Black-velvet Jesus on one wall,
black-velvet Elvis on the other;
plaster madonna on the shelf,
plaster child, plaster mother.
Skeeters buzzing at the screen,
tree-frogs clinging to the pane;
sweet-tea pitcher on the table,
distant thunder might mean rain.
Hound-dog whimpers at the door,
chuck-wills-widow calls to the moon
rising through the sugar pines;
crickets join night’s age-old tune.
Grits are bubbling on the stove-top,
chicken sizzles in the pan.
Sip my tea, ice melts away;
cobbler’s cooling, by the fan.
Dusk sings on the fields and hills,
full of darkness, slow and deep;
hear the rumble, rain is coming,
rattles the roof, soothes my sleep.
Jesus watches over me,
Elvis sings my lullaby,
stars of heaven guard this house
till the morning takes the sky.
Stephen Brooke ©2014
This might be words toward a possible song. Or maybe it’s just a bit of verse and will go no further. A bit of unlike me, either way. Anyway, neither the poem nor its title should be considered finalized.