Long Red clay Poems
Long Red clay Poems. Below are the most popular long Red clay by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Red clay poems by poem length and keyword.
Deep in the piney woods
A call beckons across the branch
A call that isn't animal nor human
A call that makes your hair stand alert and skin prickly from fright!
The light of the full moon awakens the spirits and the calling from the piney woods.
If you doubt my story and risk your very life, then make sure you take a
weapon into the piney woods. Well, I believe the call is from the ghost of the moon
shiners that have lost their lives in the mica mines many years ago.
The mica was
big business one time until the mines went dry.
The deep holes were perfect cover for the moonshine stills until
the revenuers caught the culprits. A great gun battle raged until death.
Today the crumpled mica shimmer in the red clay is all that is left of the mines.
The local children like to scare
themselves with the
abandoned rock graveyard along the edge of the piney woods. If you look close at
the mound of rocks...it appears that there is a bony hand protruding from the grave
and pointing directly at you to leave. The ancient thick cedar trees seem to
guard the graves and whisper "Warning, Warning."
In 1969 there was another vilolent firey death on the road through the piney woods.
A man died inside a burning wrecked truck, screaming
"Don't let me burn to death" repeatedly until the bitter charred end.
When the moon is right the echo carries his screams across the hills.
A young man only age seventeen lost his life in a fatal car wreck on
the steep curved road. His life was taken so fast; he is said to walk
the hills searching for his sweet ride to
carry him on his journey, unaware of his eternal fate.
On a short walk along the shallow creek bank reveals an old rock formation covered
in moss now but built by a people of long ago. Maybe Indian or early settlers,
no one knows the architects but if you stand in a certain spot where the
ground is always wet with a reddish ooze. You can feel a cold icy finger
across your face and neck.
Is the call a young buck calling his bride in the after life; is the call an
evil doer fighting to avoid beelzebub's snare? The apparition can be seen
briefly if you desire look when the wind and moon are right. Waynesville
holler offers more
than beauty in the day but beware of the moon lit walks that
young lovers
brave or you
may be the next victim of the piney woods!
Red Man's Pain
By Linda Hays-Gibbs
Why is it not mine?
The black earth
Or the red clay kind
The swamp or mountain high
All the places where my grandfathers lie
They used to roam free with the buffalo and deer
Before the white man came to see with greedy eyes
they saw my land
So now I cry
I'm needy
And he has me enslaved
If I keep my names he knows; but he took away everything so I chose
To sit silently by as a reminder of what a savage cruel fellow you are
sometimes I think you are kinder
but then I see that same old hate slithering around me
You were much kinder to the black man I see
Cause I'm still here you hate me miserably
You wail about the six million Jews who died
When you killed 22 million of me when you lied and lied and lied and denied
For still this day I'm treated with shame
But you don't know the Red man's pain
The rain, the rain washes the shame
For you've no one to blame
But yourselves
And you can't say you did right
When your hate are wells
For you never let it all come to light
The blankets filled with smallpox
The poisoned food filled with rocks
The winters we were left to freeze
The cries of our dying babies
As they left the living
Lying limp lumps in their weeping mother's arms
You took away a red you screwed her & took a red woman's charms
Dead their hearts when again you took her screaming children away to educate them the white way
Only their skins still testified that they were red till they were dead but as their skins got whiter
Our burdens got lighter all we had to do to be free was be our enemy who we knew we weren't you see
But here we sit on reservations still
Reminders of those you didn't kill
And you hate us still so real we scrape it off our skins with knives of poverty
Our dead cry out from pits of clay
Scars of the past in
Pots we made
Rugs so fine they are priceless now
But never the credit for our civilization can you allow
Incas built towns finer than London Town but
Gold was sought for Spanish crowns so you stripped skin off a piece at a time to make them give all they could find then killed everyone left
But kept all their treasures to melt down to bars of gold for your mankind
For we weren't treated as men
But something beneath our red skin
An animal without family and feelings
But we shout we are human beings
[Verse 1]
He wore the tie like a hand-me-down,
Swore he'd make it big in some glass-wall town.
But his mind kept drifting to that red clay bend,
Where the river runs slow and the line don’t end.
The lights were bright, but they hurt his eyes,
And no skyline ever beat a Tuscaloosa sky.
He laughed on cue, played the part just fine,
But he missed the quiet and his Granddad’s pine.
[Chorus 1]
Take him back where the stars still shine,
Where the porch swings creak and the air smells pine.
Where the coffee’s thick and the biscuits burn,
And you learn your faith more than you earn.
Just a one-way ride to the place he knows,
Where they say your name at the Texaco.
Let him breathe where the silence feels like home.
