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Bluegrass Accolade BCTC Literary Journal - Issue No. 14 EDITORIAL BOARD Don Boes Nancy Bronner Maureen Cropper Dannielle Quintos John Scott Savannah Sipple Jon Thrower Managing Editor / Layout and Design: Maureen Cropper Cover Art: Dana Benton Cover Art Title: “Untitled” ❖ Bluegrass Accolade BCTC Literary Journal – Issue No. 14 2021 2 CONTENTS POETRY__________________________________________________ Title Author Page Kentucky Dust Dana Benton 5 Reflection Dana Benton 7 Rest Dana Benton 9 Time Enough Dana Benton 11 At the Company Picnic Don Boes 13 Crouch and Scuttle Don Boes 14 Hinge Don Boes 15 Pawn Ticket Nita Connolly 16 Picnic Nita Connolly 17 Nostalgia Katherine Coogan 19 Quarantine Green Katherine Coogan 20 Pablo’s Army Katherine Coogan 21 Scattered Stones Katherine Coogan 22 Polka Dot Cats Haley Hartman 23 Adalyn’s Adventures Julie Hendrix 24 FICTION_________________________________________________ Title Author Page Painted Dreams Dana Benton 25 Metaphorically Speaking Bill Snyder 52 ART______________________________________________________ Title Author Page Untitled Dana Benton 55 The Babylon Effect Justin Gibson 56 Sheltered Rain Justin Gibson 57 Untitled Sallie Hatton 58 3 NOTES___________________________________________________ Title Page Biographical Information/Notes from Contributors 59 ❖ The Bluegrass Accolade began as a project of the Literary Arts Subcommittee of the Bluegrass Community and Technical College’s Arts in Focus Committee. Our thanks go out to all who helped make this year’s issue possible, including the writers, poets, and artists who contributed their work, and the editorial board members who contributed their time and effort to the production of this issue. 4 DANA BENTON Kentucky Dust The hum-drum of a weed-eater far, far away the croaking, lonesome call of the cicada, the faint whoosh-bump of cars returning home in gravel driveways after long days at work, the bullfrog who stops his throaty gurgle just as an owl who-who-whos in some secret place, heralding the end of a day still edged golden with light: these are the exact sounds of a Kentucky summer barely awake before dusk. To breathe in summer is the earthen smell of freshly cut lawns and tomatoes spicy-scented on the vine, drooping low enough that crows can’t resist the ones who yellow guts have spilled onto the richest of the black topsoil. The songbirds grow tired enough at this time to chirp only at every third cry of the cicada, a harmony of slow-motion melodies like a prelude to a nighttime lullaby, and even the wasps buzz languidly as if in a stupor. The heat of today’s afternoon was so rich with moisture its leftover fog—like a living, breathing giant— swaddles the mountainside in a cocooning embrace to woo trees which will soon be flamed red by the heat into nighttime slumber. I cannot pretend to want to live anywhere but exactly here, where generations whose seeds I come from sat in the same hollowing stillness 5 to end summer days like this one, in its gentle serenade and air saturated with the fragrance of earthen gardens, right before going inside to be under moonlight-bathed tattered bed blankets. There, memories of dusk play like motion pictures across their mind’s eye, reminding them in the bone-weariness of night that each day’s hallowed end will once again make the grit and grind of constant work and homestead labors escape their minds like wild stallions running loose for the first time. The assurance that Kentucky dusk will return tomorrow eases all life’s burdens as their tired bodies give way to the deepest, sweetest slumber. 6 DANA BENTON Reflection There is a day a woman finds her reflection in that great gilded glass mirror-- a semblance of what she has seen for years staring back at her with a steely, sovereign, half-sinful, half-solemn gaze. Not a girl with a watermelon mustache anymore; not a granny with lips like tissue paper yet. Not who she has been or will be, but just her, with dreams still smelling of saltwater taffy, crayon boxes, chlorine in the pool, and the cedar hope chest part of her was buried in. She finds the beginnings of wrinkles but doesn’t mind. Those lines travel the paths of her story. As her eyes walk the length of her wide thighs, dark freckles, stretch-marked stomach, pillowy arms, she is glad for the mystery she is, 7 and wonders with eager anticipation what story this body will tell as her half-sinful, half-solemn gaze sinks so that her spine forms a question mark and gives testament to this woman. 