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Crossing Crocker Township

$10

  • Publisher : Timberline Press
  • Publish Date : October 18, 2016
  • ISBN : 0-944048-33-1

This collection of poems, is set primarily in Crocker Township, an area north of Des Moines in Polk County, Iowa, and wander from the teachings of Zen Master Joshu to the slow wing beats of a thousand pelicans.

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Description

This collection of poems, published in 2005, is set primarily in Crocker Township. At the time most of the poems were written, Crocker Township was a largely rural area north of Des Moines in Polk County, Iowa. The most prominent geographical feature of this area is Saylorville Lake, a federal impoundment operated by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. At “normal” pool, the elevation of Saylorville Lake is 836 feet above sea level, the tailwater area below the dam ranges between 791 and 798 feet, and from the Sycamore Boat Ramp south of the dam to the northern boundary of the Federal Reservation, the entire Saylorville complex plus Big Creek Lake near Polk City is ten miles long. Under abnormal conditions, like the floods of 1993 and 1998, Saylorville and the Des Moines River, despite the intentions of the Corps, become destroyers. 

Even though Crossing Crocker Township has a clear geographical center, the poems wander over a wider area, from Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge in Nashville, Tennessee to Fall River Pass in Colorado, from the teachings of Zen Master Joshu to the slow wing beats of a thousand pelicans. 

Poems aside, the book Crossing Crocker Township is a work of art by itself, printed by Clarence Wolfshohl in his shop in the Timber outside Fulton, Missouri. The cover photo is by Nicholas Tremmel.

Sample Poem

Sample Poem

YOUR FIRST TIME AT TOOTSIE\'S ORCHID LOUNGE
–Nashville, Tennessee

"She played tambourine
with a silver jingle…"

When you walk in
it is just past quitting time
and the tourists
who stumbled in here are gone,
heading back to the hotel
or searching for the Opryland bus.
They have taken with them
all they could find in this place,
the caps, twenty dollar T-shirts,
twelve dollar red panties
with black writing on the butt and lace.

The ones who are left, smoking
cigarettes and drinking beer
you remember
from truck stops
years ago, honky tonks
just a short walk away
from ten dollar motels
and your eighteen-wheeler out back
trimmed in rust and loaded down.

The bartender is blonde
with a body that is barely
twenty-five, eyes
that are pushing fifty,
and she can read what you want
in your face before you even
open your mouth.

Photographs cover the walls,
yellow, with ornate frames.
The autographs on them
are faded like chisel cuts
in sandstone.

Poems on the table tops, names, the prayers
of lovers who were here and who might
be back some day, together

or with someone else, or alone.

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