[Verse 2]
He carried the weight like a Sunday lie,
Told himself it’s just a phase, it'll pass on by.
But the cracks ran deep through a polished life,
And he never once cried for the things he liked.
He’d pray in traffic, curse at red lights,
Dig for hope in sleepless nights.
Tryin’ to be more than his old man’s name,
But all that tryin’ just fed the flame.
[Chorus 2]
Take him back where the roads don’t care,
Where the cotton fields stretch like a whispered prayer.
Where the work is hard but the pay feels fair,
And God don’t seem so far from there.
Just a one-way ride to a mailbox leanin’,
Where “how ya been?” really means meanin’.
Let him rest where the world don’t chase his name.
[Bridge]
He ain't lost — just run too fast,
Lookin’ for peace in a place that don’t last.
It ain’t on a map and it sure ain’t fame —
It’s in muddy boots and your mama’s name.
[Final Chorus]
Bring him home where the stillness heals,
Where grace feels real and the hurt unpeels.
Where the heart remembers what matters most—
Not the job he left, but the Holy Ghost.
Just a one-way ride to the life he missed,
Where a front porch hymn still brings you bliss.
That’s the freedom he was always running toward.
[Outro]
He didn’t run ‘cause he lost the fight —
He just got tired of sleepin’ through the light.
Paradise ain't paved or paid —
It’s found in surrender, down in Sweet Home clay.
He didn’t run from life or from the pain —
He ran to grace… and walked out changed.
It’s good to be a cowboy,
just ask my old friend Dane,
who spends his days riding
across the Texas plains,
working for a big ranch,
he cuts, lassos, and herds,
brings them in at round-up,
brands them all in turn.
Works out in the sunshine,
rides hard for his pay,
heads on down to Randy’s
for a drink at close of day.
the bartender there always
shows his picture to cowgirls,
Dane’s a local legend,
on raging bulls he’s twirled.
Some women try to tame him,
one day one might succeed,
but right now he’s just happy
giving them what they need.
It’s good to be a cowboy,
just ask my buddy Bill,
he grew up loving westerns,
I guess he always will.
He loves the boots and hats,
even owns a bolo tie,
if it weren’t for those old movies
he’d have never learned to ride.
Takes trail-rides with his children
out in the country air,
keeps them from their cell-phones,
builds memories to spare.
Takes them to wild west shows,
where old time ballads ring,
doesn’t take much prodding
before the kids start to sing.
It’s good to be a cowboy,
just ask our sheriff Max,
even when out on the job
he still wears a white hate.
Some say that his dark skin
makes the cowboy-look strange,
forgetting all those freed slaves
that once rode the range.
But Max doesn’t give a whit,
he’s an honest, weathered soul,
and every year he dresses up
for the town police festival.
He puts on all his cowboy duds,
plays the old west lawman,
the kids all run up to him
making finger-guns with hand,
But those buckaroos are quick,
he’s never outdrawn a one,
but it’s enough for the sheriff
to see the tykes having fun.
It’s good to be a cowboy,
just ask ol’ Jimmy-Ray,
living down in sunny Georgia,
his feet in the red clay.
he’s never even rode a horse,
but the don't bothered him,
the cowboy code is his bible,
you can see it in his grin.
He’s quite the man of honor,
and will always treat your fair
in his hometown barbecue
if you ever do eat there.
He’s polite to the ladies,
looks each man in the eye,
on days off in his straw hat
his ATV he rides.
He stays loyal to one woman,
his great pride and his joy,
to her he’ll always tip his hat,
it’s good to be a cowboy.
All is red in Birstay
city of red clay
We throw it all day long
and sing a merry working song
In rhythm with the wheel
Once a month merchants come
to make trades,
on the way
to the Kings market square
A festive place to be
Troubdours, jongleurs and jesters
perform for their keep
and every desire is traded for
in the street
There's booths selling hot food
and some sell drink
flags and pendants fly
while children play
as Knights and Queens
The most beautiful pots
come with birstay kiln marks
especially the ones I make
because I inlay
dragon scale in shades
of turquoise and jade
Birstay won't go
where I dare to go
to find the best
prettiest scales
Where dragons shed
Near the cliffs
of the sea
Once in the courtyard
The nobles set their worth
So commons can't afford
Only Kings Queens and lords
One day I gave aid
to an old friend in need
and couldn't leave in time,
but was out of all supplies
of what pottery buys
It was already late
in the day
with no time to waste
I just loaded the wagon
and went on my way
The moon shines bright
and the scenery is plush,
but the old road is deep in ruts
Rock, shake and bounce
slow but steady
along with the pots I took
Finally I see
the campfire
of the merchants
Will they let me make a trade
so I can
be home
by the first
light of day?
