olfactory memory, they say,
offers sweetness to the aged,
each lump of butter remembered
at the core, the brain stem pulsating
some kinetic energy at last,
some profound truth absorbed
after all from pancake houses visited
after long drives past Bethany, Missouri,
back to the farm where purple thistles
rock gently spilling seeds into culverts.
summer will arrive, they say, and moons
will rotate overhead, moisture abounding
to soften dead follicles, rejuvenating
those mental powers lost over ham
and eggs served up each day with bitter
losses, the wind no longer a friend
but a driving force of decay, spreading
ashes beneath the droppings of Canadian
geese flying their long V in blue skies
then swerving to land on the pond.
David Hightower’s lyrically expansive meditation on the whims of fate and the unpredictability of the human condition fill the pages of THE HANGING MAN DREAMS with thrilling music and mesmerizing imagery. Hightower’s richly infused voice echoes the e
Dear readers, this is my third book of poems, and inside are a special collection of what have turned out to be not only MY personal favorites, but also the favorites of many of YOU. Some of these have never been available in print before...
Love Tinka
(is that suppose to be overheard or overhead?)