Gone Lawn
a journal of word-things
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Gone Lawn 46
autumnal equinox, 2022

Featured artwork, The City, by Koss

New Works

James Piatt

The Lonely Morning

A band of crickets crept out at night, drew one leg against the other, and began their nightly symphony of distorted notes. The chords when heard in the late hours of the night, for some mysterious reason were soothing and melodic, enough to allow an old man a few hours of sleep. He hadn't slept much in the past six months, the bed was empty without her. The cricket's checkered chords trickled through the raindrops falling on the roof causing his mind to gather night dreams that were rambling through old memories. After the night hours waned, early morning began, and the symphony ended. A rustling of downy birds in the Pink Lady bushes startled small animals heading for the garden and a tasty breakfast, sending them scampering to unknown hiding places like the places deer hide with their young fawns in the wee morning hours. The rain had begun again, and was punishing our old house. The stormy wind was whistling though the pine trees this morning, creating a whistling song. The storm didn't seem to want to give up its night voice to the sun. The electricity was out again, and the old man had to find candles to lit up the kitchen. He had candles which wept like elderly men who had lost their wives like him, but threw out a lot of light. He filled up his old six cup percolator, forgetting he only needed four cups now. He turned on the stove, and placed two eggs in a pan with a pat of butter, and some sliced potatoes. He hoped breakfast, and a hot cup of black coffee would start his morning out in a more positive manner today. He looked out the kitchen window as he sipped his coffee, and watched whisperings of light, from the last of the stars dancing like faeries. The last of the star light was flickering through the clouds, as a few beams of the sun started to creep through gaps in the dark clouds like a dull flashlight beam. Then the sun's rays were started to spill down the mountains to the East, and painted an apricot colored hue on the meadows below. After finishing breakfast, and two cups of hot coffee, and pursuing through some old magazines, the old man's grandfather clock chimed seven O'clock. He sighed, put on his flannel shirt, and lined pants, along with his Mac and rubber boots, and went out to the garden to collect what was left of his garden vegetables to make a stew for the next three or four days. He didn't care to cook too much anymore, so he tried to make meals, which would last three or four days at a time. His wife used to make beautiful meals every night, but he didn't have the patience or will like she did. He missed her terribly, and tried to find her in the stars on clear nights, when the stars like kerosene lanterns lit up the sky. He knew it was important to make every moment important, but humans for some reason, tended to forget that advice far too often when a loved one passed on to the other side. He knew that if anyone deserved to find joy in heaven, it would be her, and found some solace in that fact. His melancholy thoughts ebbed back into his memories as he finally reached the garden. As he approached, he saw small animals, voles and squirrels, scampering behind the old hay shed. He really didn't mind sharing his garden with the small animals anymore, they had to live too. He picked the vegetables he needed for his stew, and sat down in an old plastic chair to ponder on the day. He didn't seem to find much joy in the garden or his days anymore, but tried to live on in the fading hours of his existence without his love as best that he could. He wondered why people didn't understand about the briefness of life when they were young, so they could live more fully, but for some reason, didn't, and he hadn't either. What a shame that was!

Dr. Piatt is an octogenarian, and for reasons beyond his imagination, he is a best of web nominee, and three time pushcart nominee. He has also had five poetry books,"The Silent Pond," "Ancient Rhythms," "Light," "Solace Between the Lines" and "Serenity" published, as well as over 1700 poems, 35 short stories and five novels. He lives with his wife, Sand, in an 1800s replica of an Eastern farmhouse in the mountains of Santa Ynez, California. This month is our 67th anniversary.