Four things Meme

Four jobs in my life,

four things that shape self,

a daycare for elderly, where I

played checkers with Buel

as he fought World War II

for the thousandth time,

A dockhand at the marina,

where I pulled condoms

from air-conditioner vents

and scrubbed toilets for snotty

rich vacationers who thought they

were so much better than I,

a farmhand in endless sun

which made look from India

and caused classmates to question


and a teacher, yet a teacher,

always a teacher. It is my heart.

Four places I’ve lived,

that grew inside me and

never let go,

Gradyville where I rode my first bike,

purple with hard tires,

Sparksville where I learned

we were poor,

Milltown, where I learned

we were richly blessed,

Garlin, where I learned
I was grown.

all Adair communities…I am like the trees,

my roots don’t walk.

As Sherry says, “Kentuckians

move less than those in any other

state and are more likely to come

home if they move away.

Is that good or bad? Yes.”

Four places I’d rather

be right now if my heart

were not content in this


Hiking along the Cumberland

where moss covers gray boulders

and water crashes with thunder,

walking along the beach

after afternoon thunderstorms,

eating lunch with my daughter

or sleeping in my hammock

beneath shade trees.

Four of my favorite foods

that are not poetic but

they are good.

fruit, especially bananas



buttermilk cornbread IN my glass of buttermilk

Four People I tag:






Passion flowers smell chocolate
in white dust
along tobacco patch edges
while Caribbean skies
lie over Appalachia,
like a lover,

speaking sweetness
to her in valley cane
and swamp marshes
where dragonflies
glint blue above
brackish dog day water.

This world belongs
to mountain children
where the South rises
with every oak, every pine,
every hundred year old pear,
rises from death
rich earth

to testify.

I Want to Know

Should I feel guilty for porch
afternoons beneath mimosa fragrance
and magnolia blooms, for hummingbird whizzing
and wind chime songs?

Should I have shame for my beneath-
the-bush lazy cat and red geranium
pot swan, for shady side streets
swept by westerly breezes?

When Iran and Iraq are bombing,
when a hundred other places fight
and California is hot? When England
is flooded and bees die?

Should I dig a hole, hide
and wait for trumpets,
or just teach a child to read,
then give thanks for my corner
while it still exists? Edited by: Nochipa77