Category Archives: Twila Sharpe


Twila Sharpe: “Seas of Grass”

Used by kind permission. 2004 (c) Twila Sharpe.

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.“Seas of Grass”
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Ah drive ’em down to drink, and up to feed
Ah watch ’em waller eye to eye, horn to horn
Ah gallop wide, mah fangers sorely bleed
Ah know’d horses since ‘fore I been born.
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Ah ride by moon; chew tasajo* at dawn
Ah sleep in seas of grass whilst leather dries
Ah mend the toughest posts that cain’t be sawn;
Ah cain’t be warshin’ dust whilst swattin’ flies.

Ah lost mah saddle crossin’ near the Llano:
Ah shucked abalone* pert nigh a week;
Ah scooped bucket after bucket o’ arrow.
Ah seen Shawnee, Konawa, Tyner’s Creek.
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Ah rode by light o’ many a pile*
Ah weren’t lookin’ for no bone war…
Ah lets ’em shoot at me a while:
Ah plum did git mah hat a tore!
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Ah reckon months ‘fore I see ya’ll…
Ah’ll be down, ‘fore too long, ta Anson…
Ah’ll see ya’ll… at The Cowboy Christmas Ball.
Ah dream ’bout The Star*…and gals a dancin’!

Twila, c. 2004

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.* Tasajo (ta saw ho) is buffalo jerky, a dried meat.  This cowpoke would pronounce it:     “Tass-a-joe.”

*Abalone, a shellfish, was common in Central and West Texas rivers; the shells were collected and sold to the button factories which sprang up alongside the railroad lines.  The former Indian campgrounds were a source for arrowheads which were highly prized and sold to Eastern tourists.

*Buffalo bones were also collected for the purpose of making buttons, fertilizers, household implements, and even furniture–it was a big industry in Texas, where some six million buffalo or more used to roam the grasslands before 1879.  The bones were piled up on “bone roads”–because of their calcium content, at night, they glowed like phospher.  This is what some Texas cowboys did when they got down and out.

** The Star Hotel, in Anson, Texas, where in 1885, the first Christmas Ball was held.

Twila, c. 2004.

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Twila Sharpe: “Escarpments”

Please see Notes below. Thanks Twila!

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Escarpments

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Escarpments rise windblown, the Spanish say,

Adorning all archaic seas.

The sands, asleep, were born from mortal clay.

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The furnace air, one hundred-twelve degrees…

This land, I should trespass once, beyond books.

I yearn for Western skies, the turquoise hills,

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A place not peopled; far from dabbling crooks.

A desert, fortress wall that posts no bills.

My world of fleets gone South, and Eastward store,

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Is woeful: curry-ridden, plague and fraud.

Deceit an asset, the time-sheet of war,

Exports of evil wear the face of God.

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By father’s desk I toil with ink and pen

Empire of mine, I dream, and wonder when.

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A young man pondering what his father deemed

“the really unimportant things.”

Twila, c. 2005.

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“Escarpments” (With Notes)

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Escarpments rise windblown, the Spanish say,

Adorning all archaic seas.

An escarpment is the eroded and upthrust section of land that resulted from mountain-building, or such an occurrence along a fault-line.

Escarpments are found world-wide but the “young man” would have perhaps heard of the Niagara Escarpment of Ontario, Canada, in addition to reading about them from the Spanish ledgers he may have seen or attained on a voyage abroad. Galen Metairie, from his cattle drives, would know of the Balcones Escarpment in Texas, which stretches from the southwest, through the Hill Country, and north through the Panhandle.

The “archaic seas” refer to ancient oceans that once rose to the tops of these structures. Think of the Grand Canyon and layers of sediment deposited by the Colorado River.

The sands, asleep, were born from mortal clay.

Simply, the skeletal remains of ancient marine life, and even ancient man, which makes up, in this case, the desert floor spread out before the escarpment.

The furnace air, one hundred-twelve degrees…

The temperature compared to a hellish furnace blast. He, who has only known the cold, before the trip to Martinique, is amazed.

This land, I should trespass once, beyond books.

He wishes for escape from the tedium of his existence. He is, basically, an apprentice, or a clerk, in his father’s 18th Century American shipyard.

I yearn for Western skies, the turquoise hills,

He wishes to see what the Spanish conquistadores have seen. His environment is cold and rainy.

A place not peopled; far from dabbling crooks.

“Dabbling crooks” is a play on “babbling brooks”. You can imagine the young man’s father being on guard against swindlers and other nefarious souls.

A desert, fortress wall that posts no bills.

He romanticizes the face of the escarpment, seeing it as a Moorish fortress rising from the Saharan desert. It is unlike the walls of the public buildings surrounding the wharves where he works.

My world of fleets gone South, and Eastward store,

The Caribbean and Asian trade: the human cargo, back-breaking, slave labor, and cheap goods.

Is woeful: curry-ridden, plague and fraud.

A dangerous trade, fraught with worry, ship-board shortages (think of rotten meat disguised with curry), disease, and ill-gotten gains.

Deceit an asset, the time-sheet of war,

A run-in with the Barbary Pirates off of the coast of Libya, having to “pay ransoms” that will eventually lead to our first Marine encounter as a nation.

Exports of evil wear the face of God.

The smuggling of weapons, tea, liquor, or, even human cargo, and all other manifestations of the Atlantic trade. When I say “smuggling”, as a young sea-faring nation, we often had to go around the British, French, Dutch, and Spanish, in order to avoid paying high tariffs on goods. Oftentimes, our ships, and even our men were seized, and “pressed” into service by none other than the British Navy. This led to the War of 1812.

