr Finger, the clerk, the place
Was empty. He asked for the cash he had on hand,
Took the moneybag and went the way he came.
(When he learned who it was he said, I dont understand.
If hed asked, Ida loaned it toim on his name.)
The sheriff and Chief Miller asked around
But figured he was long gone and never would be found.
Then the FBI came trooping in and took over the search.
Folks didnt take to their snooping, said, Theres nothing to find."
When they spied on a suspect from inside the school
The principal had a fit, said, Hes a friend of mine!
They rolled up their pants, joined hands, and waded through the pool
In Red Drapers pasture and found the alleg-ed money sack.
Then, hoping for a witness, they doubled back
To the end of the alley across from the church and made a stop
At Polly Burneys home and Beauty Shoppe.
They asked again if she had seen anything.
Didnt see a soul, she said, cept ol Duel King.


THE SOUND A STEAM TRAIN MAKES

He lives down on the tracks, around the curve or
Rather under Blantons Gap. With fervor
He works on the section gang for them.
In trade the company takes good care of him.

A whistle drifting down from Williams Hill
And coal smoke blowing in the wind, the squeal
Of brakes when stopping in its tracks.
It cannot turn around, when coming backs.


THE SEIGE OF BANKSTON

In order to achieve
Surprise they came on Christmas Eve,
With matches in their saddlebags.
They had the town alight
Before defenders woke to find
Theyd lost the fight.

The mayor in his gown appeared, aghast.
Why are you burning up our town? he asked.
The troopers had retorts prepared:
Its only orders, said their head.
And good for warming hands,
Another said.

Too bad bout the old man
We had to shoot because he ran.
Next day they had
LanguageEnglish
PublisherXlibris US
Release dateMar 27, 2001
ISBN9781477172780
A Little Lite Verse
Author

Darnell Fulgham

Born in a sharecropper’s shack in ’32, I thought we were well off. Still do. To Memphis in the War, and things, free books, picture shows, indoor plumbing. Home again, played football, proved myself a man. Drafted for Korea, Panama instead. Art, then Architecture. Met a middle child like me. We moved 12 times the next three years. Went home again (not hers, she says) and built a throwaway, added on as three boys came, stayed 20 years. Moved up the hill and built a solar shack. Had 2000 chickens, sold and ate the eggs and later, them. Back to drawing houses, built a few, became a basket case. Prozac pulled me through. Took to writing verse, I guess as an excuse to hang with words to see what they would say. And read, to hear what they said yesterday. Growing up and old, our times and wars, letters not meant to mail, trying to make sense and nonesense out of things—whatever occurred to me. Not too negative, not to whine too much, subtlety a no-no, ironic, a little levity.

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