For National Poetry Month, I’m sharing poems each day, one that I’ve written followed by whatever one from three sites that share a poem a day that strikes my fancy that day.

I grew up in a small village in northeastern Pennsylvania called Laddsburg. This poem is about its people, including my grandfather.

In The Little Village Where I Grew Up 

Around this corner Stu was unable
to straighten the wheel, avoid that pole, 
and in this very hayfield the tractor would not
stop from popping out of gear, rolling over L.J.
In the movies, bullets halt in mid-flight,
seconds before they reach flesh and bone,
but here, no one could stop the tractor trailer
from sliding down the icy hill, careening into Mike
and almost killing him. Here, migraines still pound,
nitroglycerin tablets still don't change Elmer
from what he always was, and is: a mean old cuss.
Here, the strop with which my uncle went to hit
my grandfather continues its descent toward him,
and my grandfather continues to stop it and walk
out the front door of the barn, never to return.

The above poem is best read in desktop and landscape modes.

Today’s poem from one of three sites that share a poem each day is “Sistas” by Sandra Maria Esteves on The Poetry Foundation website.