first draft


Southern Belle




She appeared without sound
materializing it seemed by magic
out of thin air --
I looked up and she was there,
in pressed jeans and red sneakers,
curved in soft arcs, richly blond,
thick in the arms yet delicate,
plainly serious watching me --
ripe to be swept off her feet in a
mad rush for her placid gaze,
the faint smile curling her mouth
with all the mystery of the South.

Thus it was I drank in the spell
cast by the stately southern belle.


She had some business with me
concerning freight and asked as to
particulars of which I was ignorant
not quite hearing in my paralysis
slightly slack jawed and struggling to
restrain myself from embracing her gentle
form -- so needful she seemed in the
scope of a divine and beautiful plan
-- so needful of the attentions
of a man. I stuttered the desire
to help while my white eyes conveyed
desperation in the whiteness of fire.

I drank water from the deepest well
conversing with the gentle southern belle.


We walked in our moment joined by
thoughts unspoken, we had freight
business to look after and we spoke
of trivial things, our words falling like
cordwood with an overtly respectful tone
as seconds pounded in my ears
metering eternity and she asked
about the relevant geography
and I ventured a proposal:
"Why don't you just ride with me?"
The proposal hung suspended
in the silent ether of possibility.

Thus I walked the meadow of the dell
with the winsome southern belle.


"Oh I better not do that," she replied
not as the pathetic Scarlet. We were
of a single mind and I was not the
ruthless Rhett as we loved each other
in our silent dream. I held her tight
sheltering her from all forms of assault
and deprivation as the sky was dark
with smoke as Richmond burned.
She felt my arms on her back as
she whispered southern stuff
into my attentive ear without
apprehension or the slightest fear.

What feelings flared! Oh do tell!
as I escorted the proper southern belle.


We concluded business with signatures
amid the scent of a vague perfume and
in the grip of our mutual dream
which dissipated of its own accord.
We spoke in formalities we came to know
and satiated, we let it go.
I left the office with a mechanical gait
to start the truck and tend to the freight.
Tires struck, doors sealed, messages
transmitted confirming the load,
maps studied briefly with dead
concern for the treacherous road.


But no urgency would likely quell
my memory of the charming southern belle.


Five hundred horsepower roared with
the major strain as scenery moved as if
seen from a window of a train,
appropriate for tender partings at
exotic venues never to be seen again --
finality stamped upon the moment
as the future comes flooding in
as a welcome tide obliterating
the tragic present from memory's shore --
but she materialized as if by magic
from thin air -- I looked up
and she was there.

Once more I could brave the fires of Hell
at the sight of the angelic southern belle.


She emerged from the office mindful
of purpose and came out to the lawn
in pressed jeans and red sneakers
to stand patiently radiant in the brilliant noon
as the truck inched out with delicate
maneuvers as horizons again were craved,
she met my eye, smiled, raised
an arcing arm and waved.
I grinned and waved as for a fleeting
moment she joined my life and stayed
as a photograph which would lift
my heart then one day would fade.

The road led to where hope would dwell
to make the acquaintance of a southern belle.






























Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 685 times
Written on 2007-09-08 at 01:31

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