I am Appalachia

I am a child, barefoot and free, running through green cornfields on a hot July day.

I am the white flour, hand-prints on my mother's apron.

I am the wild morning glory, dipped in early morning mountain mist.

I am Orphie, and Bertha, and Esba, mountain women, strong, caring, worn.

I am the plow that tills the earth, the seeds planted for fall harvest.

I am the old men, shouting in glory, sitting in a small church, 'the Amen Corner'.

I am Appalachia, the song of my forebears, the shadow of my heritage.

I am faded photographs, lost and forgotten in a dusty dresser drawer.

Thanksgiving ditty

The turkey bird is on the table
The feast about to begin
Jesus lord, I'm so glad it's done
Cooking should be a sin.

The potato's mashed, the gravy mixed
The celery and carrot sticks
The cranberry sauce and stuffing too
This time the tatties don't taste like glue.

The yams are sweet, with marshmallow fluff
The rolls, the salad, and a bunch more stuff
I hope they like this celebration
Me, I'm looking for rest and salvation.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving Day
But don't work yourself into a frazzle
It will all be over within the hour
The yearly meal prepared to dazzle

Even great Aunt Myrtle that hates everything....

I lift my eyes and long for green hills
Ever reaching, far, off into the horizon.
There I am reborn, renewed.
Set me down among the trails,
Meanandering through pine and oak
And sweet sugar maple, covered in honeysuckle vine.

I will walk the paths of my fathers,
Breath clean mountain air.
Stopping by a swift-moving creek,
I listen to the water-music
Play over smooth-washed stones,
As my father's father did.

Let me see the sweet red breast of the cardinal
Land on the snow covered pine,
In the total silence of a winter snow-fall.
Let me glimpse the trickle of white, fall
Ever so silent, to a branch below.
The stillness is magical, ethereal.
I walk where my father walked before me.


Who was my father that walked here first?
Did he slip silently through the undergrowth,
Brown skin, a quiver on his back, a warrior,
Strong, proud, giving back as much as he took away?
Was he a farmer, with flaming red hair,
Tilling the soil, with borrowed mule, cursing the rocks,
The rain, and too much sun, carving a living
On the side of a hill?

Was he covered in dust from deep in the hill,
Coughing up blackness, rising at dawn,
Working till dusk, raising his family
From the Company store?
He was strong, to survive in these hills.
He was determined to survive in these hills.
He made music, long into the night,
The music was free, and soothed his soul.
The mountains cried for the music.
They cry for feet to climb the trails
Again, and yes, again, where my father walked.

Always he walked through hills covered in trees
Of green, full of crysle clear streams,
And winter snowfalls, silent and deep.
There, just now, from the corner of my eye,
A shadow, a glimpse, the brush that moves without wind,
Here where my fathers walked before me.

I Wait

A broken step
Leads me to an open door, I step
Into empty rooms.
Searching, slowly, at first
Then remember the way.
I feel I never left.
I turn, hopefully, only to see nothing,
But dust and cobwebs, a tiny spider
Dangling from a thin spindly web.

"Where are you?" I scream.
Nowhere, everywhere, places I cannot go.
"Why did you leave me?" I cry, to silent rooms.
Only echos answer , no voice,
An imagined memory of a sweet laugh,
And cold, still, silence.

Stepping through doorways, treading up stairways,
Searching for clues, for signs, for meanings.
Through the window I see a yard filled with young boys
Engrossed in a game of ball, hot, sweaty, covered in dirt
Their laughter filling a hot summer day.
I blink, and see an empty field, overgrown,
Tall dead grass blowing in a cold soundless wind.

"Why did you go?" I whisper.
"Tell me you are here, somehow, someway, oh, please."
"Some little sign for you and me, I'll tell not a soul."
I hear my own heartbeat,
Holding my breath, in stillness, in dust,
In an empty house where a family lived,
Flooded with memories, I wait.

They sat with him in a circle,
Surrounded by markers with unfamiliar names, smelling of plastic
Flowers, so pretty, some pleased at so many.

The old man turned from their fragrance,
A fragrance not real, not right, faded and false.

He noticed the the mound of earth, rich with clay,
Carelessly covered, waiting, a silent witness
To a family's grief. 'Why do they hide it?'
He wondered, 'We know what its for.'

The old man looked down at his feet,
Resting on plastic grass, lifeless, too green.
"We never used this when I was a boy.
The bare earth was all we had."

"When I was a boy,
We made the coffin ourselves, us family,
Hammering, cutting, measuring
Throughout the night.
We had no steel or satin lining.

