. "it's
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frock
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Along the Appalachian trail
was a leftover petrified bale
on top stood a lonely quail
looking sturdy, in no way frail
also left was a loaf of bread, stale
according to my goofy cousin, Dale
Always good for stories without fail
comedienne after his stint in jail
next to the straw bale was a grail
Dale thought it was carved in shale
he heard a coyote’s drawn-out wail
it came to him on a gusty gale
He nibbled on a piece of kale
which he had found in a wooden pail
soon he felt hearty and hale
is this the end? asked the inquisitive quail
muddy waters recede
give up beloved dead recovered
appalachian songs eternal
You were born here,
Blue Ridge foothills,
spirits of Cherokee in
Appalachia's olden heart and veins.
Scots-Irish influence of beloved
bluegrass,
moonshine of the drinking kind.
Your parents weren't the responsible
type,
as you and your three sisters spent
your childhoods in foster care and were
once left with your mother's cruel friend
for two years,
you went through so much.
Your single grandmother Robbie
did the best she could,
a beautician on her feet all day.
Her white farmhouse with no
indoor bathroom,
and an outhouse in the yard.
She fried okra better than anyone,
grew an acre of tobacco.
You were living in Texas,
joined the Navy at nineteen,
and it became your home.
We met within its ranks,
survivors of child abuse.
We wed, weren't wealthy.
We raised our daughter after
returning to your hometown.
You walked her down the aisle,
and treasured our son-in-law,
and grandchildren too.
You passed at the age of
fifty-nine,
interred by a gentle stream
in the Veterans Cemetery,
where someday I'll also be.
Appalachian Homecoming,
as banjos and dulcimers play softly. ~
Hill country
snow is thawing
The wind is a Spring scented ripple
- coltish
Nature for a little while
asks: "come and play"
Of course you smile
Long years are released
from that tightly packed jail
you had been carrying along
for so long
Now the deer come
one
then too many to count
as they thread through
the tree-line
now they are nibbling
at your presence here
their large brown eyes
feed you with small cups of wonder
You are a boy again
a lad running
to gain the very peak of the blue sky
a sky that takes you up
and spins you around
as you forget to be yesterday
showers of castanets
on a tin roof
a stop-over for the night
on the longest hike
a bushel of owls
in each drip of rain
aftershocks of mice nibbling through
the wires of a sleepless mind
listening
through ear shaped microphones
pigeons scrabble overhead
then clatter as they take off
the rain softens toward dawn
to a ten second splish
time to move on
Every morning at close to four
She made the coffee, percolated
Poured it into cups with saucers
And they each would have a cup
Pouring the potent black liquid
Into the saucers before drinking
The cooling solution from them
This was only one more glimpse
Into the heart of Appalachian living
A day by day extravaganza of insights
Carried down from the Irish ancestors
Who’d come to this land in America
Realizing it reminded them of the
Wonders that were once their Ireland
As the coffee moved from the percolator
To a Mr. Coffee that sat on the sink
The children began to drink from their cups
But Granny and Pa still used their saucers
A reminder of all that had come before
And the things that were past that would
Forever remain ingrained in their hearts
Sawing logs, one after another
Into two feet lengths
Just for the specific purpose
Of standing them up on the ground
Awaiting the iron axe
That will create a comforting
Roaring fire in the hearth
Come this winter’s cold
Canning fruits and vegetables
To store on the shelves
Awaiting the moment in time
When they’ll be lifted out
And opened slowly, carefully
With appreciation for the color
The scent and deliciousness
Of a homegrown and canned food
Cutting down hay in the field
Tractor moving slowly, assuredly
Taking the blade to the grass
Green and pungent scented
Covering the field with what will
Be racked up into piles for
Baling and creating a treasure
For the barn to store for cattle
I have a passion to hold a lamp aloft,
to capture one acre of starshine
before the sun writes a new dawn.
Rusting Chevys bloom in the half-light.
