The passengers sing regrets and remembrances, shadowland strewn.

The yard needs mowing,
The dishes washing,
The laundry folding,
The tub cleaning,
Still. 

But space,
It would seem,
Needs to be stared into
Even
More.

The morning misinforms
and mutes the early light
a hint to a somber day

Then the dull mask 
falls off the sky
and light flows to surprise

Feel that sun, it caresses 
like a mother bathing her baby
and the warmth is love

But then it presses down
on my softer being
and the burn licks the skin

A step into the shade
would keep the heat
in balance with the breeze

But I want more than offered
all aligned to my liking
so I retreat inside
and hoist gloom above me
returning the day’s gift
with petulance

Night is often too far from present
when anxious to begin again
closing the blinds,
like the dust covered curtains of a tired stage,
to invite the turn of a frayed page
it’s always the same story of unlikely heroes
in the bright places of dark dreams
I hold their unfinished faces close
to breathe in their feelings of home
in those slippery moments of wake
I still believe I am not alone

Sometimes the sound of roots singing is – 

Rain on the porch roof, dripping from the eaves

Hot smoke from cornbread in an iron skillet

A low burble of potatoes boiling 

A thrumming pop from a Mason jar of green beans

The soft sizzle of salmon patties frying

Tea purling from a pitcher onto cracking ice in heavy glasses 

A voice carrying across thick summer evening air, “Dinner’s ready!”

The round heavy bong of a dinner bell

A low hum of hymns from a woman in an apron

Underscored by the thrum of voices, 

Songs lifted by the women who came before

Aunts, sisters, cousins, mamas, and grandmamas

Neighbor ladies, church ladies, friends, and teachers

Coveys of women

Singing deep songs of love

That we feel in our bones

Laying their luscious bounty

On heavy laden tables draped in feed-sack tablecloths

Praying, telling stories, laughing

And always

Offering one more helping

My sons are aging
These words sound new in my world
Unlike their voices

i’m twisting this tea over the railing of your porch
to do a shotgun with you and you always finish first

your button up is still hanging on the hook
after that show months ago

it was one of the good times
and you just wanna remember those

my hairbrush is still on the floor of your car
i wanna like you but you make it so hard

but then you get american spirits cause you know they’re my favorite
you pretend every one is your last so you can savor it

i don’t believe in god but i always let you talk
when you say “we’re getting saved thanks to him”

Karl the Kludger, they called the man–
the quiet, smelly sort–
Lady picked him up in Ibiza
when last we were in port

Lady had been fitted
for coal-fired steam–
the crew feared to go near it,
’cause of the first-mate’s dream

Caspar, the first-mate, said,
“I dreamed I saw us die–
Lady blew into a thousand bits
beneath an angry sky”

So the captain hired this Karl
to keep the boilers hot,
“We have to make this crossing,”
he said, “so get to it, you lot.”

We rarely seen hide nor hair
of Karl or his tools
He spent all day in the engine room,
talking to it like some fool

Then, one day, as a storm approached,
Karl run onto the deck,
“I need bits of rope and wood,”
he said, “all the scrap metal I can get.”

We all stood rooted and watched the man
grab handfuls of this and that
When his arms were full, he’d sprint below,
and shortly would come back

First-mate asked, “What the hell is this?
Are we all going to die?”
Karl said nothing, but we could see
his face, which said, “Goodbye.”

Black smoke poured from the funnel,
as the smell of burning did rise,
storm clouds fell upon the ship–
cold rain, the waves too high

All hands took to secure the deck,
then huddled we below–
the heat like mid-day tropic sun,
as disquiet began to grow

Then captain came into the room,
said, “in hours the storm will pass,
but Karl the Kludger,” captain said,
“is dead from smoke and ash.”

When storm and smoke had cleared,
we come to where poor Karl lay
surrounded by his tools and junk,
then stopped we all to pray

The engine was decorated,
as a Christmas tree might be,
with bits of rope and metal and junk,
but she brung us ‘cross the sea

Karl the Kludger, the quiet man,
we buried in the deep–
we knew this man had saved us all,
we prayed his soul would sleep

you

press

cold rags

two deep wells

etched into hollers

coal mine headache splits the slate rock 

this green river floods inside the hillsides of my mind 

Meow meow, meow meow meow….meow
(I tear dirt up with my teeth, my molars cake with clay)

Meowww…Meow meow meow….meow
(In these efforts I create my own grave.)

Meowowwww meow meow…..meow
(I’m lonelier than god, I’ve decided. Despite my standards being entirely lower than his.)

Meowww….meow meow meow….
(Call me dramatic, catty even. But I just need some solace.)

Meowww….meow meow mowewwwweow.
(It’s a humid June and yet I see no place colder than this.)