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There was a honeysuckle breeze
as night fell.
Frogs chirped
and firefly stars lit our faces
in their soft, slow way
while the Appalachian night
embraced us in her arms.
Dear Jane,
The dirt I dig in contains
The bones, blood, sweat, and tears of my ancestors
Their bones the foundation I stand on
The dirt holds the DNA of who I am
The seeds of my future
Planted by
Their hands
that worked the land
that prayed for freedom
that wiped tears from crying eyes
that waved goodbye to loved ones, never seen again
that placed fingers to mouths to keep silent
Secrets
Plans of escape
At the river’s edge
Quietly singing and swaying with the current
Baptized in the river
Chains broken and keloid scars melted away
Healing waters blessed by the ancestors
Freedom washed
New creatures rise from the waters
Bare feet sink into the soggy shore
Footprints Preserved – a permanent record that they were here
The road to freedom
The dirt I stand in
Contains hope, promise, and new beginnings of my ancestors
The land on the other side of the river
Home of the free
Land of the saved
To be tobacco hidden in your cheek
To be the sports statistics on your screen
To be the prayers that late at night you speak
To be the fingernails between your teeth
To be the dishes sitting in your sink
To be the song that you have on repeat
To be the thought that you can’t help but think
To be the wrinkles in your flannel sheets
Not to be the message you’re scared she’ll see
Not to be the secret you choose to keep
Not to be your love only quietly
Not to be, one day, only memory
To be your day to day and week to week
To be everything as you are for me
Watch my eyes
as I avoid your gaze
How you trace every inch of my face
I will watch as the squirrels dance around another
One, Two, Three
They all appear one right after the other
I watch with a grin as they stand upright
Little babies with clear little minds
I don’t like nature
I’ve never been the type
But once the sun sets
and the days turn to night
Watch as I smile bright
As you watch me watch nature live its life
In none of my past lives
did I wake in the night
and drift back to sleep
without waiting to listen
to the song of your breaths.
Even in your sleep, my love,
you sing.
I will never forget this holler,
and this holler will never forget me.
We belonged to one another when I was smaller.
My daddy wore a blue collar
while I wandered around, climbing trees.
I will never forget this holler
that shaped me with the adventures
of a barefoot child running free.
We belonged to one another when I was smaller,
that neighborhood on Amos Baker,
where curves and hills helped shape me.
I will never forget this holler
where I learned humility from the Appalachian Bellflower,
to dance with lightning bugs, and live simply.
We belonged to one another when I was smaller.
Though some think it nothing but squalor,
these Kentucky mountains, this valley.
I will never forget this holler,
We belonged to one another when I was smaller.
My Daddy had big Hands, strong Hands with square fingers,
lines of the Nile River grooved atop each nail
his palm held a secret story of a son, conceived with a first wife, yet never born
My Daddy had big strong Hands,
Hands that carried heavy Southern Pacific packages from trains to commerce,
Hands that lit candles to Our Lady and prayed to God in the light of St. Patrick’s Church
to protect his familia and insure his simple life be blessed and sustained
My Daddy had big Hands ~ Al Jolson singing “Mammy” Hands
that clapped and waved to the beat of his tap dancing feet,
Hands that could span an octave no problem as he played
“Dark Town Strutters Ball” ~ I’ll be down to get’cha in a taxi honey
Hands that clapped loud and hard to “Shave & a haircut two bits!”
These were laugh out loud Hands, creators of 1930’s caricatures
“Toon Town Extraordinaires”
Hands that sketched expressive story telling faces,
Kewpie doll eyes with long lashes ~ that seen more than their years
My Daddy had big Hands combed with lines NOLA palm readers would’ve had a field day trying to read
the first air flight and Ford’s motorized cars
His hands also pulled streetcar gears and saved metal & wires to survive
The Great Depression
We knew it would end—
the song and its lyrics,
the story and everyone in it,
but we danced anyway,
swayed to melancholy hymns,
bumping the backs of our knees
against the pew in a dull rhythm and
timing each tomorrow by inches of rope
twisted and frayed from the dangling, dead
weight of today. We twirled to laughter
that spun us faster into our smiles—all teeth
and jutting tongues, rooms we barely knew,
as light refused to guide us through
making sense of which belonged to whom,
our feet finding the steps, unsure at the start,
dizzy, and then confident as a gamecock—
we grooved free, never believing a pulse,
racing or steady, will cease, that the singing
will grow quiet—faint as a morning drive
between memories, and the words will forgot
there are mouths to hold them, will crawl away
with the sound on their backs.
