Little Johnnys’ Smokin

Little Johnnys’ Smokin
Written by Donovan L. Green,
12/30/2008 1:07 AM

Me an Amber useta pittle, and sometimes fiddle, I guess we liked each other a little
We made fun of her mom’s knees, called her knock knees, and ran over to little Johnny’s
We played with a little frog croakin, after we’d been tokin, and then lied about smoken
Uh………..
we drove around in my corvette, chewing on our regret while smoking a cigarette
She used to pout, because I wasn’t very stout, which caused problems when we went out
Our love wasn’t much defined, it wasn’t much benign, but she liked me to slap her behind
My dad said I was a dud, I thought I was a stud, but in school all I could say was duh
I was strong as a mules head, sleeping in a fools bed, I needed to bring in wood from the shed

They Are Out There

They Are Out There
Written by Donovan L. Green,
12/27/2008 1:12 AM

They are out there, outside, all around us. You have your doubts, but you are in here with me. You are standing right next to me trying to place doubt in my mind about something that I know to be true, and you are afraid of. You are scared to death of. You hope, you wish, that I am wrong. You pray with all your might that your doubts are correct and that they are not out there, but deep down inside, down in that place that you cannot reach, that place which speaks to you about truth when the world is quiet, you hear the voice telling you that they are out there.

We stand next to each other in a pitch black room looking out through a small opening into the cold pitch black stillness. We cannot see a thing either inside or out, but we both know that they are out there, waiting. We can almost feel the static electricity on each other’s arms yet we cannot see each other. We hear each other’s breathing, if there was a shred of light we would see the warmth in our breath leave our bodies and fall stagnant in the chill of the night air.

Neither one of us dare to speak a word. Not a cricket, whippoorwill, or man made object can be heard. The quietness is so intense it is as if nothing really exists. Nothing but us, our bodies trying to operate as quietly as possible, even our breathing is too loud. Occasionally we each gently touch our faces to the window to try to gather a spatial relational ship with where we are. Occasionally our arms brush each other’s just to reassure that we are not alone.

We don’t dare to make a sound for being heard by them. Even if they are not actually out there, it is far better to suffer in this cold dark silence than to risk being heard. Every sound is amplified, magnified to a far greater loudness than ever experienced before. They are out there and we do not dare get caught. They are out there whether we want to believe it or not. And even if we do not want to believe it, deep down, we know, we know without a shadow of doubt.

They are more quiet than quiet. They can see without light. They can smell, oh no, a new fear creeps in. no matter how dark it is, no matter how quiet we are, they know we are here because they can smell us. We can strain our eyes to see through darkness as thick as six feet of earth. We can force our lungs to move in slow motion so our breathing makes no noise. But, how do we hide our smell? We can’t see them. We can’t hear them. We only know deep down that they are our there. But they can see us. They can hear our rapid breathing. They can smell the fear escaping from our pores.

Is there any escape from this madness? Is there anything we can do to save ourselves? Maybe if the sun would return and recreate our world as we knew it before. If particles of light would bounce off of the things we knew was there in front of us. For a moment there is a glimmer of hope for us. I wonder what you are thinking about. Are you being brave? Are you about to crack and scream? Are you wondering what I am thinking right now?

I wonder if we are ever going to be out of this situation. Will they ever leave, or will they outlast us. I lean forward ever so slowly until I can feel the warmth of my breath being reflected off of the glass window back onto my face. It is so dark that at times I begin to wonder if there is a floor under my feet.

Suddenly I awake and see my breath frozen on the window in front of me. I am startled to be alive and I wonder if they are still here, or whether they left when light began to overtake the darkness. I wonder if I was alone the night through. Were you ever here at all or was I by myself all along? I can see the trees again, the grass and the sky. Were they really out there at all, or was it all just my imagination? I feel safe again. The world does exist and I am not in an infinite void of total darkness after all.

I should bring in some firewood and stoke up the fire again. It will be nice to hear the crackle of burning wood in the fireplace. It will be nice to feel the warmth surrounding me again. I still can’t help but wonder though, were you ever here at all, in the cold still darkness, or was I all alone. And what about them, what happened to them? I know they were out there. They were there, waiting for me to make a noise. They were waiting for me to give away my position. They were there, in the cold still darkness, waiting, waiting for us. Or were they just waiting for me all along?

