Page Title

Kevin White was born in
1974 in Alexandria,
Virginia. He now lives in
Claremont,
NewHampshire and
attends Keene State
College, where he
studies Social
Psychology, Asperger’s
Syndrome, Chemical
Dependency
and Writing. He enjoys
playing guitar,
obsessing over hockey
and listening to Bob
Dylan and The Rolling
Stones. In his free time,
he writes poetry, divines
the true nature of the
universe and dreams of
one day lyingon a beach
with nothing better to do.

Upon Plotting the Murder of Violets

Wild violas march through the front
yard all April. First time this year
the neighbor mows his grass, wafting

fragrance across the breezeway
as I switch storm door glass to screen.
Front steps peel off the slate coat,

exposing grizzled boards.
Do you like butter? the proof
ground into my wrist; Corry,

one shade blonder than buttercups
brightened the last fresh coat of gray
when I could still give her rides

on my shoulders. All that rides upon
these shoulders
now: cutting back the violets that creep
a little fuller from the woods each year--

the mowing--that slits their pods
and propagates the seeds, like Corry
who quit smearing buttercups on skin
years ago,

lifted herself up off this weathered wood
and spread into the world--
a sweet viola.

Stone Skipping

Today I found myself
driving outside Brattleboro
on the road to Newfane,
winding alongside
the West River
where you took me stone skipping.

Your voice rippled
across my thought surface
like a flat-rock, surprised
that I could bounce them
through such shallow water
and make them jump out,
knocking off tree trunks
on the other side;

You skimmed through
my head awhile, saying
I didn't seem the sort
to look under rocks
for crawdads, not thinking
I would know
to lift them slowly,
so's not to make mud clouds.

As you tip-toed
around in my mind,
from dry rock to dry
rock, pantlegs rolled
and barefoot,
I marveled at the things
you would presume,
glad to set you straight,
eager to show you
up on any other thing
you might assume.

My God, I thought
were we here yesterday?
and checked my socks
for dampness: though
I knew I hadn't seen you
in a good two years,
and that the brunette
flash beside me
was a memory.

Keene in Late October

Yesterday’s news is splattered
with pumpkin innards.
Dilly picks the seeds out
with sticky fingers
while Emily stands
in the doorway taking
in the scent of burning
maple logs from the woodstove
mingling with the crisp
October air.

Dawson takes to flight again
out on the front lawn,
making figure eights,
leaning his head into the turns,
spinning out of control,
crash landing in a pile
of brittle brown leaves
that crumble in the grip
of his soft little hands.

The kitchen kettle hisses
a spicy apple cider steam,
the type that Emily sips
on cool October evenings.
On the front porch, Dilly
crouches over the tiny
cinnamon candle flame.
He likes to watch
while the fire flickers
in the halo of his breath
as gently blows.

Downtown, where pumpkins
flicker outside Main Street shops,
from the college down
to Central Square,
Dilly rides my shoulders
through festival crowds,
leans down, whispers
something in my ear
about his daddy, reminding
me after all
that it's Halloween
and I'm only masquerading.

Blueberry

Mother stands among blueberry bushes,
navy clam diggers showing bare ankles,
toes stained violet from the gone-by berries
buried beneath, bleeding into straw and pine cones, picking,

listening to the house talk: two daughters anticipating:
one packing blue jeans for college, another, the youngest,
her dreams about to ripen, wondering
if wall paint comes in azure. Other siblings, cousins,
extended family gather around the Nintendo, eating
dirt pie, trying to beat Mario in eight minutes, volume
cranked to drown father's jamming Dr. John tunes
on his Washburn out in the shed.

Mother remembers planting those bushes
when her little scholar was three years old.
They've all matured at once, she marvels,
dreams of how those berries will express themselves:
pies, muffins, jams or jellies, a sugar glazed topping
for cheesecake, mixed with plain yogurt instead
of Breyer's fruit on the bottom, which contains aspartame.

For two short months, the bushes have yielded
enough fruit to satisfy every car that ground its wheels
across the slate gravel driveway. Even the Japanese
beetles are left alone to have their fill.
She figures if she had some help with picking,
she could freeze enough to last long past
the point where the bushes stop their giving;
much like the daughter pictures in their royal frames
on the refrigerator door can store up memories
and keep them fresh from the moment she doles
out the good-bye hugs clear through to the next giving season.

Fireplace

A mouse and four pups
lived in one of the cinder blocks we grabbed
from behind the wood shed
to build our fireplace.
The rose bush kept no rats
that could help them escape the uprooting
of their world. The mother, evicted, scurried
off into the compost of leaves,
her babies clinging to her teats,
dragging along behind.

For her sacrifice, I'm thankful.
The smoke rises, blends
with the Milky Way, blots out
Scorpius and Sagittarius.
Hercules and Andromeda--mere puffs
already--go up in smoke. Everyone else has segued
from burgers and dogs to marshmallows.
Gelatinous sugar-drips sizzle on cherry wood,
my shins cooked medium rare,

but I can't relinquish the stoking stick.
I only stare at the orange fire light
licking at the back cinder wall,
think about Brisby and the fragility
of good living, and watch ash embers
meander up the Milky Way
to take the place of Lyra.