Nightjars depart on shadow wings.
Shimmering’s walk toward my window
on silver slippers.
A native mildness calls me out
to the green hollows
where poppies cling to secrets.
I’ve a yen to lean like a greening barn
that’s honeycombed with sky.
The dew bathes, hills run with deer.
The woods hold aloft their nocturnal dreams
while the sky turns those to mist
I am invited to be kin,
to the verdigris of millstones,
to the mist and blood
of feuding legends,
to the weather-worn
secluded places
where dirt roads end
and life proclaims
its right to be free.
Oh cousin what can I do
That man I'm married to
Stays drunk and runs around
He's nothing but a hound
All our money goes to his booze
Wolves howling at the door for their dues
And I'm at my very wit's end
Is there something you can recommend
The old Granny knew his past
And other ailments he'd amassed
Bad vision, high blood pressure, and diabetes
Was no excuse for being sleazy
She had just the cure for it all
In the vine growing on her back wall
Kudzu grows a foot a night some say
So serve it at his next soiree
He will no longer feel the need to partake
Free of hang overs and head aches
But it will lengthen his life a great deal more
And nothing can cure him from being a man whore
So she thought for a minute and weighed out the odds
Prayed to his holiness and marriage gods
Then she decided to drink it instead
She would outlive the man, happily unwed.
Emerald pines and jade laurels
Crisp, cool air misting beyond the range
Of peaks that ascend to meet
The clear, indigo heavens complete
With bleached snowy puffs of cotton
Drifting into silhouettes, characters
Both soft and yearning – floating
Into the horizon where they play
Dancing through the impression
Of a peaceful, tender moment
God’s artistic hand pressing down
Against the Appalachian mountains
Appalachian Sister
Wherever I roam,
You go too.
A piece of home,
Follows.
A smile, a song,
The sound of an owl.
Those Appalachian mountains,
Live inside of me.
Your laughter,
The white water creeks.
Your voice,
The whispering winds.
Intertwined,
In my memories.
I think of one,
I think of the other.
Sisters,
And mountains.
Part of me,
We are never apart.
By: Darlene Doll Smith
It's fun to go to the mountains to refresh one's soul...
And serious hikers find the Appalachian Trail a great place
to take a stroll.
The beauty of nature is all around...
And the great national forest has it's own special sound.
The gorgeous plants and wild life is part of God's theme...
And there is beauty galore to enhance this wonderful dream.
So go to the mountain and refresh your soul...
And while you're at take the Appalachian stroll.
TK<
We welcome Spring with blooms
From bright red and yellow tulips
It feels like the season of flumes
With the scent of fresh hyssops
Summer skies roll on around
With gently floating white clouds
Fresh mown lawns cover the ground
Leaving crisp, emerald shrouds
When Autumn happens through
With orange, red and amber hues
The entire world is a changed view
Mountains painted brilliantly new
Winter covers the world in white
Enchanting icicles hanging from trees
All the world is dazzling even at night
It’s a wonderland of a peaceful freeze
Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter
In the Appalachian Mountains we find
There is no place to be found any better
Seasons of bliss surround us with a design
God’s paintbrush has chosen our world
To leave impressions of such joy and beauty
Colors assorted, mixed and swirled
To create a vision of dreamy bounty
©July 29, 2014
Written for Vibrant Verses Contest
South Carolinians, give me a break!
If you were my students, you’d fail.
You’ve given your nod to the lout who once hiked
On the fake “Appalachian Trail.”
A governor gone to a place no one knew
With his staffers in fear for his life,
Had to later admit that his hike was a lie
To help hide his “true love” from his wife.
Though that dastardly deed left some angry and hurt,
His constituents seemed to excuse him;
And for Congress, enough of those voters came back –
Fifty-five percent opted to choose him.
Yes, other politicos lied and had sex
(With a president leaving a stain!),
Yet those voters for Sanford had better beware
For this guy’s surely pulling your chain!
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