The Chase

The Chase
Written by Donovan L. Green,
December 16, 2008

The heat from my body rushes from me with each heart pounding breath I take. My teeth ache from the frigid air rushing across them and I feel as though my chest is going to explode as my lungs demand more oxygen for the depleted blood rushing through them.

 It is said in certain moments of stress you see your life pass before your eyes. I think of my friends and all the fun we’ve had together. The games we’ve played. The hours of riding our bicycles until the street lights come on at dusk. I think of my parents and the despise they have for me. The times that they were upset with me for reasons I do not understand.

 Between each desperate gasping breath I take I can hear the sound of freshly fallen snow crunching beneath my swiftly moving feet. Running as fast as I can my heart is racing twice as fast as my feet. I feel the snow slipping from under me as I desperately try to change directions. Branches from a bush slap against my body yet I feel no pain.

 I think of my friends again, what about them? Have they escaped? When a good person is under duress he thinks of his friends and loved ones. Good thoughts race through your mind, but despite that, the returning thought is of your own survival.

 I feel my assailant getting closer. I can hear breathing and the footsteps almost in unison with my own. I twist and turn, and dart as fast as I can. My exposed arms are pink from the cold but sweat is rolling down the side of my face. My breath clouds my vision in front of me. I think not of giving up and I find the strength for one last burst of energy hoping to outlast my assailant.

 Everything seems a little surreal as what seems at this point to be the inevitable. The footsteps behind me grow closer. I can hear heavy breathing as I feel a near miss strike across the back of my shoulder. It is more than enough to send my body surging forward faster than my feet can keep up with. I dive head first toward the trampled snow-covered ground.

 Tumbling to a stop on my back I lay outstretched. Looking up at the deep blue sky through the crystal-clear air, the sun is setting and the temperature is dropping, Twilight is fading to darkness. My breath swiftly bellows off towards the heavens through the cold air. No more flight or fight is left in me. The space above me, a vast void of endless space.

 My assailant is laying nearby in the same exasperated condition. For several minutes we both lie motionless fighting to fill our lungs, trying to catch up to the demand of our racing hearts. A sigh of relief escapes between breathes. And in an unwilling gesture of acknowledgment of being outran and defeated a slight grin hints across my exhausted face. Between big deep breaths of gasping air, I hear him force out the words in my direction, “tag, you’re it!”

 

Dreaming Big

Dreaming Big
Written by Donovan L. Green,
12/4/2008 2:27 AM

Have you ever dreamed of being good at something? Really good?
Whatever it is that you do, have you ever dreamed of being really good at it?
How about being the best at it? How about being on top of the game?
How about being the top of the game?

I haven’t.
I have only dreamed of being loved.

Still Waters

Still Waters

Written by Donovan L. Green,
November 19, 2008

 A skinny old cuss, nothing extra on his bones, stood at the edge of a brook in the mountains of Old Virginia in what was about to become Kentucky. Unconcerned, he knelt down and after a quick rinse of his hands, scooped a handful of the water and brought it to his mouth. The brook, with its grass lined banks and moss covered rocks smelled of very natural earthiness as the trickling water slowly reshaped the bank. The water was cold and refreshing. His hands were like leather from a lifetime of hard work.

 The word from out west was to expect more sunshine through the end of the week, and that was good news. A slight breeze gently stirred golden and auburn leaves down from the canopy of oak trees, and settled on the forest floor signaling the time to bring the corn out of the fields. The seeds have been drying on the stalk now for several weeks. If raising corn wasn’t already difficult enough, to much rain, not enough rain, rain at the wrong time, this is when the real work was just beginning, harvest time. There was a lot of work to be done and it took from daybreak until well after dark each day until harvest was complete.

 All of about five foot five inches tall and weighing no more than about a hundred pounds pockets full of soil, Evan Williams’ spirited personality made him large in stature. Sipping another handful of water he looked around at the mountain side. Scattered Dogwoods growing in the shade of tall white oak trees, a few eastern hemlocks and a ground cover of green leafy ferns peppered with fallen leaves provided a cool shady place to stop and rest. He was hauling the seventh load of the day up the mountain. His shirt cuffs rolled up twice, his clothes soiled and tattered; his worn boots barely protecting his callused feet and a piece of rope around the waist of his trousers one would never have known that he was on the Board of Trustees of Louisville.