What is this I hear
a low growl like hungry bears
I Stop to pull my bow
and lifting my lantern high.
I turn all around.
Nothing is seen
but the growl
still goes on.
I continued cautiously
but now the fire looked weird
like green and purple from here
with no flash nor flicker
and up above
a line of lamps
each as the full moon light
circling high
above the ground
going slowly around
Over my head opened a door
that revealed a light
bright and white as if it were day
A plank reached the ground
and on it stood a silhouette
of a person
He was small and grey
so then I felt brave
but when he reached out to me
I fainted
Barely awake I blinked my eyes
open
and I found I was
surrounded
by people strange and tiny
I remember him as if it
were yesterday, picking black
berries for his mom’s cobbler pie.
He was bare foot with a dirty
shirt and frayed blue jeans;
if you want to call them blue.
His hair dingy red, the color
of southern red clay.
He never saw me; I was sitting
in the water oak, over looking
the creek running between our
houses.
The creek was our playground
for fishing and swimming.
We strung a kudzu vine over a
limb, hanging straight over the
creek; for swinging into the
deepest part of the water.
Down in the shallows was
where his family bathed on
the warm days.
Today was not bath day, it was
food gathering day.
After placing all of the berries
into a big bowl, he would eat
a handful before taking them to
the house.
As a routine, his mother always
lathered him up with bacon grease
to kill any chiggers, she said it
smothered them, it was a wonder
it didn’t smother him.
I wonder if that was why he
always looked unkempt, plus he
had wild animals following him
quite a lot.
It seems as though it was just the
other day, he had a skunk run
him up a tree.
I don’t know who smelt better,
him or the skunk.
In school he would always sit in
the back next to the window.
Some of the other boys nick
named him Bacon; he didn’t mind,
it made him feel important.
Me, I gradually got use to the
way he smelled like a side of pork.
That’s how I always knew when
he picked berries for his mom.
It was as if the bacon grease
tattooed his pores.
She did make the best black
berry cobbler in town;
always taking first place in the
county fair.
This year, the cash prize would
be larger plus the recipe would
be published in the state journal
and eligible for contest winnings
of five thousand dollars.
I knew that they could use the
money, they were desperately
in need of a big wash tub.
If it wasn’t for all of his friends
at school, his mom would have
never won the state prize money
and I surely wouldn’t have married
him,
as I remember…
Copyright © 2008 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Picturesque holy visions nature’s lands
Horizontal those the views
Elongated greens, mid color trees hands green
Bodies’ trunks grey, black and brown vibrant m
Upper tier skies written painted moving whites dots
On blue stationary canvas
Beauty sounds the tweet carries in the air;
Crisp summer breath
So sweet the heat barefooted are the feet
I walk in seven inch fine grass
So lovely are the trees
Conversing to one another
Waving in the vibrations
~
To each of its sisters and brothers
Beautiful wildlife in compass
Running green grasses under a rampant skies
So crisp clean the air the butterflies cries
Delighted in the tranquil stillness such is life, a life is breathe
What is left clouds? So lovely are the trees
Caterpillar running on moisten leaves
Just darts the rabbit he hops along out of harm’s way!
Deer’s peering eye to eye
Antlers locked about bumping heads challenges
Where translate beholden th’ swollen hill
Covered the red clay dirt fiery boast
~
Green, green hills valley brine
White marshmallows puffs in the skies
So much am I in love with the view
A nature canvas, ’vr natural
Shape shades of greens rolling hills of bladed dews
Who am I to question with my nostrils nor my eyes?
Embracing I am the land set before me
Ever friendly all the lawn those greens
All so friendly waving are the trees
So adorning, I’m exploring my host
Nature’s beauty my senses embrace up close
Yields of country lands reconnaissance
~
Observant pleasant picturesque inviting
Climbs even the breeze, nature grows continually
Naught disturbs thy quiet, all to thy service yields,
I naked ankles down I walk I crush the grasses
Sweet soft small animals scurry away unto me,
For am I not the caretaker
For am I the gardener
For am I the gardener
For am I the gardener
I partake of my visions view
I am the caretaker of my view
Upon my eyes all is well and natures beautiful
For am I the gardener
I partake of my visions view
8/9/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
There are secrets to be uncovered in the rain forest
Something mushrooming from a medicine tree.
What goes on in the woods, and Jungles? -
While we hustle -- bustle.
Pacing the pavement like ants...
Never to become one with mighty trees.
The buzz saw and blades -
Working to create another beautiful mall.
I am stifled,can't breathe.
These earthly home wreckers are earth disturbers:
My environment is clinging, on holding on for dear life.
Rats share space with me.
Viruses fill the air on subways.
Yet right here on this small planet;
I once could tap tonic from trees.
