You loved the real me; I made
everything unreal. Listen,
art gave me courage. Did you
know you can act like water?
The moments of madness are still
fluid. Before the paintings are hung,
I can add yellow. Add mountains or rusty,
reclaimed debris. Stand back; it makes sense.
Tag Archives: Marge Fulton.
ALL ROADS LEAD TO HAZARD
The stories from Main Street have teeth. They grin and grunt. Today as small town America feels assaulted by Congress and Wall Street, my community feels insulated. We are the end of the road but we are start up. The characters in my book go through trials posed by drugs, alcoholism, and sexual assaults. They muddle through and bounce back like a mountain echo. They also wander little known trails. Main Street is alive and well and on its way! Read my book to see what freedom there is in an off road mecca, like Hazard, Kentucky. It is lean fiction. No bones about it! Trials and trails go hand-in-hand.
See http://www.hazardgal.com
My Big Toe
It’s time to get my feet wet on this board. By big toe is almost in. I am thrilled to be onboard with publicliterature.org.
My book was just released yesterday and I am walking on air. Much of my work on Author’s Den gives one an earful of my unique voice. This week, I got a local musician to collaborate with me on a video to promote my book, ALL ROADS LEAD TO HAZARD. That was the most fun I have had in years and an earful of good vibes. The band is The Chef Dave Band, a mix of jazz and rock.
Life is high and dry in these hills. It is so parched here the grass feels like Astroturf. Whatever hit Virginia only gave us a spit of rain. Not much to do except look forward to the debate tonight. My sister graduated from Ole Miss. You feel Faulkner in the breeze there. We toured his home and the occasion overflowed with photo ops. Someting I ate in Oxford gave me the worst case of heartburn ever. Maybe the candidates will not suffer that malady. America needs some souped up Pepto-Bismol to settle us down.
So, I have stuck my toe in these waters. I will return to the river of words soon. Check out my blogs, videos and work at Author’s Den and at http://hazardgal.com Glad to share this time together.
Eyes Everywhere
Six eager eyes follow me, three
tails gyrate and the middle one
called a pure mountain feist
nibbles, eats only a few bites.
Later as I pack up holiday
clutter, her eyes flutter,
legs stiffen. All goes blank.
Seizures and sickness to
delayed house training these
unwanted ones take us
in, becoming our universe.
I am Saturn; they the rings.
I am a rock wishing hard
for a three legged dog in
the White House to be king.
Old Soldier
He welcomes me again.
I tell him where I’ve been;
he has been nowhere else.
And I rest my head and wait in
darkness as he talks of pineapple.
He recounts Hawaii and every
car he ever owned. Veterans
linger with memories random
as bingo. He asks if I have ever
been in a jet. He asks me if my
hands are still cold. I feed him
bites of ice cream and hear
someone swear down the hall.
He says bananas grow upwards.
I say my hands are warm now.
A Deeper Blue
My extended family assembled in Pensacola. We came from near and far to celebrate birthdays of great significance. My Dad just turned 80; my stepmother 75. Plans were made to get up around four in the morning on that Saturday. We looked like a bunch of zombies when we came aboard the Lively One II. The giant boat made a turn for the sea. Stomachs turned in somersaults.
The deckhand gave us our instructions. He showed us the rounded hooks and told us what the horn blows meant. All of us were bundled up and bewildered. Only my Dad, the Navy man, exuded calm and finesse. He wore leather gloves.
The vessel stopped three times for us to drop our lines. We numbered ten and as such were allowed to keep two Red Snapper each. I heard that Jeremy threw back over 100 fish. The fish were as thick as flies on a horse turd.
When the last whistle blew, I had a four pound Amberjack on my line. My husband pitched in and we got that beauty in. The Trigger fish we caught were fighters. We caught Mingos and Grouper and Mackerel.
Nobody got sick! That in itself was a miracle. The sky was Smurf blue out there. We went out about nine miles. I will always remember the dolphins that skimmed along beside us. Jeremy said they scare the fish away. On a trip like that you see colors you didn’t know before. Each fish was colorful as a quilt. The water and my father’s eyes are that deep. The ocean must flow in his veins.
Now, we are back in the Kentucky foothills. I shake sea salt on my spaghetti. We have fish in the freezer. Life is good. I dream of dolphins.
My Bridge to Somewhere
Each morning I see the difference. More
and more joists and rivets and a river idling by.
A river that whispers in this drought and looks
skyward. Men that hoist metal with cranes;
huddled along train tracks, often leaning
on old tires. I cross the old one twice a day.
Grooves worn deep. Now, I am half asleep,
and vines creep beneath the rusty bones.
I have come to a dead stop.
Writer’s block is real as a flat tire.
But the way my wheels hum upon
the old bridge is assuring. And
I have a toolbox bulging with gadgets.
Men in yellow hard hats are ripping
and reaching the other side in
near darkness. Maybe I must burn
one bridge to begin another. Maybe
my arms can span the diminished waters.