 Once the corn is out of fields, there is still a lot of work to be done to get it over the mountain to the mill. Getting the corn to the mill was hard and dangerous work. There was always the danger of an attack from the Shawnee, and more likely from lawless renegades heading west ahead of law men. And then there was always the weather. The money didn’t get in your pockets until the mill had weighed what you brought in. A few days of rain could dampen the corn, bringing a lower price, and make the roads difficult or impassible for the carts.

 Running his cool wet hands back through his thin, scraggly grey hair and then pulling his wiry grey beard down to a point with several slow strokes, he pondered this year’s harvest. Born of a Welsh farm family his parents had risked everything including their lives to come to the new world. Farming and hard work was all he had ever known. But sitting next to the brook as he had done so many times over the years, one thought would not leave his mind. The brook was fed from a spring near his homestead on his farmland, and several miles down the mountain quietly and subtly fed into the Ohio River about three miles southwest of town. He caught himself daydreaming as he stared at the never ending stream of cold refreshing water with its hypnotic sounds.

 At the end of each harvest the last load or two of corn from the fields, “sour corn”, didn’t get taken over the mountain. By that time everyone was worn out, pockets and bread boxes were full of coins, and sour corn would only bring half pay anyway. Some corn was held for personal use, but the last load or two was not all that desirable for milling. It had long been tradition to make sour mash of it, sour mash that he, his friends and neighbors, and the board of trustees looked forward to each year.

 Known for adamantly standing up for what he believed was right, even to the point of standing on the table at board meetings, Evan was known even better for his kindness and generosity, and respected for his sincerity. The last three years his neighbors had given him their sour corn for making mash. His still was at the head of the brook where the spring came from the ground. Most farmers had a still, but he believed his sour mash was so popular because his was the only sour mash around made from this cold spring water. His decisions had always paid off in the past, and he was certain that this time would be no different.

 He looked back at the two brown mules with black trimmed ears and muzzles waiting patiently with the cart of corn on the rough, rocky road up to the barn. A few ears of corn lay strewn along the road that had fallen during the many trips up the mountain. The sound of the brook was peaceful and relaxing but he could still hear the falling leaves. He felt his back tightening up from the long hours of back breaking work. His knees cracked when he stood up. The sun was getting low in the western sky.

 Evan Williams had decided to trade the last week of his harvest for an equal amount of mill. This would cut his yearly grain profit by about twenty percent. But he knew that together with the mill from the sour corn, and this cold refreshing spring water that he would not have any trouble in selling all his distilled sour mash for five times what he was giving up in corn. He put his hand back into the brook and watched the water caress his fingers. He cupped his hand and watched the water swirl around in his palm. As leaves drifted to the ground around him, one of his mules stamped his foot on the ground and gave a swish of his tail.

 The End.

 

 

Evaded

Evaded
Written by Donovan L. Green,
November 17, 2008

His eyes too big to fit in his head. Light pouring in through his pupils. He watches a seed fall from a stalk of grass, tumble end over end. A trail of dust disperses in the air.

His nostrils expanded several times their normal size. His lungs expanding, stretching the skin that contains them. He can smell the slow decomposition of dead grass, an earthy odor, beneath his feet.

His heart pounding too hard to stay in his chest. Blood swelling his veins and arteries. Oxygen is driven to every fiber of muscle on his bones. He can feel every corpuscle of energy being delivered to his muscles tense and loaded.

His ears perked like individual radars. Every hair on his ears picking up vibrations in the air, sensitive to the slightest change in air density. Relaying information to his brain, he hears each wing beat of a tiny gnat.

Finally, the little rabbit blinks. He scans the horizon again. He listens for the heavy feet of the four-legged beast he evaded. He blinks again. He sniffs the air and tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry.

