A Little Lite Verse

About the Book

21 September 2001 A little bit about A LITTLE LITE VERSE by Darnell Fulgham: Born in a sharecropper’s shack in ’32, I thought we were well off, still do. To Memphis in the War, with picture shows, free books, and indoor plumbing. Went home again, played football, drafted for Korean Conflict, sent to Panama instead. Studied art at Southern MS and architecture at Oregon. Met a middle child like me from Kansas. Tired of the rat race, herded chickens for a while, built a throwaway back in the woods and added on as three boys came, put in a drafting board upstairs, stayed 20 years, moved up the hill and built a better solar shack. It’s where we are today. I planned to do a few good buildings but got into a rut, became a hired gun, and couldn’t do it any more. Ten years or so ago I took to writing verse. I’ve filled 12 notebooks full so far. It was fun to do. I hope it’s fun for you. Here’s a random sample: FOSSILS A razor scrapes the face of canyon walls. Into the chasm at their feet it falls. Through time it cuts the fossils free to find Their way into collections kept behind Closed doors, in crates on which curators have Cemented labels: Bones too short to save. THREESCORE AND TEN MORE OR LESS TO GO At sixty you know you can’t be a Greek god again, But does this mean you’ve lost all that you had? Growing older, is it all that bad? Is what you’ve got in some ways better than, Or has life really lost its zingaling? The ways of love won’t launch a thousand ships And lust no longer leads you by the nose. The flood more slowly swells, more gently flows. Its siren song’s not quite so sweet, but drips Its honey still, and still can sting. LOCAL COLOR He went through the alley past the Methodist Church And forced the lock on the bank’s back door. He carried a chrome plated .22 and wore A flour sack with eyeholes over his face. Except for Mr Finger, the clerk, the place Was empty. He asked for the cash he had on hand, Took the moneybag and went the way he came. (When he learned who it was he said, “I don’t understand. If he’d asked, I’da loaned it to’im on his name.”) The sheriff and Chief Miller asked around But figured he was long gone and never would be found. Then the FBI came trooping in and took over the search. Folks didn’t take to their snooping, said, “There´s nothing to find." When they spied on a suspect from inside the school The principal had a fit, said, “He’s a friend of mine!” They rolled up their pants, joined hands, and waded through the pool In Red Draper’s pasture and found the alleg-ed money sack. Then, hoping for a witness, they doubled back To the end of the alley across from the church and made a stop At Polly Burney’s home and Beauty Shoppe. They asked again if she had seen anything. “Didn’t see a soul,” she said, “’cept ol’ Duel King.” THE SOUND A STEAM TRAIN MAKES He lives down on the tracks, around the curve or Rather under Blanton’s Gap. With fervor He works on the section gang for them. In trade the company takes good care of him. A whistle drifting down from Williams Hill And coal smoke blowing in the wind, the squeal Of brakes when stopping in its tracks. It cannot turn around, when coming backs. THE SEIGE OF BANKSTON In order to achieve Surprise they came on Christmas Eve, With matches in their saddlebags. They had the town alight Before defenders woke to find They’d lost the fight. The mayor in his gown appeared, aghast. Why are you burning up our town? he asked. The troopers had retorts prepared: It’s only orders, said their head. And good for warming hands, Another said. Too bad ´bout the old man We had to shoot because he ran. Next day they had

About the Author

Born in a sharecropper’s shack in ’32, I thought we were well off. Still do. To Memphis in the War, and things, free books, picture shows, indoor plumbing. Home again, played football, proved myself a man. Drafted for Korea, Panama instead. Art, then Architecture. Met a middle child like me. We moved 12 times the next three years. Went home again (not hers, she says) and built a throwaway, added on as three boys came, stayed 20 years. Moved up the hill and built a solar shack. Had 2000 chickens, sold and ate the eggs and later, them. Back to drawing houses, built a few, became a basket case. Prozac pulled me through. Took to writing verse, I guess as an excuse to hang with words to see what they would say. And read, to hear what they said yesterday. Growing up and old, our times and wars, letters not meant to mail, trying to make sense and nonesense out of things—whatever occurred to me. Not too negative, not to whine too much, subtlety a no-no, ironic, a little levity.