We ate thick boloney on white bread.
There was no place for hand washing
and what farmer cared anyhow?
Tobacco gum had to be scrubbed, hard.

She’d ask whose boy that was walking by
or had we heard about the Wheeler girl.
My legs never reached the floor.
That wood stool was too tall. I swung them,

tapping the support rods;
suppose I kept time to conversations
while the coca-cola clock clicked seconds
until the years stopped it hands.

Scotland sent him to us
that minister of the light.
He rode miles after miles
up these hillsides and down
these hollers to bring us
the light of Christ.

Sometimes he slept outdoors,
wet by the dew, wakened by owls
and coyote yelps. Other times
a family took him in
for the night.

In his later years
He married and built a house
down in Campbell Holler
where stones from his fireplace
remain.

When the opportunity came
I went south, across the Rio Grande
to see the land of my ancestors,
to touch the earth they touched.

I painted iron gates and carried stones
to fill in the holes in a pastor’s yard,
walked children to the store and ate
chili coated watermelon suckers.

I dressed like a clown and traveled
in a clunker van to Nuevo Laredo
to throw a birthday party for Jesus,
a barefoot boy with no shirt.

We hung a piñata from the rafters
and smiled as children wacked
and wacked, and wacked. That night
we danced with the Pentecostals.

I gave tortillas to a beggar,
let an old woman kiss me because
I carried her mother’s name.
Her husband looked like my father.

Every yard had a fence, a gate,
skinny dogs wandered the roads
and good old boys hollered out
their hand signals before each turn.

Darkness held a sinister secret,
which wandered the streets,
searching for open gates,
unguarded portals and easy prey.

Night Wind, that old trickster
the Spaniards could never kill,
still walks the streets of Mexico.
Now that I’m home, I read
about him in the papers.

drizzle fails to describe the soothing sound
of gentle water falling on wet brown leaves;

rhythm is not enough word to tell how,
like clock ticking, it is a portal of sound where
time stands still. In this slow moment

I live forever.
Let me hold it.

Look out the little loft window
at the old white house across the field.

Look at the wooded hills rising behind it.
September fields blaze with black-eyed-Susans

and golden rods as afternoon sun casts an amber hue,
turning the woodshed into an enchanted cottage.

The pear tree, standing alone, glows magical.
My memories are like that tree,

rooted in the rolling hills of this place.

Nobody said Melungeons,

When I was a kid.

 

 

They talked about Mulattos

and part-blacks,

 

 

sometimes calling Daddy

and his kin colored Franklins.

 

 

so I asked him, “Daddy

are we African?”

 

 

He didn’t answer,

didn’t know the answer.

 

 

Then I asked his sister,

“Viola, what are we?”

 

 

Irish, she claimed, Black Irish

with sun kissed skin.

 

 

“Indian,” Grandma Sally said

“with blue eyes.”

 

 

But no one said,

Melungeon.

 

 To love is to make

yourself vulnerable.

If you are brave enough

 to love,

sometimes

you get hurt,

but no one walks

through life

 untouched.

 

*it’s not much of a poem, but at least it is a sign that I’m thinking, even in the midst of a hurried schedule. My brain aches to write but mountains of paper work hinder me. Oh well, those mountains of paper work are required for my job and I did choose my job. I suppose it, too, is a form of art in its own way. At the very least, it is deifinitely a science.

you find that your mind

is always wandering away

from the ordinary world

in which you walk

and it’s the ordinary walk

that pays your bills

when you’ve spent

most of your life

preparing for a career.

Still, I pass the drives

and forget what road

I was supposed to turn down.

Still, I forget to post the million

notes on my fridge to remind me

of things that torment most and

although I’m thankful for a job

in a time when many have none,

I pine for time to write my mind,

finding there is little left

for community boards, blogs

and other luxuries afforded

to those who have freer time.

So I meander in a daze, trying

to function in the structured world

of elementary education where

teachers are esteemed for the order

of their binders, their files, their bus notes.

Even if I must wear a label, scatterbrain,

I wouldn’t trade my imagination

for anyone’s organization.

Pray for the Hillbillies

Used to be honor was life and a man

lived by what he said, or died. Look

at us now, welfare recipients.

 

Drug dealers with medical degrees

hand out Lortabs like government

cheese in the 80s.

 

Coal companies give us toxic

water to pipe into our children’s

schools.

 

We don’t need political leaders

with polished smiles and pretty words,

telling us

 

how ‘backward’ we are. We don’t want

any television reporter telling the world

how sorry she feels

 

for the children of this land who

who speak with wild honey

twang,

 

sing of Jesus and pray

that their mommies will get

off crack.

 

What we need is a powerful voice,

motivated by love instead of

dollars.

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.