Posts for June 28, 2026

The air around me

is muggy.

The scent of fresh rain

on the earth

tickles my nose.

It’s a scent

so specific,

you would only know it

if you had stood

where I am now.

Mountains surround me.

The leaves of the trees

act as a sort of protection

from the rain.

A loud clap of thunder

rattles my bones

as I watch the sky

light up

with purples,

blues,

and white.

The wind envelops me

as I begin to cry.

Every tear.

Every raindrop.

Pulls me closer in,

like nature is saying,

Me too.

I feel the same as you

This morning I thought we were fine

you and me

plato says we’re different creatures

indígenas say we’re the same

our relationship is forever

you warn me of your angers

by the dreams

that shake

me in the

night

the kidnappings

killings

mazes

the griefs you

pause there when

you feel some better

I wake, spent, you with me still

you are numb

so I think we are okay

lack of pain

eyes insensitive to sun

always welcome reliefs for us both

I draw a bath

steam the carrots

happy you crave something light

consolation for not having California surrounding us

and in our kitchen

I drink my germkiller

it does nothing

the reaction does’t take place

the new batch is wrong

not strong enough

no wonder I’m nauseated today

no wonder im blocked

no wonder I feel like all of 2021 at once

I think this plant mix will do

take a taste

but

you’re not having it

I imagine this is what cancer’s like

the only disease I don’t have

I try oranges

green powder

everything is as wrong

as Mick Jagger

trying real food in the ’70s

like him,

you have no idea what I’m trying to do here

hours later

the bath still waiting

cold now

dampening the air

a few flies in it the worse for wear

I’d get a secondary cold if I went in there now

but really I just forgot it

you’re fighting without me

I’m fighting without you

im always trying to find a way to get to what you need

and I don’t know if you know that

if only I could find a marriage counseling workbook for this

maybe next life, you’ll believe my intentions

more than my partners did

maybe next life

will come soon enough for both of us

maybe next life

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow.”
That God’s not male, I did not know
until in you I met God, so
I worship now with new pronouns.

God is “She” and “He” and “They.”
To have more options when I pray
helps me to you and Them relate —
my world is so much bigger now.

So when at night my head I bow,
my thoughts will often drift to thou.
This tiny joy, my God allows —
Praise lovely you and Holy Ghost!

My sister and I wonder about our native ancestors

One percent carried in our DNA on our father’s side

tells of our connection, now lost in the distance of time

Were they warriors who battled the incoming tide of settlers?

Did they follow the buffalo herds grazing across the Plains,

embracing the animals who were part of their way of life?

Did they mark the movements of the sun, moon and stars

in sacred spots, leaving traces upon the earth that they

celebrated with stories told in dances and songs?

We do not know the name of our Indian ancestor, only

that our seventh great grandmother was enslaved by a French

official in the Illinois territory; her half-Indian daughter

purchased by her French father is found in the annals

of Ste. Genevieve, Missouri, a relationship so faint that

only our blood carries the certainty of our kinship bond.

Sunday mornings of my youth were 
taking out pin curls and putting on dresses

Donut dozens on the way to Sunday School 
Black coffee for dad, orange juice for us

Voices lifted in rousing hymns of praise
Dad’s booming sermon of love and Jesus

Today’s Sunday mornings are
Slow wakenings and quiet contemplation

Fresh fruit smoothies and organic egg sammies
Cappuccinos, basking in front porch sunshine

“Morning neighbor” on their way to service
Bells chiming on the hour calling all to come

Both are love,    both are Jesus,    both are church
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…

*”Mercy, pity, and peace, Are the world’s release.”
                —William Blake

it’s true:

i may not bend the world,
          but the world will not bend me

together we can tip the scales
        from wasteland of dust-dry throat
to world of blossoming loveliness
        wherein every plant receives
                            fair nurturing to thrive

*Copyright Credit: William Blake, “Eternity” from The Poetry and Prose of William Blake, edited by David V. Erdman. Copyright 1965 Doubleday & Company. Page 461.

Further Thoughts On Biscuits

Most of my friends who know,

Know how biscuits stand with me,

In a grand ranking of bread,

They’re the pinnacle, you see. 

