Once Upon a Blue Collared Man

Once Upon a Blue Collared Man

by Cam M. Roberts

What have ye done? Man of spider webs and dusty hands.
Wrinkles of gravity on the amicable and cheery space—
Northwest of nostril seasons—Autumn’s graces—Old man’s
disgrace—One pending on the youth’s arrival from the belly
to the womb of the world’s intake—The breath of life in crates
of warm industrial pistons of motorized clout—The haze and sheerness—
Born into a system of innovation—Standards increase and expectations
of ease and free riding crescendo upward towards infinite growth—
Where has the simpleton gone? He stitched my knee, he patched my jeans,
he greased my tractor, and cleaned my pond of algae—Self-sufficient tides
of skill—The jack of all trades—Self-made million use man—Aires of nothing,
but himself—Inhaling tobacco’s smoke of the garden he grew himself.
Eating from the tilled and red dirt, the corn and tomatoes that all produced,
God, nature, and his hard work. You see? He pleases his own survival.
He builds not for the compliment of squirrely men, but for the shelter
from the wet and cold—He’s no animal, he’s sane and has foreseen a tidal wave.
Stupidity of complicated advancement: The Science of Living Beyond Our Means,
albeit Green—Afterbirth of the American Dream—Now solipsism and catastrophe.
The time for trivial pursuits now lay in a time of apocalypses in suits.
Where do you see him at a time like this? A dying breed of overall men.
He’s suffering for the nonexistent frontier’s sins. He has lost the war to it.
However, his style in the manner of battling—He’s nothing short of a—I forgot—
A genteel man? Fairness was his code of lifeblood. But wired man knows of
no such principle, only the defeat of its obstacle. Of course, the straw hat man
was ill-equipped, but he’s extinct now—An artifact from a time much calmer—
The stormy weather of circuit folk is now the throne of worldly greeds.
The gravestone marks his gander—The kindness of his pure and simple manner.
Now the maintenance required of its infrastructure is needed—Oh, dear.
The flannel shirt man is called—His lost voice finally heeded. Ironic scenarios,
most inconvenient. Too unfortunate. Told you so… so very long ago.

 

© CMR, 2012
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To the Blackberries

To the Blackberries 

by Cam M. Roberts

When summer left me,
late September came soon enough
while shortening the days.  Time felt a long bluff
hedged as pies and cobblers were undercooked
like a baby’s early bloom from crevice
and earthen womb to the raw fading light
entombing day to novice night –

I would walk barefoot through rural tufts
in the fallow field with my white heels
tender to the touch, crusting and crackling,
as I resolved towards the fringe of forest,

And there always stood this time of year
a solitary thicket of blackberry bushes,
burning with wilderness:
The ethereal foliage thick
with decadence.  It loomed candescently
in the all-consuming scene, and the yonder ambience
in those last remnants of evening’s hovering glow
was like a consequence of carnal sin
lingering in an aching mind.

The plump blackberries hung like hooks
with blackened caution and yearning,
the nooks and fissures had swollen veins
on the brink of hemorrhaging – Their polyps
a shade heavier than elongating shadow.

I would sacrifice my naked arms
to the altar of briers; those brambles
plucking at my skin like cannibal teeth.
Prickly were the thistles and I would bleed,
but just in trickles.  And those smears
of crimson I endured from reaching
into the vastitudes of sporadic boughs,
their wreathes all gnarled and derelict.  The berries
would gaze through twigs and leaves to expose
the clusters of their bloodshot bodies –

Those stark berries wept and splurged,
the ripeness so delicate they cried
their insides out; their Gloucester gapes
discharging an agony of rouged tears.

I would pull out my arms to find
some berries had blighted, while others
were blushing with a pulsing bulge
as if some heart was on the verge
of blistering open, and the slightest breath
would splay the woeful skin of berries –

I could never tell my own blood
from the sticky fluids of aborted berries
until I would taste it,
and then I would cry
for the blackberries
had been made and then taken away
so suddenly
just as another summer had passed
away from my life –

 

© CMR, 2012