I know a Girl

I know a Girl
Written by Donovan L. Green,
10/22/2008 3:18 AM 5/17/2018 12:47 AM (Revised)

I know a girl whose hair is silk untoiled I know her hair smooth like milk unspoiled I know milk with the taste of honey swirled I know a girl whose eyes are the sun shine I know her eyes like the girl sweet and fine I know sweet and fine like the girl in time I know a girl whose smile is a rose unfurled I know a rose whose smile is a girl uncurled I know a smile that is like a girl unfoiled I know a girl whose heart is torn by thorns I know a thorn whose torn by scorn I know scorn like the girl that has sworn I know a girl whose soul is unearthed I know an earth like her soul ungirthed I know a soul like the girl unbirthed I know a girl whose flower is bloomed I know a flower that lifts my spirit from gloom I know a spirit like a girl with a plume I know a girl whose mood is color blue I know the color blue but she hasn’t a clue I know a clue that the girl is not true I know a girl but she doesn’t know me I know she doesn’t know me she can’t see I know I can’t see why she doesn’t see me I know she never was, has been, nor will be I know what has been that I’ll never be I know I’ll never see the girl close to me I know a girl whose hair is silk untoiled I know a girl whose eyes are the sun shine I know a girl whose smile is a rose unfurled I know a girl whose heart is torn by thorns I know a girl whose soul is unearthed I know a girl whose flower is bloomed I know a girl but she doesn’t know me I know she never was, has been, nor ever will be

Through the Darkness

Through the Darkness
Written by Donovan L. Green,
10/22/2008 2:03 AM

 
Through the darkness of my heart I can hear the beat of nature.
Through the beat of nature I can hear the beat of my heart.
Through the sorrow of my mind I can see the joy of nature.
And through the joy of nature I can see the light of my mind.
And through the confusion of my spirit I can see the understanding of nature.
Through my bitter taste I can taste the winds of nature.
Through the flavor of the winds I can taste the freedom of my soul.
Through the understanding of nature my spirit is revived.
And through the feeling of hatred I can feel the warmth of the sun.
Through the warmth of the sun I can feel the thawing of love.
Through the thawing of love I experience the warmth life.
And through the warmth of life my heart is lighted.

I Thought About Writing a Book

I Thought About Writing a Book
Written by Donovan L. Green,
10/12/2008 10:59 PM

I thot I would rite a book. I’ve been wantin ta rite a book fer a while, but I didn’t no what ta rite about. I’ve seen books about everything out there.

I’ve red books by perfessionals. I’ve red books by people who didn’t no what they waz talkin about. I’ve red good books by ignorant people. I’ve red bad books by smart people. I’ve red almost unreadable books by really smart people. And thru it all, I’ve wondered, why couldn’t I rite a book.

I thot about ritten a how-to book. A how-to book about how-to grow a garden. I thot too, about ritten a how-to book about how to build things with wood. I thot about ritten a how-to book on how to rite a book.

I thot about rittin a book about my filosofy on life. I thot about rittin a book about my naledge. I thot about rittin a book uv my very own recipes, which ya won’t fine anywhere on the internet. I thot about rittin my opinion about those skany hoes on late nite television tellin me I need a drug to make me appealin to them.

I thot about ritten a book about how our world was gonna end because people didn’t have any morals anymore. I thot about ritten a book about greed and corruption and how all the leaders go that way.

I thot about speekin my mind about advertizen, about mass media, about the propaganda that rules our world. I thot about makin the political comments that so, so many have made, but then I would be juz like everyone else.

That Woman

That Woman
Written by Donovan L. Green,
2/03/2008 7:47 PM

I’m going to buy myself a bottle of bourbon and take a trip down a dirt road.
I’m going to pack my bag and I’m never looking back.
It’s what that woman is doing to me. It’s what that woman is doing to me.

I’m going to buy myself some beer and walk away from here.
I’m going to pack my bag and I’m never looking back.
It’s what that woman is doing to me. It’s what that woman is doing to me.

I’ve done my best there’s nothing else left what can I do, what can I do.
I’ve stood tall, I’ve stood firm, I’ve knelt down, I’ve been soft.
I’ve done my best there’s nothing else left what can I do, what can I do.

I’m going to buy myself a bottle of bourbon and curl up and die.
I’m going to pack my bag and I’m never looking back.
It’s what that woman is doing to me. It’s what that woman is doing to me.

I’m going to buy myself some beer and go find a place to shed some tears.
I’m going to pack my bag and I’m never looking back.
It’s what that woman is doing to me. It’s what that woman is doing to me.