~ Delta Poetry Review ~
James Scott Fleming
If I Ever Leave
Here
Spanish moss, and standing white bird
In the shallows of a bayou.
Will you remember me?
When I am long gone
Along a road I’ve yet to know
Or maybe never will.
I breathe in the summer sweat,
Liquid sky and liquid air.
Could I just say a sailor’s goodbye?
A kerchief waved
And be satisfied to wait patiently
In the cool of Autumn
And snuggle down into Winter’s arms.
This path now is the way of things;
How life manifests in a Spanish moss held oak,
When I first rise to a barrel of light
Spilling onto a field I saw just one month ago
High in green, but now fallow and plowed under.
I guess that’s my life
Here in this place, one I never sought
Or gave a lick to think it would be
Nothing more than a passing line
On a map heading West. Or East,
But this early morning rain
Drains my soul down into the ground,
Weighting me to this earth…
And I’m afraid I may be here for some time,
Because, if I ever leave, I fear a part of me
Will still be rooted in the cypress knees,
Walking the long corn rows,
Calling me back home.
Into That Which Makes Our
Being (for Tim)
Remembering when I sailed between drifting
shards of sun
On San Diego bay,
The boat I lived on rarely found the true ocean.
But I loved the quiet creak of teak and crowned
oak,
Layered in sweet varnish,
Railings in maple syrup glisten.
I was there for a time, when time seemed long
And full of dreams,
But when the wind took my breath away,
Leaning me East
Into the fields of corn and cotton,
I was renewed in spirit, painted in green and
gold…
All cresting light in skies I never imagined.
Working the wood and steel to my liking,
Canoes I’d never attempted to build before.
So many constant dreams of unending ideas.
Sleepless in the night’s call of cicadas and
frogs,
Listening for any wisdom they may share
For they are my brothers also
On this spinning globe we all never fully
understand,
But I have sought such things out on this
journey,
The spectacular journey I have lived and loved
Under my rainbow hat.
Faded blue overalls, my suit in all the days
We well shared
As all friends must do.
Fly Rod
I bought this fly rod, two years ago.
Never used it, though I had visions
Of standing knee-deep in an Arkansas river,
My soul feeling quiet and dappled,
Shaded from an August sun.
Now though, I drift on green waters,
Waiting for a trout to spin its way
Onto my line.
I cast into a shaded pool gnarly with roots
Hoping for a fish
To set my line taut, aggravated and trembling,
Cranking a reel I don’t even know how to use.
Maybe I am more in life with that fish, than in
me,
Because everything spins its way underneath and
over,
Inside the ripples of whatever we think is us.
Maybe we don’t even know
When we are caught on the hook,
Wriggling to escape.
Maybe we just need to sit silent on the bottom
of the pool,
And forget about the things that await us
overhead.
James
Scott Fleming is a fairly recent transplant to Louisiana,
having moved from California in 2017. An architect in California
prior to his move, he is now retired and is enjoying his work as a
fine art painter and illustrator, as well as developing his craft as
a poet and songwriter. He currently lives with his wife Christie—an
Episcopal priest—and their dog Manna in Bastrop, Louisiana.
| Archive | Submissions | About |