8 DANA BENTON Rest I had forgotten the quiet calm of rest and solitude here in the countryside. I have watched the tilt of a sun’s rays on a single blade of grass, standing taller than all its counterparts, illuminated in pink, then gold, and finally the blinding white of day. It blows one way and then the other in cool spring winds, delicate but immovable, tiny but fierce. Soon it will get cut down, but grow back again, humming underneath the mower and producing its fresh, sweet smell. I cannot hope to gain a sweeter peace than this— the hearkening cry of a robin to her young, a fat, wriggling worm in her beak, landing with one flap of her wings on the pink-blossomed branch on which she has built her nest where fragile heads poke up from. One worm is plenty for all the chirping to silence her world for a bit. And I wonder if the robin recognizes her provisions have made everything in her world right until she must soar away once more. Joy is not hard to find in the ordinary: tiny purple weeds blanketing an awning of a giant white sycamore which spreads her arms in protection over them is satisfaction to my wandering eyes and feet. I have stopped there to breathe in the scent of spring 9 and watch the sun create spiderweb patterns on top of what is now a thousand shades of purple. The blaze of summer’s heat won’t pierce this sycamore, nor these darling weeds. I know, because during their dormant death in the stark barrenness of winter, they poked up their nodding heads and answered the call to resurrection. What joy they must feel to be in the world again! 10 DANA BENTON Time Enough There is time enough to accomplish every task laid out for me. There is time enough to scrub every crumb from dinner’s dishes until they gleam, time to immerse them in a sudsy bath, watch as steam rises from the faucet during rinse, pay attention to the four splattering drops which fall off and clank into the metal sink. There is time enough to let the dish drip-dry while holding it with scaly hands from days of having time enough, letting the soft glow of the evening sun bathe it in an ethereal light. That light makes this useful object appear as a thing of great value, the strength of our bodies as sustenance flaunting colors of reds and greens laid upon it, soon digested, forgotten, and washed off once more. There is time enough to admire each thread coming loose in the towel wrapped around the dish as it becomes waterless, the way its translucency is like a curtain from which to view the varying purples of evening’s sunset. The towel swallows the dish whole, enveloping it in an arid but comfortable dryness. There is time enough to find a hideaway for this dish, lodging it in the abundance of cabinets filled to the brim with other useful, beautiful objects— time enough, even, to rearrange the tower of them, paying no mind to the cacophony of clatter this creates, because even the sound of this is much smaller than life’s normal noise. Having rearranged them all, there is time enough 11 to stand back in satisfied silence, hands on hips, and admire the fruit of labor, the barrenness of the sink, the last glint of the sun as the sky turns blue and sinks below lines of silhouetted trees, which stand like guards outside the kitchen window, beckoning a time of winding sweetly down. There is even time enough to sink low in the couch’s cushion, feet propped on a soft mound of pillows, and take deep, cleansing breaths while doing nothing—nothing—nothing, except exactly what I am supposed to be doing: hearing for the first time the sound of silence interluding with the bashful cry of a Great Horned Owl. There is time enough to pause the world for a bit: at day’s end, there is no more accomplishing— there is time enough for that tomorrow. 12 DON BOES At the Company Picnic After the volleyball game the volunteer clown slips off his incredible shoes. He’s cheerful after awarding key chains to the kids while the employees frolic and the cagey managers chink and ping in the horseshoe pit. All will sit down together at the catered meal— a pork producer’s extravaganza followed by door prizes— all save the sweaty comic who has done the best business, trading trifles for honest amusement, spending his clowntime wisely. 13 DON BOES Crouch and Scuttle Instead of muzak, the elevator fills with football fans from Dallas and a flight crew from Atlanta. The dialysis center at the mall used to be a dance club. Assume the microphone is hot. The concierge acknowledges my lanyard and escorts me to the buffet. The lobby is designed for the glare of a narrow future. The salad bar is backlit with neon. My gift card is expired.

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