... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... girl ..., ... home ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... the South ..., ... winter ...

mountains me

when you return
me to the
mountains

you return
me to me

they bore
me in Cities
of men

but my form
was hewn with
granite and marble

my skin stiched
with invisible seams
of laurel and ash

kudzu and Better Boy* eyes
Brunswick stew glued
i am whole

vine ripened
towering beneath
giants, oak and pine

my blood runs
over river smoothed
stones, frigid

but pure,

when you return
me to my
mountains

they welcome me in,
a long lost friend

*a variety of tomato

Standard
... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... life ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ...

Slow evening dim

i burnt myself in the fire
that we had built just to watch
its billows hang in the empty
January air. crisp and clear,
from the Northern Plains,
it tumbles over the trees
of our genteel little hollow.
sounds of Saturday vibrate
against distant wood,
where love and smoke mingle
above and in the midst
of us.

Standard
... addiction ..., ... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... Spring ...

quarrel

We sat in that spot, just off the park road,
and stared at the water as it slid by,
indifferent to its own chaos. The timid tail
of Winter’s chill still hung on to the outer
edges of Appalachian air. Miniature clouds
puffed from your mouth and quickly
vanished with each breath.

“This Spring is different.”

“Oh no it isn’t, they are all the same.

“They are all green. Always green. And heavy
with white and yellow flower heads bobbing in
wayward West winds. The air is drunk and dense
with the crumbs of carrion love adrift on a breeze,
seasoned in symmetry.

“For every yellow petal you will find
a pink, and for every green stalk, a frothy,
white tumble cloud, spilling up and
over the mountain.”

“This one is different.”

“Oh no it isn’t, just more of the same.”

Standard
... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... death ..., ... experimental ..., ... life ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... Spring ..., ... the South ...

broken bird

there are only
quiet, quircky
movements of faulty-
back contortions
as brown and
black feathers flail
for a flight
that will never
come. this
broken bird is
going to die
right here,
in the burnt
summer grasses.

Standard
... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... experimental ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... the South ..., ... the sun ..., ... time ...

peace (and rainbows)

deep
inside us, peace is
a waterfall.
its granduer tempered
only by the level
of its opulent flow

for even the faintest
trickle, unlike the
torrent, falls and
fades into a mist

teeming with rainbows.

Standard
... addiction ..., ... anger ..., ... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... blood ..., ... country ..., ... experimental ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... the South ..., ... the sun ..., ... time ...

voyeur

why would you
possibly come
here, sir?

what would you
hope to see?

i promise that
you’d run 
far away

should you find
the real me.

Standard