Picacho

...those small towns that just die. They all feel and smell the same.

The dusty hue of the morning sky always settled lightly in Picacho

Cracker box square, the houses long left untended….contents strewn

The smell of rotting wood and moldering plaster, every one the same

Wading through clothes that never made the move, knee deep in panties

Mommy, where are we going?

Look at her eyes, the same color as the dusty morning

Mommy, what about Duke?

A hope and a prayer that the car starts this one last time

The lilt of the Mourning Dove is never soothing, not in Picacho

When you arrive or when you leave the coo is the same

Neither welcoming or desperate, just the sound of suffering

A knowing that when the souls have moved on, the silence takes no prisoners

Daddy, where will we stay?

The shape of his eyes match the dove’s cries precisely

Daddy, what about Teddy?

A shame that never flowers into the sharpness of resentment….for her sake

A better life may wait in the next town, a town that’s not Picacho

But only with help from someone who knows without doubt

What it is like to be human and temporarily misplaced

Picacho was their one true love, left for now to fend for herself

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

this poem touches me deeply...coming from the Bronx...and eventually settling in a small college town----

and having memories of summers in Ryegate VT and Wells River VT..the epitome of small country towns...so beautiful...everyone who lives there is like a small family.
I came to detest the big city...guess i wasn't born to live with skyscrapers.

such imagination and visuals to portray another ghost town...
j.

[Crowley]

I wrote this just before a big freeway project, was doing asbestos surveys in Picacho. Drove by yesterday and most of the town is completely gone now. So sad. Thanks man!!!

[sette]

too many sad memories to recall.. it is one sad poem

[Crowley]

Hey you!!! Thanks for the visit!

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

This is a masterful and gut-wrenching write Crowley. You paint a picture of desolation, of American tragedy, with the poignant words of a displaced child- “Mommy, where are we going?”-indeed. A bitter wind sweeps through these verses and moves through the hearts of struggling families abandoning dead cites everywhere. I hear Steinbeck in your poet’s soul. Last line third verse is iconic. So sad. So brilliant.

[Crowley]

I just drove by the area again today on the way to Tucson. The area I wrote about is completely gone and freeway going in. Thanks Girl!!!

[Crowley]

And Steinbeck...OMG, if only. Thank you so much!

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

You’re welcome my friend!:))

[Chris Shaw]

A feeling of sadness, leaving behind a dilapidated town to find a place to live with more opportunities. If that old town is all you have known, that is a huge wrench and of course the uncertainty of what lies ahead would create anxiety. The tone of your poem suits the setting perfectly.

Chris

[Crowley]

Just drove by this place again today and on one side of the freeway it is completely gone....so sad. Thank you!!!

[Mari' Emeraude]

I was drenched in sadness as I made my way through this poem. It displayed a bleak and uncertainness about it. Great piece

[Crowley]

Thanks so much got the read and review, much appreciated!!!

[Gypsy Warrior Queen]

molding, or smoldering...maybe? Maybe just the mirage of the heat waves I see while reading this .. playing tricks on my eyes. I get so wrapped in your features. Another amazingly good write. Im left with a farewell.....

[Crowley]

Moldering...state of mold or decay. I am usually in these old houses for mold removal or asbestos abatement. Thank you for reviewing me...love it when you show up!

[Gypsy Warrior Queen]

see I would have used that word off the top of my head and someone would have told me I was just making up words again.lol Learn something new everyday and now I have resources to back it up! Jackpot! with the vocab lesson and the read!

[barleygirl]

This is a fantastic poem. It seems to have a similar haunting mood as the one I wrote yesterday about the guy who wanted to fly like a hawk. Your ghost-like reverie about a town sounds similar to mine about a man. Your poem is brilliant becuz of the unexpected details you bring into it. I love the way you alternate between descriptive stanzas & the ones with dialogue. The name of this poem/town is one of those words that feels perfect for this message. The first line of the third stanza just about got me wet, it’s such a delicious slice of word-crafting . . . the kind of refrain Marty Robbins would sing. For the rest of that stanza I nearly went orgasmic. You have a natural-sounding style that’s lyrical, conversational, & haunting . . . which makes for a twisted blend of intensity as I read you *yow!* Fondly, Margie

[Crowley]

Thanks Margie...my job requires me to go to a lot of towns like this and rummage around old properties. I always get these overwhelming nostalgic feelings. thanks for the read and the great review...you always make me smile. (Just glad I could almost make you wet...lol) I'll try harder next time.

[barleygirl]

laughing & Lola wants to know why . . .