Michael Denington pays close attention. In straight forward language, each of these poems is a moment closely observed. As in the title poem, the author "seeks home" with a compassionate and generous heart. --Darnell ArnoultAuthor, What Travels with Us, and the novel, Sufficient Grace With an invitation to a ¿walk in the park¿ the author takes the reader on a journey in which he shares episodes of his life. The book provides lovely glimpses such as that of a woman kneeling in her flower garden while at work on her masterpiece. After enjoying many pauses . . . at a variety of places, we are brought to a stop following the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. ¿Empty Boots¿ vividly recalls the shock and grief of that hideous crime. On the whole, this book evokes enthusiastic response. Winifred Hamrick FarrarPoet Laureate of Mississippi. Whether Michael Denington is in a familiar setting drinking ¿the cool, sweet home flavored water¿ from a gourd, or backpacking high on a mountain where he sits ¿in awe of near touchable stars and an apple slice of moon,¿ he is an acute observer, his memorable imagery hooking the reader. Denington¿s voice is straight forward, from his narrative poem about riding a stick horse as a child, through his very adult description of Memphis marinating ¿in a cold, damp bowl of discomfort.¿ . . . Most of the poems are autobiographical with sketches of youth and home, travels abroad, war experiences, his wandering ¿through life¿s barriers, ¿to finally, now that he is older, ¿to drift southward . . . seeking home, to join my forebears in the fertile sediment of our familial delta.¿ Clovita RiceFormer editor of Voices International andformer director of the Arkansas Writers¿ Conference Cover photograph, White River at Calico Rock, Arkansas by Terry Thompson, TTERRY@att.net
Like a River
By Michael R. DeningtonAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 Michael R. Denington
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4389-2332-1Contents
Promise..........................................xiiiILike a River.....................................3Left-Handed Perspective..........................4Stitches.........................................5The Bucket.......................................6Fragmented.......................................8A Life Not Chosen................................9The Hazel Eyes...................................10Handoff..........................................11The Dawning......................................12Muse.............................................14Without Fanfare..................................15Aboard the Amadeus II............................16Mantra...........................................17Lonesome Moon....................................18Past Midnight....................................19Autopsy of a Poem................................20Donor............................................21Deadline.........................................22Limits...........................................24Masterpiece......................................25After-Effect.....................................26IIBountiful River..................................29Saigon Le........................................30Pushers..........................................31A Mother's Lament................................32The Question.....................................33Small Fry........................................34Empty Boots......................................35Curator..........................................36Valediction......................................38Lifeknot.........................................39Depression.......................................40Transparent Image................................41Winter...........................................42Man in a Red Shirt...............................43Wisteria.........................................44Lines............................................45Vestiges.........................................47Sweetest Hour....................................48Crescent Moon....................................49The Forecast.....................................50Zeal.............................................52Colors...........................................53Fishing..........................................54IIISerpent River....................................63Redemption.......................................64Little White Lies................................65Omnipresents.....................................66Night Vision.....................................67Backpacking......................................68Spirit...........................................69Raw Materials....................................70Homespun.........................................71The Deep.........................................72Rainbow..........................................73Revelation.......................................75IVHuman River......................................79The Warrior......................................80Lesson of the Cold War...........................82Politicians, Wars, Then More.....................839/13.............................................84Games Boys Play..................................85Puff.............................................87Fences...........................................88Business of War..................................89Unwelcome Veterans...............................90Vietnam..........................................91Benediction......................................95
Chapter One
Like a River A small spring bubbles up in the north, the gift of its rill marries another and the newlyweds join a third, and so on, until a creek is birthed, unites with others, pools, fills the Itasca bowl, overflows, forms a southbound river seeking the sea, siphons the strength of lesser cousins, divides a national family into east and west, meanders, doubles back on itself again and again, collects the energy of storms, carves through its banks, cuts off bow tie loops to create horned lakes, deposits generations of silt, builds a great, rich delta blanketed by southern summer snow. I was born beside the river, on a mighty bluff at the head of the delta where musicians wailed the blues in Beale Street bars, in the city graced by the king, where the dreamer died. Like the river, I have wandered, weaved through life's barriers, circled in swirling eddies gathering strength until freed to breach confining banks, chart a new course, charge toward my destiny. Now I drift southward in an ever-slowing stream in an ever-widening basin, seeking home, to join my forebears in the fertile sediment of our familial delta.
Left-Handed Perspective Slashing across Memphis in high speed interstate traffic between rush hours, AMBULANCE leaps into my rearview mirror, landing in readable format because each letter is reversed and the word is written backwards across the hood of the EMT rig threatening my rear bumper. The reflecting mirror and reversed word form a double-reverse relationship with me sandwiched in the middle, a complex arrangement, but one not nearly so confusing as the single-reverse situation handed a high school friend who severed his right arm halfway between elbow and wrist while trying to clear a jammed corn picker, a tragedy that led him to develop a left-handed perspective on activities such as buttoning a shirt and signing his name.
Stitches for Joe Hester We set our lives aside and responded to the "Come Now" of an hour ago. After a muted, ICU waiting-room conversation we found our way through a maze of beige hallways filled with sharp, disinfectant odors to this small, curtained room where we now wait, listening to your mechanical breaths, praying you, husband of one, friend of two, mentor of three, will rally or die peacefully. Scratchy eyes watch your heart stitch a zigzag seam across the monitor's screen. We stand mesmerized as the seam takes on a ragged, loose-thread appearance and the stitch count begins to fluctuate: 184......24......73..... 148.....96.....124.....81....33...42...31... 22...15..8..4..0~~~~~~~~~~~~~~....
The Bucket A wooden bucket half-filled with life sits on the wash stand beneath the hand pump spout located on our screened back porch. A drinking gourd hangs from a nail by a looped string passing through a hole drilled in its narrow handle-end. The bucket waits to transport cooking, cleaning or bathing water into the kitchen, or carry overalls, work shirt and underwear wash water to the scrub board, wringer and washtubs standing at attention in their Monday morning backyard formation. As I lift the gourd to drink my fill of cool, sweet home-flavored water, untainted by chemicals or half-clogged filters, overflow drops dribble back into the bucket with barely audible splashes, creating a family of small, concentric waves that flow outward, deflect from the bucket's sides and lose their identity among stronger, younger siblings. Thirst slaked, I open the screen door, swish a quarter gourd of rinse...
