Roderick Vesper
Poet
and Writer from Covington, Kentucky
pictured here with his wife Ginger
The Mechanic Son of a Farmer Dreams of the West
by Roderick Vesper
At seventeen, he sat under
the train tracks
a brilliant moon reflecting off of the beer can
on the dashboard. Pink Floyd and smoke floated
lightly throughout the car and out the window,
rising above him to the trestle overhead.
Somewhere between a drag and a drink
he reached to the radio with a still greasy hand
and took the time to listen to the quiet air
for the sound of a train coming from the east.
A wood owl offered the only reply to the
mesmerizing murmur of the cricket chatter,
he had read the graffiti at least a dozen times before.
Then came the low rumbling like a tornado
parting the trees in the distance, and lights
slid across the rails above, box car after box car
click-clack-clicking off into the distance, westward
leaving behind only the dull gray reflection
of the moon on pavement and the continuing
conversation between the owl and the night.
things that I feel guilty
for experiencing
by Roderick Vesper
The smell of leather jackets
like the one you wore that first
winter we spent together, it's cool skin
against mine, until it fell to our feet.
Cute little kittens, grey fur, knowing eyes,
that you loved so passionately when
they jumped around our apartment, sliding
comically across the hardwood floor.
The smell of fixer, ambivelant odor
like napalm, repulsive and exciting,
mixing to develop into black
and white photos, trying to make your
life out of them. I once was in them.
The cold lonely alley behind the bank
where I picked you up at night, you looked
down to me from the balcony, your black
and white flowered dress inviting me. Jigsaw
puzzles, all the pieces scattered across the
light blue throw rug, while you search
with all your soul for that piece of blue sky.
The Sound of Sirens
by Roderick Vesper
As the bus wound down
the old, thin-snake-road
Twisting towards my home town, sky turned black
And stomach churned, school milk nearly turned to cream.
When air brakes hissed at the stop outside of Tommy Madison's
Rambuncious children froze, looking at one another momentarily
Then settled into silent stare towards the sky.
But the bus made it to my home before little more than heavy rain,
Rain that formed tiny rivers under my feet as I ran
Down the sand-gravel driveway. In the house I found
Rumbling green-black sky replaced by stucco ceiling.
On the counter lay confirmation of all my fears:
Batteries, flashlight and the old AM radio.
Once again tornado would come, Following
Up the river like a barge with a cargo no one wanted.
My mother would be no comfort to me
When her own hands shook like the house in the wind.
She wanted to know where father was, out in the field, obstinate
Or warm in a barn, stubborn, staring at the sky in defiance
While Bobby Stewart drank a root beer and told a story
About the last tornado that wrecked his uncle's barn.
So under the kitchen table we talked about twisters before
That always seemed to miss us, skipping over our blessed town
Nestled in this valley like a family in a cellar.
And in the barn my father talked of twisters before
What a nuisance, only interupting work
Which so desperately needed to be done.
And we were connected by our fears
When all heard the same sad siren singing.
About the poet . .
.
Roderick Vesper is
a recent graduate of Northern Kentucky University, where he earned
a BA in English with a focus in creative writing. At Northern, Vesper
served as the Poetry Editor for Cameo, Associate Editor for Licking
River Review and the Founder and Editor of Venetian Colorblind.
He is a resident of Covington, Kentucky.
Vesper continues to write, experimenting with screenplays but always
returning to his true love, poetry. He currently freelances for
the Kentucky Mountain Bike Association, producing layout, copy writing
and public relations work.
This is only the second time Vesper's work has appeared outside
of a student run press. His newfound drive comes
from the tremendous support
of his loving wife, Ginger.
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