We climbed the hill,
And dug the hole, with sweat and tears,
We dug it deep, with shovel and spade,
Taking turns, the mountain breeze
Blowing our hair, whispering comfort.

We sat up with our dead,
And drank of spirits, and chicory coffee,
Sweetened with memories, filled
With taste of home and family.
In everyday clothes, we sat,
No one minding the graveyard
 dirt on our shoes.

There wasn't  no hearse.
Back then, We lifted the coffin,
Three on a side, slowly making our way,
Up, up, to the place we had carved,
A good place, a fine place to rest.

We lowered our dead into the ground,
And gathered, singing the hymns of our fathers
Listening to a preacher who felt our loss,
Tears falling on plain brown dirt.

We tossed fresh flowers, carefully gathered,
Sweet William, and wild rose.
Turning away, heading home, less one.
Feasting and talking into the night,
We gathered closely, remembering.
And, By god, we took our time.
No one said it was over at nine pm.
It was over when we couldn't talk no more."

He listened to the words
The young preacher said, words
He had been given to say, just a day before.

He watched the young man, seeing the falseness
In his smile, with eyes grown dim with time.
'Why, you didn't know her at all' he thought.
'No, not one damned bit, not her fire, her laughter,
That spark that was hers.
You didn't know my Mary, false profit.'


Lord, he wished he were a boy again, not
Grown into an old man, living in a foreign time,
Doing what his children said, pleasing them,
Not even allowed to stay, seeing his beloved
Lowered into the ground.

"Why? he wondered.
'We're the ones who should see her through.
Not these strangers, not the ones who didn't love her,
Knew her every look and thought and smile."

He longed for how it used to be
When family rested high on the hill,
Flowers growing, wild and free,
The sweet smell of honeysuckle
Drifting on summer air
Snowfall that glistened under a winter moon.

He sat in his folding chair, but his tears could not fall
In this neutral place, bereft of family,
No old stones bearing familiar names.
Not here, not now, these strangers who
Desperately tried to hide that which should be said.
That she was dead, crossed-over.

She's gone, oh, yes,
And she'll lie away from her people.

"Oh, God, Let me take her home,
Where she can rest, where I can see her
From my window, not a stone's throw from my porch.
And in the evening, sit and rock, and we'll have a word or two.
She'll be with family,
As she should be."
As she should be.'

With his gray head down, they led him away.

"You know people be coming Daddy
Best change our clothes.
Don't be sad, Daddy,
She won't suffer anymore.
God's will be done.
I'll fetch you back real soon.
I promise, Daddy."

Such lies, he thought.
Such lies.

Through eyes half closed
I see the mountain mist,
Rising slowly to greet the morning sun.

I see the morning glory
Twisting its way upward
Curling in circles around
Cornstalks, tall and green.

I hear the sound of the hoe,
My father's work in the garden,
His passion, his life.

I smell the fresh-tilled earth,
Sweet, and rich in the promise
Of bounty and harvest.

I feel the dampness
And wait for the sun to
Peer through and warm me.

I watch the squirrels
Dance in the trees,
Chattering a secret language.

I taste the greenness and wildness
Pungent in the overgrowth,
Inticing and satisfying on a blessed spring day.

I feel the ancient prescence
Of people who lived here
And worked the land before me.

I wish I lived then, with bow and arrow,
Silently moving through undergrowth,
Slipping silenting beneath majestic trees.

My mother calls me,with floured hands
Rolling the dough for buscuits
To bake in an old wood stove.

"Fetch me some water from the spring,
She says, and I grap the pail,
Filling it with water, pure and sweet.

I am content in the wild
Surrounded by mountains, shrouded in mist,
Harboring secrets I yearn to discover.

The big brown eggs need frying.

Alone, left out, abandoned, afraid

Reaching out for a hand to hold

Seeking the warmth of a smile, a nod,

Never finding the open door.

Windows locked, curtains drawn

A life shut down. A misery born

Of wasted dreams, useless schemes,

Anything to get inside where others laugh
And no one cries.

But doors are blocked for those like me

Those who drown in endless seas.

I hate spiders and they hate me

They live inside my room you see

And when I scrunch down in my bed

I listen close with hopeless dread, as

My light goes out, and I hear them creep.

The scritching and scratching of hairy feet,

And up I jump, the light comes on,

But they've hidden well, I see not one.

I know they're there, just out of sight.

They fill me with dread and sleepless fright.

So now I sit with broom in hand,

And prepare to make my final stand.

