My neighbors are fighting over land.

too many angry words were spoken,

too many fists were launched.

 

I was a witness in a custody battle,

a third party, an education expert,

a position I never want to be in again.

 

A young man I care for may go to jail;

he’s not evil and has learned his lesson.

Judges don’t see things that way.

 

Farrah died. Michael died.

The world was shocked,

but it was Nancy Rose’s death

 

that hit closest to home. Her life

left a deeper impression. She loved

Jesus and family. She gave

 

kindness and forgiveness.

Her time here was spent

storing heavenly treasures.

 

A sadness churns in the center

of my chest, burns my throat.

Being human is never easy.

 

These decisions we must make

often taste bitter and bring tears.

Yet, I think angels long to experience

 

the pains and joys

by which we are touched

in this mortal realm.

Light copper clay

clothes this spirit,

houses this farm girl soul.

 

No noble-born lady ever walked

in these grass-stained shoes

and cut off jeans

 

or walked her dog

by the pond

along the muddy field

 

where buzzards roost

on a barn, waiting

for cows to die.

 

It wasn’t a beauty queen

who pulled garden weeds

in mid-day heat

 

while manly sweat

soaked her hair,

dripped into her eyes,

 

and deposited salt on her lips

so that she jumped into a pool,

still fully dressed.

 

There is no fantasy-dream woman

under these wraps, no Snow White,

no damsel with doe eyes and cherry lips.

 

There is only me

sun-freckled, cornbread eatin’,

southern-drawl, bean-shellin’,

Me.

Northern boys. Southern boys.

Just boys.

Black boys. White boys.

Just boys.

Somebody’s brother,

somebody’s son,

somebody’s sweetheart.

Just boys.

Cold, hungry, bleeding,

longing for home,

childhood or eternal.

Just boys.

 

*I wrote this with some friends upon visiting the spot in Nancy, KY where Gen. Zollicoffer was killed during the Civil War.

 At the afternoon faculty meeting
I notice manacured nails, pink and white-tipped,
smooth hands without giant viens or white scars.
I slide my own beneath the table and examine them.

Ragged nail beds and nicked knuckles,
With these hands I have lifted heavy tobacco stalks,
thrown bags of cattle feed and held horse reins,
pushed mowers,guided tillers, manuevered rakes and mastered hoes.

My hands have carried fire wood and stoked coals.
They have cleared fields and burnt brush,
hewn trees and set fence posts,
carressed soil and nutured plants.

In them I have held dying animals,
flint rocks, wildflowers and dried coyote bones.
These hands have wiped childhood tears
and baited fishing hooks.

They have built forts and cast skipping stones,
drawn water from deep earthen wells,
pulled boats from the rivers,
fallen trees from the roads.

These hands have clasped other hands
in dances, in prayers, in chants and songs.
They have climbed cliffs, gathered buck-eyes,
cracked hickory nuts and washed cactus.

With the same hands that I have cleaned gutters,
I have pointed to stars and built ladders.
In these hands I have held my dying mother
my baby girl and my true love.

My hands have been burned and pricked,
cut and scraped, bruised and mashed.
They have been sun-damaged and torn.
Each flaw is a memory, a piece of life.

My life has never been manacured,
flawless, white and pink.
I place my hand on the table
and leave it there.

All of us have things we feel strongly about. As all of you who frequent my blog know, I feel strongly about the damaging effects of mountain top removal upon the people of Kentucky and West Virginia and upon the land itself. There is something heartbreaking about the death of a mountain, the knowledge that it can never be restored. That is why I am thrilled to share with you that my work will be included in the upcoming publication, COAL COUNTRY. I invite you to check out his link to find out more information about the project. http://www.sierraclub.org/scp/coalcountry.aspx

Your hair doesn’t shine.

Men won’t like like you.

Buy this shampoo.

Your teeth look old,

faded, this chemical

will make you desirable.

You are too fat.

This diet plan will

help you become—attractive.

Your legs, too much stubble,

purchase this razor.

Bring out your inner diety.

You lack color.

Buy more cosmetics.

Get rid of those spider veins.

Shape up that flappy rack.

See Doctors Nip and Tuck

about plastic surgery.

Oh, there is no place

for women over thirty

or at least those who look it.

You are not good enough.

Eat this fruit.

You’ll be—a goddess.

i scoop tadpole eggs

from pond’s edge,

carry them home,

transplant them

in new water.

daffodils bring sun

to a gray day.

i am free.

i am free.

I stand on this ridge

seeing until Appalachian boulders

are swallowed by mist.

Bagpipes, sounds from some movie,

play in my memory, a reminder

that loneliness has a sound.

I zip my jacket, tighten my hood.

Even winter dies

eventually.

I have seen God
across from my desk
with yellow dye in her hair
and a baby in her belly.

I saw him in the grocery,
a hump on his back,
from years of osteoporosis,
and withered hands too feeble
for pushing carts.

He is a beggar,
wearing disguises and
searching earth for hope,
for faith, but mostly
for compassion.

Well lawsy be
that big ol’ heavy tree
done smashed Willie John’s house,

came just a-crashin’ down
on account of all the ice.
That gnarly tree snapped
liken it was a peppermint cane
left over from last Christmas.

Now poor Willie John’s a-standin’
in his front yard wearin’
long johns and froggy slippers,
a-smokin’ his great-grand pappy’s
last cigar.