But now earth is choking, she’s crying "I cannot breathe".
So, many secrets to be uncovered in the rain forest
Something mushrooming from a medicine tree;
Could cure us, yet I am forbidden to reveal.
I am afraid, I may never get to feel the cleansing of a forest breeze.
I chant ... to feel that which has left my womb and disappeared;
May summon the spirit of unknown secrets to come
Enter my energy field.
Take me to the place where I may see streams of pure water;
Hear the callings of ancient voices... and play in red clay...
Molding clay pots, and weaving fabrics on my loom.
There are secrets that could mend us.
With knowledge of leaves, roots– Red dirt, and water.
We can know of all things that lie in the thick.
Steaming lakes- instead of cesspools,
we’d have tonic water, and mushroom juice-
We never had a chance on these cemented grounds.
Pacing back n forth like ants; Killing habitats, and creating havoc.
Can you plant a small tree in Manhattan, for me?
For her, for them.
They put us here, and now they leave.
Wealthy folks, head for the hills and mountains,
bathe in natural fountains.
Now it’s them that are draped in gold and Amber-
Put a damper on our habitat. Plundered all the earth.
Replaced grass with turf.
While my bare-feet know not the grass, nor soil.
Stench and debris arise from pavements in boiling heat.
Blocking the charge,
that would release this
negative energy from my feet.
[Verse 1]
Dust on my boots, heat in the air
We pulled off the highway to nowhere
Two shacks, red clay, nothin’ growin’
No clean water, just pain showin’
[Verse 2]
Kids in the dirt, no one cryin’
Too young to know they should be tryin’
No toys, no shoes, just tired eyes
Waitin’ for someone to recognize
[Chorus]
“Are you my daddy?” — he whispered low
Hit me harder than I’ve ever known
A little hand reachin’, heart open wide
God help me, I just cried...
[Verse 3]
Mamas walk miles, lookin’ for pay
Leave their babies where they pray
That someone kind might take ‘em in
Lord, this world can be cruel to them
[Chorus]
“Are you my daddy?” — I heard again
From tiny voices blowin’ in the wind
Each word cut like a rusted knife
In that moment, they became my life
[Bridge]
I’m not their blood, they don’t have my name
But I’d carry every ounce of their pain
For just one hug, one little smile
To feel like I was theirs for a little while
[Final Chorus]
“Are you my daddy?” — soft as a prayer
I knelt down, said I’d always care
Don’t know what they saw in me
But for a moment, I let them believe
[Outro]
Now that voice won’t leave my head
Echoes every night in bed
I’ll give my days to find them a home
A place of love where they belong
Note: On a highway, 30 minutes out of Kampala, Uganda (they call it "Orphan Highway"), I met a tribal Chief who had over 100 children along the road. I heard, saw, and felt horror stories that changed my life. For the next decade I dedicated my life to finding dads and moms for these kids and others across our globe. Today there are over 143 million orphans on our planet. It's impossible to look into their eyes, and hear their sweet voices.. and do nothing. If we don't care, who will? If you believe in God, you must!
Dust shrouds the peeling varnish on the old church pew as Noah
(first of his namesake, last of his namesake) thumbs an overripe
orange in his patchwork coat pocket. The preacher, made an obelisk
by distance and light looms against the marble cross, stark
fragmented, like bullet holes through white fencing.
He speaks.
“Every Living Thing Has A Soul And Should Be Treated As Such.”
Noah knows not of this. He knows of the orange in his patchwork coat pocket
and the preacher, made an obelisk by distance and li—
His mother pulls him outside of himself, her firm hand guiding his awkward steps.
Noah was to go fishing with his father this afternoon.
The riverbank slants downward, the red clay retreating from Noah’s newly
polished Church shoes. Silence is expanded upon by his Father, who kills
the worm, contorted, tied, twisted, and fitfully impaled to be sacrificed (For Lunch).
Noah knows not of this. He knows of his mother, her firm hand guiding,
the riverbank slanting downwa—
“Paw is it true these worms got souls?” / Yes, Son”
“Why’re we killin’ ‘em? / We’ve got to eat”
“Can’t we eat without killin’? / You want to eat a live fish?”
“Can we eat somethin’ else? / If we were richer”
“Won’t we go to hell for killin’? / Some killing has to happen”
“If we were rich, would we have to kill? / Probably not, Son”
“Do only the rich go to heaven?”
Noah’s father did not say this, but this is what he understood.
The rich build their heaven on earth out of precious metals
And fleeting pride, but heaven can only be found
in death
and in death, the worms you killed,
the fish you ate, the woman you love,
the brother you fought, and the sun you worship
will run
to greet
you like
your child
the morning
of your birthday.