I think of you

I think of you

Always, everyday.

So silly it seems,

But there are times

I catch a glimpse,

A fleeting knowledge

Of your presence.

I turn my head

Quickly, obsessively,

But you are gone.

If you were ever there.


Light grey eyes,

So full of life,

Of humor, wisdom, secrets,

Sparkle through my dreams.

Yet, always, I awaken

Disappointed, alone,

With grief, and sadness, and

A feeling of something taken.

Something wrenched from

My very soul.


Yes, I think of you

Everyday.

My precious boy.

Whispers

In darkness.

Springing upright

To emptiness,

I cry.

"I heard you!"

Not a whine.

But almost.

"I know I did!

Let me see

You now

Just this once..."

Blackness

Falling and falling,

Darkness abounds.

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.