Summer Rhubarb Pie

Reviewing yesterday’s post (May 3^rd) caused me to think back on this piece submitted to

Cheap Seats Ticket to Ride, now resting, awaiting space in an upcoming issue.

   Winter, a humble, solitary writer, lives isolated in the Angeles Forrest of SoCal just a few miles from Pasadena; no electrical no gas no satellite connection barely a roof, and a wood burning stove—kerosene lamps for light. Oh, how would this brave new world of continually connected thumb crazy “writers” exist…?

   Winter Creek Jack submits his poems on paper, handwritten; even paper grocery sacks when necessary (as was this one), many times with cross-outs and inserts. Not the most appealing presentation to the usual editor—mostly, because these so-called “editors” would have to work a bit to ready the piece for publication. Too lazy. “Editors.”

   Not to call us out, but we at Cheap Seats do no typesetting for about the same reason (yes, Virginia, probably too lazy…) But we’ve happened upon a few writers who need a little assist—’cause their writing needs to be seen. Because it’s great? Dunno ‘bout that. We found his writing intriguing and bright, conversational, accessible, new and inspiring, a bit Thoreau-ish even, and just flat-out good work and better reads; thought other writers who might feel themselves going flat, could use a little gassing up.

   Yes, Virginia, there is a poem hiding in almost anything one can occupy their time with; even five-fingering rhubarb for mom’s pie. What’s with this writers’ block jive?!

   So there!

“rhubarb pie

can taste it certain  like it’s

   settled on my tongue—

paper grocery sack  topped up

fresh picked  dark-ruby stalks

fence line ’long pearblossom lane

runs by old man hatcher’s place

snatch ’em through the welded-wire

watchin’ for that dog  snarling

   four footed bear-trap beast.

tart bunches  rinse ’em in the creek

diced to chunks  ’bout four cups

couple scoops of sugar mixed with

melted sweet-pats  cinnamon dash

rolled out flour-paste crust thick ’n’

pinched up  makin’ sure it’s ready

shake of nutmeg 

press in deep-tin  shine years gone

top laced  butter brushed thick with

brown sugar sprinkle  crunchy layer

450 oven heatin’  mind the damper

   test of patience now…

and still  so clear behind the eyes—

that warm aroma takes me there

early saturday mornings  week-long

awaited  bakin’ day with mom

gingham apron ruffle tied

open windows  summer breezes

   flour dust lite across her hair…”

Winter Creek Jack

Notice: No capitals to bring attention or cause a reading pause; except for periods, and apostrophes (for clarity) the piece is entirely void of any commas or other base line punctuation. In lieu of commas, to keep the thoughts organized, Winter uses an extra space (and of course the end-lines as pauses.)

trust you enjoyed Summer Rhubarb Pie

  Max tdc