... 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.”

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... 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.

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... Applachia ..., ... Autumn ..., ... beauty ..., ... death ..., ... experimental ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... space ..., ... Spring ...

strain of stars

if i had ever seen anything
before, it was nothing like
this. the black, flat sheet
of night had lifted and
i saw my place inside the orb
of Everything, the empty sky
concaved, and there
we were, suspended in between
a billion here’s and there’s
by a tiny invisible
thread. or, resting on the
shoulders of an invisible
Atlas, who has not yet
heaved us into the Oblivion,
and so we float about
the grandest spherule space

it was then
i felt small enough
to die and not regret
my own life. every
memory carved into
Atoms, and bound together
with what? i am a Galaxy
teaming with life,
my surfaces are oceans,
and within and without,
time is my ever shrinking
Constant, the wrist watch
worn by my Grandfather,
and given to me, is worthless
anywhere, but here.

so when i have died
let the hum of the Cosmos
be my dirge,
the strain of stars
my threne.

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... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... experimental ..., ... home ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... Spring ..., ... the South ..., ... time ...

A Late Winter Forest Burn

when Winter dry heaves
under black, crystal skies,
with a choke and stutter
and solemnly dies

the birds of the air,
all return to their nests
to brood and to court
with new songs in their breasts

the fox, the hare, and fawn
on bitter mornings cry
and whisper in cloudy breaths,
stretched noses to the sky

and i recline here
in my warm and cozy cave
while life erupts outside,
life inside misbehaves.

when the woods all dance
with a boisterous sound,
we light her cindered petticoat
and burn the jejune ground.

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... addiction ..., ... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... girl ..., ... kiss ..., ... L.F. ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... pain ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... Spring ..., ... summer ..., ... summer solstice ..., ... the South ..., ... the sun ...

never looked back

i found her
on the blackest night,
she was a soft
voice whispered ‘neath
the door.

i saw her
in sweet Georgia sunshine,
she was the Spring
wind tangled in
my hair.

i felt her
once
and never looked back.

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... beauty ..., ... bee ..., ... country ..., ... girl ..., ... kiss ..., ... L.F. ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... Spring ..., ... summer ..., ... the South ..., ... written under the influence ...

she blooms

there is nothing humdrum
about her.

she lilts on
the edge of Summer, even when
Spring has only sprung. the trees
are scarcely draped in half
greens and timid hues of blue
bounce round and round
in the eternal depths of a
forest, with bark as black as night.

she holds me in the palm of
her tiny hands. should i try,
every bone and heart of hers
i could break with ease. bent reeds
ready to be snapped. smoldering wicks,
waiting to be snuffed. the Father
would never, but Daddy would.

she invades all the space
and her dandelion charms,
the promise of honey, the wisping
of a blonde breeze, in pirouette circles
i see the smile and sunlight erupts
from behind her teeth and the entire
green of the planet comes from
her eyes, where Summer – and its
frivolity, never sleeps. never stops
spinning.

she blooms right before my eyes
i am her bee

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