The Lamentations of an Only Child

Sunbeams hula-hip swivel
across the surface of Second Pond.
Somewhere deep in the cattails
a great blue heron holes up from the heat.
Our kayaks flow toward a fallen pine,
the oars no more than lapping;
water striders darting from our paths;
mosquitoes bare-back riding,
leaving constellations along my zodiac.

I divine the pond bottom,
interpreting the rainbows that phase
in and out of the rocky floor.
Today's discoveries don't look like much;
past years' were much fatter.

On a mossy log that juts from the water,
a painted turtle basks
in blood-warming leisure.
Little sister kneels in her boat,
knees spread and rocking for balance,
sending wake that slaps at the wood,
splashes the turtle's claws.
(They still excite her the way they did
when she was four, and first claimed me
as another big brother. Back then,
she kept turtles in shoe boxes as pets,
hand fed us all lettuce.)
She leans out, reaching,
poised to scoop it up and pleading,
please don't jump please don't
jump please don't jump

I look up in time
to see the turtle ooze away;
its gold streaks shimmer
like a wish sinking in a well,
then disappear into milfoil.
As Jillian lets out a whine,
I wonder how long it will be
before she slips away
to chase something other than turtles,
and her golden streaks fade
away from my view
into life's undergrowth.

Yellowstone:
Years After Burning

Bubbling sulfur pits
of blue-green hiss.
Acid stench seeps
from boiling earth,
oozing a steady
stream of hot breath.
One snowflake falls.

Steam winds around
sallow trunks of dead trees.
Some stand gaunt
with black scars
branded in drooping limbs,
Vapor bleeding down
exposed roots.
Others lie pale and rotting:
holocaust victims
that died, but never
were consumed.

As sunbeams burn
through morning fog,
a million tiny pine
saplings sprout
up around shapely hills;
they rise, youthful,
virile and shake
from their branches
the ashes of their ancestors.

The Battle of Actium:
Revisited

August heat burned
up through the asphalt,
cooking our soles.
You charged me
with water balloons,
forcing me back
into the yard
where I made my hard stand,
Octavius bombarding
with a water cannon
hose-in-hand.
You pressed like Cleopatra,
fiercely forward,
pushing through gallons
of hydro-howitzer ammo,
assaulting the main line.

On saturated lawn,
with fresh-cut grass blades
creeping up our ankles
we locked, our bodies
soaked with ordinance,
sweaty from battle-lust
amidst splashes of sunlight
bouncing around our spray.

I had you for a moment,
up against my grandmother's
garage,
gripped you by the wrists,
the closest I ever came
to holding you.
I should have kissed you there
beneath the kitchen window,
but I couldn't see out
my own eyes, into yours
to gauge your meaning.
So you slipped away,
retreated back to your Egypt,
and I, being no Agrippa
never broke the walls
in Alexandria.

The Dirty Business of
Serving an Eviction Notice

The front door fanned a shit
smell
into Adam's face every day;
cockroaches fell from
the door frame,
scurried along the floor,
up to the cracks in the walls,
away from the light.

The Christmas tree had been up
all year
lonely in the dark corner.
Silver and gold balls
were dull with dust.
The angel collected dust.

The kitchen floor collected dirt
brought in from muddy puddles
in the grassless back yard
by the Golden Retriever
whose toe nails tapped
and scratched the floor.

The day the police officers came
to serve the eviction,
the angel fell from the tree.
Adam's father sat on the front
porch
face buried in his hands;
elbows resting on knees.

The retriever barked,
yipped a high pitched yelp
and came in from his den
under the kitchen table,
curling his lips and showing
sharp white teeth.
Fear built up like
the grit on the living room
window.
The officer planted his feet,
reached for his hip:

"Keep that dog back
Or I'll shoot it!"

Adam sobbed as he wrapped
his arms around his dog's
thick, tawny mane,
head tilted
toward the flaking ceiling.
He tried to hold on
with all his strength
but he was only twelve,
and the dog was young and
strong.

One Hundred Fifty Grand

A weary man drives
west on forty
through Flagstaff
in early summer,
a bottle of Dasani
loses its cool
between his legs,
no clouds to hide
him from the sun.

He wants to see
white Victorian houses
rolling over the hills
of San Francisco,
to watch the sun
bob once on Pacific
waves while crossing
the Golden Gate.

Eighty miles per hour
gets him nowhere;
the odometer pushes
one hundred fifty grand,
his windows rolled
down to save gas.
The parched highway,
parting endless miles
of stagnant, settled dust
sends his thoughts drifting
backwards, to the east,
to the girl
the son of another man

~~~ The Poetry of Kevin White ~~~ (Aybee)

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