For those of you who follow me on Facebook, you might have read that I recently suffered a hard drive crash. This is a headache for most people, but can be a disaster for a writer who isn't good about backing up their work. I confess, I got complacent and have paid for it, though it could have been worse.
oathing death over naming names, swearing
to smoke out bushwhackers, bullies and adulterers.
They agree, God is our strength and we are His hands and feet.
Kenny's men ride in sure and lean.
They drop hickory switches on cabin stoops.
Notes, A toothe for a toothe
or If thine eye offends, plucke it out,
are tied like gift tags, set swinging
by breeze of boots doing God's work
before He knows it needs doing.
If sinners don't attend or leave
barns turn funeral pyres to milk cows and winter wheat.
The wicked wake, see woolen horns by slant of flames
And repent or run or load their gun.
Those who aim report: demons wear boots and bleed.
God cannot look upon unavenged sin
so Kinney's men hang the unbowed
from the lowest branch of the nearest oak.
Or they hide by moon's leaching light
and shoot oldest to youngest. They say,
The sins of the fathers will be visited upon their children.
Kinney's men join up on a high bald knob,
argue over booty: redeemed soil, pretty widows.
We have given. We have taken away.
Pockets heavy with the gold of the forgiven,
Kenny's men ride out sure, bellies over their belts.