Months later; nonstop footage

Time to pull these poems out again while it's still the peak of the season here on the Gulf coast. Not counting the recent rage of Isaac, the 2012 season has been on the quiet side. Seven years ago, deadly Katrina missed us in the Houston area. But three years later, Ike pretty much came right for us; interesting times.

months later
he still clutches
the bowling ball—
all he could salvage
after Katrina

Hurricane Katrina, late Aug. 2005
—Wisteria, July 2006; Haiku News, Oct. 2009; Take Five, Vol 2

nonstop footage
of surge-battered homes

.....near our back door

.....a small displaced turtle
.....retreats into its shell

Hurricane Ike, Sept. 13, 2008

—Moonset, Spring-Summer 2009; Haiku News, Oct. 2009; Take Five, Vol 2

Am happy I came across my photos of the actual little turtle I describe here—and hope it found its way.

Using sieves; days after

using sieves
as prospectors would
they search
for nuggets of life
beneath their home's ashes

days after
the wildfires
we venture out
among the charred-stick pines. . .
too fortunate for our bones

—Atlas Poetica, Number 12, Summer 2012

The first major wildfire in our drought-stricken area began on Father's Day, June 2011, when I happened to be in Houston. The flames reportedly erupted only about 1-1/2 miles from our new place to the north, and with the right shift in wind direction, we would have been particularly vulnerable. Though the fire caused significant devastation, ultimately a big rain came. Fire did make its way into the front part of our small rustic community, but no major damage occurred there.

The next local wildfire, far more widespread (up to 22,000 acres or so were affected), began less than three months later, on Labor Day. We'd left the house for Houston (with a bad tire, which was another story) an hour before the first fire broke out. Due to evacuation orders, we ended up staying in Houston, one of us with flu, for eight days. The flames kept hopping around, and at several points our new home was in what appeared to be the direct path of the main outbreak, dubbed the "Riley Road" fire; we'd only just finished moving there. To give a sense of perspective, our community is located right off Riley Road. Fire did damage parts of the neighborhood, but amazingly, no residents suffered any property damage, thanks in great part to the firefighters. A number of others not far away weren't as lucky, though, including the small "Country Haircuts" enterprise (though they're rebuilding). And sprinkled up and down Riley Road, and many other places too, souvenirs still remain: acres and acres of downed fences and charred forest that gradually is being cleared.

Several massive forest fires also occurred in other locations throughout Texas, most notably in Bastrop, where more than 1600 homes were destroyed. 

Wilted

I am hollow with petals of August.
My thoughts form deadened fields,
even before the sun is opened full.

The air hangs humid, in tarry slabs.
Bricks of heat are savage
against backs, across faces,

While garden plants lie listless—
fading, faded—their lips pursed.
At least rain threats bring variance.

It hasn't always been like this:
There were years the sweat would tap dance
on vulnerable skin, not cling.

But now the world's awry;
and the Texas summer doesn't quit, 
just blurs itself into the fall.

—Pebble Lake Review, Summer 2005

Augusts can be brutal here, even when we're not officially in a state of drought. Two more months, two more months, I tell myself.

Radio tuned; the heartbreak

radio tuned
to Texas country,
its lonesome cowboys—
my nondescript accent
briefly switches to twang

—red lights, June 2012

the heartache
in those country tunes—
whole cornfields died
before my own heart
would grow back again

—red lights, June 2012