We kept relics in the garden
to remind us of the sentries at night
surrounding orchards of oranges
their fire-red caps lit,
smokestacks glowing, chugging
diesel to keep the freeze out.
A black cloud hung low
in the mornings over Exeter,
white diaphanous curtains gray,
suet under grammar school noses
to save the crop of gold
the town depended on in the old days.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, poetry
Tagged Exeter, freeze, oranges, photography, poetry, smudge pots
Granddad hired him
right off the train:
barefoot kid in bibs
looking for work.
Ike Clark roadsided
a thousand field lugs
of navel oranges a day,
sled on Christmas mud
with two mules
who knew their business.
I share the story
at a Garden Party in Exeter—
street shut down
for dinner and auction
to raise money
for murals of its history—
while seeing bins, trucks
and forklifts in the field
and men to drive them—
all that capital,
energy and exhaust,
only half-believing
my father’s words
that rush from my mouth.
But waiting for the bus,
I can see the 1950s
Chevrolet pickup loaded
with leafy greens
from the alley
behind the Safeway
to feed a barnyard menagerie
that roamed the orchard
and his open house.
Somewhere out there,
the bathtub
my grandmother gave him
still making whiskey.
for Dick & Pat
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