The last time I saw my dad,
I didn’t know it would be the last.
I hugged him as I was leaving,
not sure where to put my hands
so as not to hurt his back–
part bent and gnarled,
the other recently healed from surgery.
He was small,
not the tall, strong father
I had always known.
I could feel the bones of his spine
as he squeezed me tight,
then tighter still.
I wished that I had hugged him tighter,
held him longer.
I hope I’ll feel that hug
for the rest of my life.
The mountains learned to kneel before
The first church raised from pine,
Where rough-hewn hands split cedar boards
And called the place divine.
No marble floors, no gilded walls,
No steeple reaching high—
Just worn-out boots on creaking planks
Beneath a mountain sky.
The preacher knew no polished words,
Nor robes of silk or lace.
He spoke of hope with coal-black hands
And weather in his face.
His Bible bore the fingerprints
Of generations gone,
Its pages soft from countless nights
That carried sorrow on.
The women hummed old hymns so low
They mingled with the breeze,
Like whippoorwills at twilight’s edge
Or leaves among the trees.
Their voices stitched the broken hearts
That hardship left undone,
And every “Amen” echoed back
Like morning to the sun.
Faith wasn’t found in easy days,
For few of those came near.
It bloomed where gardens fought the stones,
And hope outlived the fear.
It rode inside an ambulance,
It walked behind a hearse,
It blessed the newborn’s tiny cry
And mourned beside the earth.
It lived in mason jars of beans
Set on a neighbor’s porch,
In casseroles and covered dishes,
In candlelight and torch.
It lingered in a miner’s prayer
Before the cage went down,
And in the whispered Psalm at dusk
When silence wrapped the town.
The cross was carved from chestnut wood,
The altar plain and bare;
Yet Heaven seemed no farther off
Than one sincere-filled prayer.
For God was in the mountain mist,
The creek’s unending song,
The strength to rise another day
When everything went wrong.
So if you seek Appalachian faith,
Don’t search for wealth or fame.
You’ll find it where the porch lights burn
And folks still know your name.
Where mercy wears a workman’s coat,
And grace has calloused hands,
Where Christ still walks the winding roads
Through these old mountain lands.
For mountains stand through storm and flood,
Though scarred by time and strife;
And so does faith in Appalachia—
The backbone of its life.
It isn’t loud, it isn’t proud,
It asks for little praise;
It simply trusts the Lord to lead
Through all our numbered days.
the moment you took your last breath
my hand over your heart
strangled
by the huge hand of Abitanga our Tongan caregiver pressing over mine
your eyes blankly searched the room
your big sister stood tall & strong on the right side of your body
lovingly walking you over the threshold
the October light dimmed
the room seemed to spark ~ grow quiet with an afternoon hush
they all came, loved ones who had crossed over
they came, as if summoned to a big party!
your bedroom was full
ancestors i’d only heard of in family stories and WWII tragedies
they were there, those who had been welcomed to dance laugh and cry
in the arms of our family’s generosity
they were there, welcomed in this liberating air
your face grew younger
freed from the oppression of a tired body
they all circled your bed preparing to escort you home
such lightness of being, liberation in the air
all those considerate loved ones who cared to come
bringing their wife, mother, sister, daughter, friend, cousin ~ home
surely angel food rounded the cake lady ~ frosting & sprinkles led her way . . .
Who hurt you?
The firefighter pup
messes up too much
for someone not
to be planning revenge
by animated slapstick.
I wonder where she is today
The Ashroot Ritual
The Ashroot Ritual, a spellbinding charm
that eases the mind and heals the heart,
a cleansing that mends every cross you bear.
Through power and prayer,
light swallows any darkness that dares
to enter this forbidden lair.
Like lightning swirling through a storm,
you have held this power
since the earth and angels welcomed you here
the day you were born.
A right, a law
the power of healing floods through us all.
Once upon a fortnight
There is pilgrimage
To a forbidden altar
Of art, of prayer, of knees
Along dirt, yearning for
Delicate brush strokes
Against darkened canvas.
This brush blows
Coarsly, roughly,
With strength,
Toughness,
Speed.
Mad with love,
White paint spills,
It fills, coloring
The dark of canvas
With white sheen of purity.
Those little pennies
got pushed off the cliff
we watched them roll
down the high slant—zipping into oblivion
no hands, or tentacles,
or little hooks for them
to save themselves
from having no direction
they were too poor
to own themselves
they just rolled wild
—often found laying on the floor
“oh, its just a penny, I’ll get it later”
little round circular things
going to meet their destiny
until they were out of sight
“Impractical!” they said
But I have hundreds in jars
How about you—you know you do
None the less,
No more shiny brand new
to be minted—
making 99 cents an impossible price!
I will miss our brief encounters
as you were the perfect size