Now, I know these days,

Most folks just get ‘em from a can,

But “whop ‘ems” won’t cross my table,

I’m not that sort of man.

It doesn’t take that much time,

To sift out the flour,

Work in the dry ingredients,

Sugar, salt, and baking powder.

Cut in a stick of butter,

But leave a few good buttery bits,

They just make for more flavor,

When that biscuit passes your lips. 

Then comes a bit of milk,

In the middle to form a pool,

Then work the flour from both sides,

With your fingers as the tool.

Don’t never stir the mix, you see,

That’s how you make ‘em tough,

So lightly fold to make good layers,

Until they’ve had enough.

Then roll or mash ‘em out a bit,

To about the thickness of your hand,

Then cut the dough into shape,

With a modified Clabber Girl can.

Pop ‘em in the oven,

Fifteen minute is the wait,

By then you should have the sausage fried,

And the gravy for the plate,

It makes me shake my head to think,

And I’ll try hard not to boast,

But when good ol’ biscuits are that easy,

Why would anyone want toast?

Under enough magnification
every coastline
becomes
longer.

Fractal geometry tells us
the closer you look,
the more there is
to see.

I suspect people behave similarly.

We keep pretending
there is
a threshold.

Enough conversations.

Enough laughter.

Enough honesty.

As though intimacy 
could be
completed.

The body
may arrive
long before
the mind.

You kiss.

Then wait
to discover
what actually
changed.

Water freezes.

Stars collapse.

Phase changes are wonderfully obedient.

People,
less so.

I have become less interested
in deciding whether to sleep
with someone.

More interested in whether
we wake
wanting
another
conversation.

POETRY AND PROSECCO

Today, June 28, 2026, 2-330pm
at A Likely Story in Midway, KY
is the day Kevin Nance, LeTonia Jones
and I join together to read poems
from our Accents published collections.

There will be free cheap champagne,
prosecco, triple sec and orange juice
to lubricate attendee’s ears
for ultimate listening and enjoyment
purposes and in case hunger overcomes the rapt
lite bites like cheese and crackers will be available.

Poetry readings can be quite lonely
mainly because most people don’t know
how much fun hearing poems read well
is and how well written words draw
a person in, paint pictures, tell stories,
show worlds many people never see.

Please join us, invite your friends,
share our event with non-poet
populations. We are profound,
humorous, and serious poets
who promise to appreciate fan love.

https://www.facebook.com/share/1EAosW2EAi/
https://www.instagram.com/p/DaF3VA-uu3r/

The mountains taught us long ago
What richer lands forgot to know:
A stranger’s just a friend delayed,
Until they’ve shared the bread we’ve made.

The screen door groans, the kettle sings,
The porch swing hums on rusty springs.
No invitation need be sent—
You’re welcome here by providence.

The coffee’s strong, the biscuits warm,
We’ve weathered many a winter storm.
When fields ran thin and mines shut down,
We still passed plenty all around.

A mason jar of beans to spare,
A quilt, a coat, a whispered prayer.
The poorest hands still found a way
To give a little every day.

Old friends speak soft in mountain ways,
With stories stitched through bygone days.
A laugh can echo ridge to ridge,
Like creek water beneath the bridge.

We’ve buried fathers, mothers too,
Watched seasons fade and skies turn blue.
Yet shoulder leaned on shoulder still,
Like white oaks rooted in the hill.

No lock was turned till night grew late;
No child was told, “Don’t cross that gate.”
Each neighbor watched the others’ own,
As if each heart were partly home.

When sorrow climbed the holler road,
No soul was left to bear the load.
The casseroles arrived in line,
Along with hymns and borrowed time.

And when the harvest filled the land,
There’d always be another hand
To stack the hay or shell the corn
From dusk’s first star till break of morn.

So let the highways boast their speed,
And cities praise their wealth and greed.
I’ll take a porch where old friends wait,
A weathered fence, an open gate.

For mountains rise and rivers bend,
But greater still’s a faithful friend.
And every hearth where kindness starts
Keeps home in our hearts.