View Archives by:


Believe My Grandmother

Ken Rumble

Beg the inner drum to part,
thin ice on the lake.  The station mistress
clicks her heels off by ten, the bunions – Bavaria
on the left, three doors and the skeleton
man.  Manage the time between attacks,
a no-handed stirrer.  The left turn
draws you back and over
by the hillside – what a star,
what a star, the way you
by the chimney look at night and day
so like an omen as near and far. 
Hat step, the monk’s test, there by four
or the bone will be our reward,
staring with its marrow eye upon the board.
And where is the step ladder – these doggone
days always underfoot – beggars and layabouts
it’s hard to tell just what they need.  Don
your cloak against the fall.
The snow among the cedar branch,
speechless moon swing about the wake
smooth and shattered.  That chatter cold makes
in the hunter in the snow seeking icy prey,
stalks and shouts for shadows – an owl calls
its mate.  There is no color for that,
for snow.  Soon the walnuts will show
their pig snouts.  Voles know weather and when.
This then is the creeping vine and the visitor climbing
after honeysuckle.  The fencing, fence post, hoot
owl, there by the mailbox, the power line, the long leaf
and Douglas pine, the trampoline, walnut grove,
backhoe, and lime – take care now,
now take, just take.

Ken Rumble

Read Bio

Author Discusses Poems