... 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

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... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... experimental ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... the South ...

A Dream Moment Over Coffee As You Were Reading Across The Room

it is a great life we live-
the weathering of a man
the patina of woman
it is a great life we love-

this is the shimmering,
the seasoning of days,
spices from stardust which
salted this fertile earth-

who knew a planet was
filled with savor?
who knew love would
spin from nothing to everything?
universes in a glance
of Irish green-

the Whirlwind has found
her place to nest in my head-
twirling is something
invoked with a kiss.

it is a great life we live
you and i,
spinning, tumbling, billowing then
crashing against the stone
into cool salty spray
thinning, becoming, blue, gone.

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... 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 ..., ... experimental ..., ... life ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... the South ..., ... time ...

peace (revisited)

peace runs
through us
like a river

one million
rivulets convening
in the heart,
after cutting
curves into
Soul,

shallow waters
swirl and pool
into a great Lake
under the Surface

called Contentment. (it
makes even the air
in our lungs sweeter)

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