Rime of Time: Poetry and Short Stories

By Bev Lethem Davis

From the first chartreuse horizon to the final bend of Vera Road, Rime of Time is a beautiful journey through the soul. The lasting words of Bev Lethem Davis will inhabit my heart for years to come. - Anna Kittrell, Oklahoma's Best Author 2021, Oklahoma Living magazine.

Bev Lethem Davis's sharp perception of peopl

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Mar 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649906120

Book preview

Rime of Time, Once

July 1998

Peculiar yellow light hits

bedroom window at dawn

I rise expecting

funnel clouds see

only memories carried

on the rime of time

Across chartreuse horizon

heavy with moisture

dream returns

Cottonwoods slap leaves

birds cease their flutter

Quiet seizes the yard

Mother grabs the baby

Sister takes her brother’s

hand and chases Mother

toward the house. I

turn, in dead air,

watch roof of henhouse

suck away from me into

yellow climate yet

we are safe

We edge out toward blue

heavens as horizon

dims Fear fades

Life passes in time

Keeping Time

I don’t sing

but I remember song

the song of the whippoorwill

the chit chit of squirrel

a toddler singing the abc’s

Rod Stewart crooning Maggie Mae

(I knew a Maggie Mae. Long-legged

Ali McGraw lookalike. Wonder where

she’s singing now?)

The sleep songs of the lowing cattle,

Cricket chirps doves calming coo

My written words are my

song, the rhythmic thrum in

the verses, repetition of sound

alliteration, metaphor

and the breath of voices reading

keeping the time of memory.

Evensong

April 2002

On a night without armor

melodies call to me from home

I inhale the music

of the creek-song babble

from below the house

where laughter hums from voices

at the supper table.

Fiestaware dishes clang.

Matching tinware glasses ping

and smell always of stale milk.

We all want the blue plate

but Mom saves it for Uncle Bob.

Through the open windows comes

the sawing-buzz-croon of traffic

from Highway 183 as it hurries past our house

all the way to Texas. My son will live there someday.

Night gathers the musty farm smells

on a chanting breeze that slaps

the cottonwood leaves awake.

From the feedlot behind the house

come the restless cattle vespers.

I don’t want to miss a thing.

I exhale.

I wonder.

How did I get here from there?

At the Conoco in Council Grove

May 2005

We pull into the gas station and a man

comes out, talking on his cell phone.

He lays it on top of the gas pump

tugs his cap and asks, What can I do ya for?

My husband answers, Fill ‘er up.

Then asks, Where can we find a bait shop?

Way-eell, drawls the man, up the road a piece

is one. If the owners got up yet, that is.

We laugh. He asks, You ever watch Newhart?

Remember the Darryl, Darryl and Darryl brothers?

Way-ell, that’s them. It ain’t the nicest place

in town. Then he asks us if we do much fishing.

We tell him only from the bank because

we didn’t bring a boat. He says, There’s another

bait shop up the highway north. It’s open if the

liquor sign is flashing ON. Bait Shop’s right

next to the liquor store. He removes the nozzle

from the car’s gas tank and glances

at the billfold my husband holds open, ready

to pay. You got wa-a-ay too much cash

in there. Let me relieve you of some.

He tips back his cap to check the gas pump

for what we owe. Looks like I’ll take forty dollars.

Mike hands him two twenties and he pockets the money,

picks up the cell phone, nods a thank you.

Hitching up his Levis, he walks back

into the station, talking into his cell

phone to whoever was waiting

to hear his words, whether wisdom or wit.

The Chicken Poem

May 1999

You can’t find women

who kill chickens anymore.

Women who trick a chick

into their hands then

grab it and twirl it

over their heads.

Women who wring that

chicken’s neck that way.

You can’t find women

who’ll lay that chicken

across a sawed-off

tree trunk and ax its

head off. That chick

will dance around

well, like a chicken with

its head cut off.

Then it’ll die.

You can’t find women

who’ll pour boiling water

over that chick then pluck it.

Women who’ll burn off

the chick’s quills over the

kitchen’s gas range.

Women who’ll cut it into

wings and drums and breasts,

flour it and fry it in oil.

"Best damned chicken

I ever ate," he’ll say.

You can’t find women

who’ll do that

anymore.

Christmas

District #4

1956

Round-bellied coal stove heats only a corner,

but parents’ pride warms the room.

Small stage, raised at the back

of a one-room schoolhouse is curtained off

by someone’s good sheets, loaned for the evening,

strung tight on wire to form stage left-stage right.

Nervous giggles, shoving noises, rustling feet sound

behind these. Teacher shushes us, edges over

to the piano. I step onstage, place hand on heart, to lead

the Pledge of Allegiance. Teacher strikes a piano chord.

Classmates march onstage, move the sheets aside

to make our entrance grand. Then we sing. Glorious

Joy-To-The-World hymns. Uneven voices from itchy boys

in starched shirts and stage-struck girls in homemade frilly dresses.

Familiar words ring bells of pride in parents’ minds.

Strains of music bounce in the perfect night.

Parents laugh. Grandma and Grandpa applaud.

Snow falls in time for Santa’s sleigh.

Prayer in school is welcomed,

Under God, and I…

I feel safe

before I grow up.

4 a.m.

There’s a