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Limestone9.com
Poetry from the As A... series, by Greg German
Kansas farm & rural themed poetry and personal essays.
All writing, poetry & essays in this website - Copyright © by Greg German, 2019 |
As A... Series Selections
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As A Catfisherman I Sit On The Dull Edge
of a long time, just inside the design of a nap. I think him onto the hook. When he bites--it feels the way a dog looks stretching after a good sleep. I tell myself a well-rooted stump has taken the bait, and believe that until convinced otherwise. I test my nerve. And if it holds and wants to pull my feelings up stream, I bite down hard on my heart--anticipate what will happen if he gets away. Now, I'll do what I think best. And if I catch him, I'll stare at him. I'll look at the size of that thing. I won't wonder if there is one bigger, and I won't come back tomorrow. Originally Published in Fresh Water Anthology, 2002 |
As A Trapper I Take Care Of Business
and search for a good stick, the size of my wrist, the length of my arm. Or longer. Something a beaver has finished and given back. Or a limb from an old branch not too long on the ground. Something I can use again when I reset this trap along a steeper bank, its wire drowning-slide in deeper water. Something solid I can bring down between his pit-black eyes, hard, and hold him under until he's still as the leafless trees waiting along the bank. I stare as far as I can upriver, and then downriver. Water strings around my waders. This is a heavy coon and I claim to be no god. Originally Published in Black Dirt, 1999, F/W, V2, #2 |
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As A Duck Hunter I Crawl Between The Wires
and leave the fence behind. Fog, wool batting cross-stitched between rain and snow, has quilted itself over the pasture hills, heavy. Each step inland delivers me into the same December faded room. No one thing knows that I am here. Secretly, I peek above the dam --- check the water for ducks. I forget my hands are cold, my jeans soaked to the knees; wings flare and fold. Two mallards, their green heads comfortable in the water, float toward shore. Burnt gunpowder, a metallic tasting smell, is in the air. Ice bickers for space in the mist. Almost nothing has changed. Originally Published in Wolf Head Review, 1999, V. 5, # 1 |
As A Bass Fisherman I Stand Alone
along the edge of the pond at the corner of evening and night—my attention caught, my momentum stopped by the orange of the day’s last dim light. And the pull of one nighthawk that dips and skims, maneuvers with air-smooth cadence through shadows, toward home. Cool spills across the pasture. Cows and calves ignore me. The final red-wing blackbird settles through cattails to its nest. Conflicts of mosquitoes congregate along shore. No one thing matters more than I am here. No one thing cares. Darkness nudges between the hills. Two bullfrogs dual deep throated grudges, divide the silence. Almost taken, I cast my last hope up and out, across the water. Originally Published in Avocet, Spring, 2000 |
