Hugh E.C. Fountain

“Helen of Troy”

You’re always grinning
when I glance back,
striking silently
to the center
of nothing
of false words
and empty promises,
with soft-hushed deceit
and wistful wondering
of where I lie
within your scope
of life, and memory.

What began with
loving affirmations
and pulpous
promises whispered
between cream-cotton
hotel sheets,
ended unexcitably
with a vaguely
raised tone
rising like a swell
settling on spent
coastal dunes
worn weary
by wind,
water,
and time.

Hugh E.C. Fountain

“Opening Day”

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“Homeward”

It is forever autumn
in my mind;
reminding me
of death
cold-grey death
with leaves crunching
like the bones
of a long forgotten
Spring.

Long lanky pines
peaking past
a mass of
redbud,
oak,
and beech -
cypress stumps
baring like teeth
along the fringes
of pitch black swamps.

Written across
brackish waters
I glean the
meaning of being
Southern
of cherishing our land
and understanding
our longing to
always be
homeward bound.

“Wisteria”

Gnarled vines and knotty pines
twisted tufts of purple blooms
beautifully choking and unfurling
demise and arresting animation
creeping, stretching through the wood
with a vociferous grin

Wisteria entangles and extends
hopping to one host and another
while encompassing vast regions
in bewitching horror
- mimicking the southron
eclipsing time, it remains
pushed through the generations

caging its victims
measuredly
but surely
enslaving, ravaging

Yet people gaze on admiringly
the animosity veiled by charm:
a sweet southern drawl
emblazoning sunsets
swift, black running rivers
bloodied soil rich with strife
and
twisted tufts of purple blooms
betwixt gnarled vines
and knotty pines

"Bells In The Morning"

Every Sunday I heard the bells ringing,
with voices drifting down the dusty dirt path
singing praise; I would listen on my porch
to the reverberating echoes of the choir
worshipping a god both far away and immediate.

In the Fall, the congregation would leave
the front doors swinging open.
Stripping away a layer between divinity and
Nature.

The antique smell of old hymnals and
dead blooms from crooked dogwoods
mingling in the foyer.