In my poem, the young man is as a visionary: he is seeing these occurrences well in advance of the deeds because he is familiar with the cause and effect of such a maritime system.

By father’s desk I toil with ink and pen

Empire of mine, I dream, and wonder when.

The “father” was a gruff, no-nonsense businessman. He didn’t suffer “dreamers”, and tried to discourage such notions in his son, who would inherit everything he strived to create. Unfortunately, the shipyard owner had no plans to relinquish any of his control; not while he was above ground. The “empire of mine” is not, as you can surmise, the “empire” of the father. It is the empire of the “dreamer” — everything a young man might wish for, and everything that his current life is devoid of. He wishes for a better world, the world promised by adventurers, scientific reasoning, and the best of the Enlightenment.

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A young man pondering what his father deemed “the really unimportant things.”

Twila, c. 2005.

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Twila Sharpe: “The Pillowcase Pond”

Used by kind permission. © 2007 by Twila Sharpe.

The Pillowcase Pond


When, in a sober reckoning
I, to you, come beckoning,
Plant my dreams along the pillowcase pond
Where verdant, grasping willows chase swan;
Their lashlike tendrils greening,
Against molting tufts now preening.


Sense in me, a brushlike whisk
That your ear, the softest disc,
Hears not its airy muse; yet oscillates
Within–a chord– where docil plates
Like glassine shards a-clatter
Spin above this worldy platter.


Dip fingers deep in ponded murk:
To well tune the polished work
Angels have wafted on wings from high.
For, no serener sound their voices sigh
Than this water harp so empyreal made–
Gift from His own glittering glade.


Extend His evening’s erudite perfume;
Convey a cottage her chimneyed plume.
The Holy and humble, both harbor a heart
Enchanted by prescient dreams at their start.
Firelit, each page–a-dance before the bed–
Lends its warming presence to a heavy head.

As I, in my sober reckoning
Still, to you, come beckoning…

Twila, c. 2007

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Twila Sharpe: “The Tale of the Tomb-Gate Spire”

Used by permission. (c) 1983 by Twila Sharpe.

Caspar David Friedrich – 1825

 

“The Tale of the Tomb-Gate Spire”

 

(The Prologue)

 

And, when I have fallen, fallen low,

Wilt thou follow the smoky path

Of my imprisoned wrath,

Along the benevolent, sleep-worn stone?

 

To dance a dance, devoid of all mirth –

Entreating a fragile mind:

‘Remember the days bound to night,

This death denied of the eager earth.’

 

Embittered, enshrouded heart of pitch –

Wilt thou pen a death-verse above my head?

Laurel crown, withered words kings’ once said –

Sorrow, for the selling, hath made me rich.

 

‘There be not a kingdom to want my soul –

Lest the remnants of a marble empire

Make so bold, The Tale of the Tomb-Gate Spire,

Se’er of secrets chained within its hold.’

 

And, inside that barren, barren crypt,

Betwixt sleeping relations’ couch,

Betwixt the leonine mouth,

Long ago, this hollow shell was slipt…

 

(The Tale)

 

No bell did sing that distant hour –

The crimson pyre of Black Death

Flamed their visions unto dread:

Where, this errant son to embower?

 

Albion – her unwitting arms outstretched –

Took him, quietly, into her keep.

Here, there were few who dared to weep:

When starlight fell, the six were fetched.

 

At Eagle’s Hill, there, they laid him down.

In coldest stone, the King had him interred.

By tallow glow, the Queen inferred.

A whisp’ry shadow, still, did stalk the ground!

 

When lightning and havoc brought to sight

The features so wasted, they were stunned:

As brother, son – a creature, long-since shunned –

‘Neath her pane, the pitiful lover, watched by night.

 

And, soon, the rain that dropt the freshest rose…

And, bare the garden, her elixir, drank the Queen.

When doomed lovers – their eternal life obscene –

Danced no more; ‘twas then, the tinkling box did close.

 

The Evil Three:  The Parson, Seaman, Witch…

A neck to break, before another hung –

Avenge the Queen, and hush the Seaman’s tongue –

An end to deal the Parson, brick by brick…

 

Magician, pause, reflect this, thine ungodly life –

Upon a table, Countess, tarot cards rescind

That deeds be done; yet, one desirous to amend:

Beseech the King, to free The Hound of Strife.

 

‘Embrace the workings of The One above,

And thine impure heart shall know The Cross

That doth secure eternity’s loss.

For the hands that bind, acknowledge love.’

 

(The Epilogue)

 

Thus, I did sail the maelstrom and quagmire

Of Life and Death – a sweeping vortex.

In death, a sentinel stands a-gate to vex –

An imitation – yea, no churchly spire.

 

‘Hast thou been sure, hast thou not heard?

Hast thou, uncertain, pushed past that steepled thing?

O’, treasures ‘wait thee, for thou hast caught the ring!’

The wall of idle fury utters silent words…

 

And, inside this barren, barren crypt,

Betwixt sleeping relations’ couch,

Betwixt the leonine mouth,

From ‘round a bier, the bonds are slipt…

 

‘There be not a kingdom to want my soul

Lest the remnants of a marble empire

Make so bold, The Tale of the Tomb-Gate Spire,

Se’er of secrets unchained within its hold.’

 

If one were lain to rest in an old churchyard, the steeple might point the way to a heavenly reward.  Here, in this mausoleum, the top of the tomb’s gate – as if the entombed were looking out – becomes the “spire.”  For the vampyre so entombed, it points the way to an unholy afterlife, and… an uncertain freedom.
© 1983   Twila