Posts for June 5, 2026

Back

to

fingers

counting beats

on my desk keyboard.

Songs begin to bleed in cut time.

granny prayed tirelessly for hours on end,
while bakin biscuits and pickin blackberries
always worried, she’d leave out a name
an they’d surely be struck down
if she didn’t drop the dishes right then, gather us all up
to join hands an pray

papaw’s palm sat heavy in my right,
granny’s cold and slender, full up of ruby rings
linked in my left 
everyone meant to mumble their prayers aloud 
all at once 

this part was always easiest if it was just us three,
without the added holdout of chuckles
against my brother and cousin,
as we squeeze each other’s hands, hard as we can,
tryin not to be the first to end our prayers 

“Amen”, we’d have to say, 
keepin our heads bowed down
as granny kept listin out every person she’d ever met 
to be sure they’d not burn in hell 

sometimes i’d try to keep up with the names,
see if i knew a Mary Ann Sue, an what relation, almost wantin to ask 
at the end of the prayer 

knowin the picture books would come out 
an she’d be bound to call up somebody, i never did 
i’m now prayin i had 

Blessed are those who are empty.

Blessed are those with nothing to offer but the aching of their lonely bones and quieted sighs as it hushes past their lips.

Blessed are those whose chasms of the soul have unearthed bedrock, for how much more now are they to be filled?

Blessed are those who grieve, bereaved in the dust of their disappointment.

Blessed are those who mourn through the rising and setting sun like a broken dove, circadian irrhythm.

Blessed are those whose souls know wilderness is meant to unwind the flesh’s talons along their spine, not a place they must spend the rest of time.

Blessed am I as I hit the window, again and again like an asinine cardinal, and blessed am I all the more as I realize I am not meant to stay in the emotional burnout of this disappointment.

Blessed am I as he prepares a table for me in the presence of my enemies.

And blessed am I as I dine.

Do oysters treasure their pearls
or suffer them?

Are the growing gems 
   a constant annoyance?
   an out of place wrinkle?
   an incessant itch?
   or a comfort,
         something to hold on to?

Do they have a mother’s pride in
   their luster?
   their shape?
   their size?

With some species 
cultured pearls are harvested
and the oyster is reseeded,

like bitches in a puppy mill.
   
   
   

My rogue is cool with fun, 

is able to hide while on the run, 

I have to roll to check,

20 side die, what the heck,

Its a natural one. 

My next-door neighbor taught her flowers how to talk.
They think I cannot hear them with my human ears,
but I hear them whispering.
They gossip and spread rumors.
I know they hate my cat.
They think the garden gnome is ridiculous.
I learned what terrifies them.
One day I walked over to them and said,
“You better watch what you say.
I’m bigger than you, and
I have access to chemicals.”
I haven’t heard a peep
out of them since.

cigarettes, one after the other, and I miss stepping
     alone into the sun or the dark, apart from others
          who had better sense than I did.   

I admit it: I miss the nicotine, even while telling            
     myself between puffs that this dependency                        
          would not be bad for me. Look at my father:  

He smoked 65 years in a row, from the time
     he was 9 years old, and sure, OK, he had some
          emphysema in the end, but that’s not what killed  

him. My friend Ron used to say a little nicotine was good
     for you, but I never got the hang of just a little nicotine.
          The blast of that first cigarette after breakfast  

with a second cup of black coffee is unparalleled. I miss
     smoking in my car. I miss finding the secret smoking places
          where smoking is banned. Hospitals are especially tricky.  

Once I followed two nurses through the corridors
     after I heard one of them say “let’s go smoke.”
          We exited by a side door onto a sad alley  

with benches and ashcans, a half dozen people in scrubs
     studying their phones, cigarettes balanced
          between their fingers; their patients languishing  

inside. My own mother was dying upstairs
     while I was smoking outside with hospital staff.
           Still, I miss huddling with others in frigid cold  

while the smoke scorches our lungs. I don’t wish to glamorize
     it like some old black and white movie filled
          with cigarette smoke. Even the stench  

of it—I never thought of it as nasty. I miss
     the planning: check my pack, where’s my lighter?
          Always arranging to burn the next one.

Aestival pause, when breath holds in heat,

                        Mist
                   rising through
                 the hollers at dawn,
               where whip-poor-wills sing
             and coal seams sleep beneath
           ridges worn smooth by ancient time.
         Rhododendron blooms along creek banks,
       while winding roads follow the mountain's curve.
     Generations have called these mountains their home,
   working, praying, singing, and weathering hard seasons.
 Stories drift like woodsmoke through the evening valleys,
 carried from porch to porch beneath the glow of the moon.

            The Appalachians endure,
              older than memory,
                steadfast and proud,
                  holding the faith,
                    the grit,
                      the beauty,
                        of the people
                          who belong
                            to them.