I wait and watch, my vigil begins,

Knowing in dark they creep again.

I do this nightly because, you see,

I hate spiders, and they hate me.

For my Mother

She sits and rocks and reads her book,
A book she's read so many times,
A book of love and kisses sweet
Just an hour she calls her own.

What memories, visions, thoughts she has
As her lips curl with the faintest smile?
Her head falls back against the chair
For just a bit her large eyes close
In a face worn with the trials of life.

Do visions dance within her mind?
Of things that were,
Of all she wished,
Does she regret the choices made
When the man came to her father's door
Bearing gifts of hand and heart?

She opens her eyes and sees her book,
Open still upon her lap.
As dime-store glasses slip down her nose,
She smiles her smile, and finds her place
In this treasured book,
Her book of dreams.

Sometimes I feel I am not there
And those I'm with are not aware
Of how much I do not care
If they notice where
My mind has taken me.
Those around me fade away,
And memories I hide find
There way into my mind
How I wish I could leave it all behind.
Like ghosts they haunt me
The the things I've done
The wrongs I claim, the things undone.
I wonder at times if my presence fades
I become transparent, an image made
Of ice or glass, invisible, my true self fading
Into the guilt and shame I feel,
Wondering if I am truly real.

Reaching for a hand to hold,

I shiver, feeling lost and cold.

Loneliness comes creeping in

And sadness settles on my skin.

I brush it off, like desert sand,

As if a storm reared up the land.

Waiting here in muted light

While motes of dust spin soft and bright,

Yet cling to cobwebs, in corners dark

As shadows grow inside my heart.

Still I sit with out-stretched hand

In bitter cold I wait, I stand

And know that soon the chill will lift,

A hand will come, and darkness shift

Away, as sunlight fills my life.

It lifts me gently, up, so high,

Where angels clasp me, hold me near.

And give such warmth, I disappear.

He stands alone with hat in hand,

He scans across the wasted land.

He glances skyward, he knows in vain

Hoping for a glimpse of rain.

His horse needs water, he won't survive.

In his last attempt to keep him alive,

The few drops left in a rusty canteen

He gives his horse, as if in dream.

He knows his time grows short at last,

He thinks of home, and green green grass.

Off comes the saddle, worn and old

He feels the weight lift from his soul.

He recalls the times his life, the weight,

His horse has carried with steady gait.

The weary horse stumbles, falls,

His eyes so dry, no tears at all.

He remembers well the trails they made.

The gifts of trees, and streams and shade.

The adventure, the spirit, those golden days,

And as evening comes they drift away.

For My Father, At Ninty-One

I hear you snore, and know you sleep,

And, once again, my vigil keep.

I hear your dog prepare his bed.

He keeps his watch. He doesn’t rest.

I fall asleep and in the night,

The dog comes, with footsteps light,

We quietly creep, to your room to see

If, indeed, you only sleep.

Leaning over your silent chest,

I finally hear the faintest breath.

I hear you breath, and watch you sleep,

And once again I am relieved.

Hush, now, boy, I tell ole Joe,

He is all right. You heard him moan.

That's all it was. But still he keeps

His silent watch as my father sleeps.

I curl up in the easy chair,

And feel the chill that's in the air.

I light a fire, and sit alone, as

Coldness hurts an old man's bones

My father sleeps. I can relax,

But ever ready for my task.

To keep him safe, to meet his needs,

And keep him warm in restless sleep.

I hear you breath. I know you sleep,

And once again I am relieved.

I light the fire and sit alone,

Coldness hurts an old man's bones.

For my Sons on Learning to Walk

Today I tried to capture a moment,

And had it clasped in greedy hand

But lost it as I reached for you

To help you as you tried to stand.

But I kept the tear from fearful eyes

Carressing a cheek, both and tan blushed,

And the smile that followed close behind

A mother's whisper, a mother's touch.

The moments gone, but the smile is mine

And with the tear I'll never part.

They are with me now, and will always be,

For I've tucked them away within my heart.

Just one more time

To see your face

and touch your hand

that's all I ask

but it seems

a question always

unanswered.

uttered in an empty

hall, where echoes

linger like ancient dust

left long ago

by forgotton souls.

I beg you please

stay just a while

a little longer, if you will

the days and nights are

long and cold.

I swear i'm frozen

to my soul

And yet, I know,


you will not stay

you cannot stay here

anymore, why

this is, I cannot know

but only hope that

one day soon, i'll

touch your face

and see your smile,

if only for a little while.