A Thousand Miles Of Stars by Walt McDonald
By Walt McDonald
A number of the beauty all of us want A West Texas starscape, wonderful via any degree, is emblematic of Walt McDonald’s plains. A lifelong party culminates during this, his best—and maybe last—collection of latest poems. At seventy, the poet affirms, we are living by means of the secret of grace while we watch widespread stars blink out at sunrise. For he believes "God understands we're airborne dirt and dust / and counts our steps." In "Leaving the center Years," he writes, "At our age, / each day is grace and each breath / a blessing. lifestyles is grass, stunningly short / yet plentiful in such a lot of ways." Walt writes approximately heroes—a mom who taught tumbling; friends and family long past to battle; the courageous at domestic who heal or console; others who rescue from battle zones as many young ones as they could. Heroes, too, are these whose constancy and pleasure locate faces in those poems. gazing crows at sunrise in Montana, a husband thinks of his spouse within their mountain cabin: If Ursula reveals extra grey she’ll pass on buzzing, understanding it’s ok, our youngsters 3 thousand miles away yet effective, after they known as final evening. She comes outdoor with espresso, final the door so softly even the crows don’t cease.
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Extra info for A Thousand Miles Of Stars
A marching band, three hundred strong, can’t drown the bass drum out. Boys beat it hard and nearby hats bounce off, the home team behind at the half. Leaving sixty is no season for marching bands and drums, but piccolos in a heated hall, Guy Lombardo saxophones for waltzes, grandmothers in gowns and beaux in party hats. Ring out the old and throw confetti wildly with the throng, a night of Times Square madness before it’s time for indoor rockers and oxygen for the heart, at most a few more months of ice.
It says Mobeetee on the map, the puzzling word they heard breech-cloth Comanches say. Smooth-chested natives never smiled, saying it slowly to their faces, mo-bee-tee —buffalo dung, the runny kind, not chips women gathered in baskets and burned. Years ago, I found stone walls of a house they abandoned after drought and more dead babies, after cowboys told Great-granddaddy what mobeetee meant. One turned his head to spit from his stallion, not even smiling as they trotted off. Here are his first wife’s stone, and his.
We know spring runoff will water summer’s hay, we’ll own the ranch someday, if luck and hard work save us, knowing these dusty plains are home, our south and north, a thousand miles of stars. [ 41 ] Hoping to Break the Chain My cousin lifted his foot to a chair, and it broke, toppling him like a fat man in a hammock, the chair mashed flat. His sister leaned on the wall, a popping of unstoppable laughter and staccato hiccups. Always they fought over nothing, but laughs were reason enough for murder, said the frown in my cousin’s fist.