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Indian Corn
by David Hill
Stay golden, it whispers, stay golden.
The power of words;
harvest, autumn, melancholy.
That is, not words
but visions.
I swivel in the chair
and it comes:
A darkened sky,
I'm on my bicycle,
the sudden whomp
of a gust against my chest,
and I hurry, I hurry,
the pistoning legs.
Colors in the trees;
red and orange.
I smell the first drops on the asphalt,
I hear them click the dry leaves.
The brass lamps are lit,
long shuttered windows,
the emerald door.
Three ears hang from a nail,
the yellow crackle husks,
kernels of red, purple, black,
smooth, so shiny smooth
reflecting the light.
The marmalade cat watches me pass.
I lift above the clouds
04/19/2009 Author's Note: sensory powder flash
Posted on 04/20/2009
Copyright © 2026 David Hill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 04/20/09 at 12:23 PM This almost reads like a good acid trip. I imagine that wasn't your intention, but I still really enjoyed this. |
| Posted by David Garner on 04/20/09 at 02:36 PM So exquisite and descriptive. Every image is so bountiful. The whole poem has a healing quality to it. Bravo. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 04/20/09 at 03:02 PM Nothing like a bike ride to experience the different senses. Rich images here - very satisfying. |
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