My Papaw

My Papaw

My Papaw’s gone, but I remember well,

Born in the hills, chocked full of mountain pride,

One man alone, he really went thru hell,

Followed his wits, kept his kin by his side,

Raised on the farm, then forced into the mine,

Always worked long, from dawn until the night,

Kept all from harm, and stood tall like a pine,

Papaw was strong, never shrank from the fight,

Some fell aside, and their lives hit the skids,

He kept going, thru weather, war and strife,

He held his stride, and worked hard for his kids,

There’s no knowing, of a better lived life,

We have no longer, his strengthening touch,

He made us stronger, we miss him so much. By: Philip Kent Church https://www.facebook.com/Philip-Kent-Church-1409887615889348/

THE NEW RIVER

THE NEW RIVER

An Appalachian Sonnet

~

White water churns, as the New River flows;

Currents like dreams, swirl all of the day long,

Sun in sky burns, down the course as it goes;

All fed by streams, from the mountains so strong.

Winding its way, thru the palisade flanks.

Born from its source, with majesty imbued.

Whiling the day, angling fish by green banks;

Northbound by course, mountain range’s subdued.

The river shines, from the zenith Sun’s glare.

The willows bend, o’er the deep and still.

Whip-or-wills pine, the river doesn’t care;

Just holds it trend, keeps going as it will.

Old and arcane, its life to deliver;

Never to wane, love of the New River. By PHILIP KENT CHURCH https://www.facebook.com/Philip-Kent-Church-1409887615889348/

I'll Never Forget You Dear

I'll Never Forget You Dear

I think of you in the sunshine,
I dream night and day of you.
When all the world is silent,
And the stars shine out in the blue.

And wheather the hours are golden
Or weather the day be drear,
It seems you're beside me always-
I never forget you dear!

I see your eyes in the stars, love.
I hear your voice in the sea,
The spell of your tender presence
Goes over the world with me.

And distance cannot divide us,
Though far away, or near,
In my heart of hearts you dwell, love,
I never forget you dear!

The stars may forget their places,
The day may forget to break:
The flight of the hours may alter,
The rose may forget to wake.

But love that is true is forever,
Not a day, nor a month, nor a year;
To the end of the world I love you,
I never forget you dear!

-W.C. Harris
Long Branch West Virginia
1876-1936

https://www.ghosthousestudio.com/wc-harris.html

Safe

Safe
lean and tough
a rough hewn safe
the stone side of the mountain hugs its secrets
sunshine at midday
like the dial of the safe
reflects and flickers
sparks and stabs
circling past truth
again and again
spinning in surges like sunspots
waxing and waning like a moon on fire
starspots in flight
questions flicker and flash without rest
sos to a silent universe
save our souls
save our souls
save our souls
je suis trop tendre pour ce monde
je suis trop tendre pour ce monde
je suis trop tendre pour ce monde
i see you
but the earth opens between us
i hear you
but the song is silent
like a beggar
standing at the door
head bent against the portal

Janey Pease
https://appalwriters.weebly.com/poetry-of-southern-appalachia.html

Midnight Poems

Ultimate expanses, the farthest mystery,
guise of final thoughts, the insanity of dying alone
is a transparent window where I see
a multitude of fragile lights erupting and further
away from this, truth wears a new crown
of jade and starlight; always there must be songs, beginnings
which covet Angels knowing only Love, a desperation
which carries the spiral arm home
or downward, I must have been all of you just now,
stranded on the edge of the great sleep,
for night has fallen, and who could possibly
know your dream's gentle ending?

Quick birth
into devil's biting
Slow antagonism-tenders
the bluest passions

Yellow sunflower opening to caress the
eyes
her petals, like love, are as soft
as morning.

Despair cresting the lonely shore
a river gone mad with Summer's ending

I thought I saw
you then,
turned toward
that
darkened
hi-way.

I thought..


Subterfuge of reason, thoughts are aborted as the
sacred silence climbs astride the moon now
lost in the blackest sky of this other side, spirits all
waver and are noticeable only because of the cool
dim glow seemingly coveting shadows
ancient masking.
In the wind a voice that sings the oracle seduces
our lower selves away
from harmony
Far from this world of soft breath and promise.

Rearrange monolith
the parting clouds are thoughts
the universe the womb
an expanse of darkness purging the
big fear
to accept what is near
which is of course
the birth
of
no-time
I have seen altars to the woman
named Luna
for even our fathers had heard the darkness whisper.

Spring 1994
Revised
June-November 2015

-T. Byron Kelly
https://www.ghosthousestudio.com/t-byron-kelly.html
https://soundcloud.com/ghosthousestudio/ghost-house-readings-midnight-poems

Coyote

Coyote

I forget that you are there

Coyote, you sly one

in your canine cleverness.

You the trickster of ancient stories

who spread the stars with your tail—

You fool me.

I’m distracted by

the bumbling possum,

the facile raccoon,

the leggy beauty of the flighty doe,

or even the lumbering bear who fears nothing, clawing the trunks of great trees

and feasting on seedy berries and fish.

I never see

you Coyote,

and barely notice your traces of

muddy prints and bleached bones.

Yes, I forget. I walk, my dogs run ahead;

blissful they are, happy to find the bones you leave, happy to sniff your lingering presence. And me, I walk unaware, until

at night

late with no moon

your howls with unearthly overtones

fill the forest and

my primal human hair

rises up on my neck

and I remember

that you stalk the fawn and

the grouse and

the pet and possibly

even me.

I think in your howls I hear

the reminder that life is

moment to moment,

full of peril;

and safety a dangerous illusion

born of chosen ignorance

so that one can enjoy

a walk. Patricia Thrushart
http://www.thewatershedjournal.org/

What Your Cousin Davey Knew

What Your Cousin Davey Knew

Do you think your cousin Davey knew,

When he suddenly died at 62,

That the time he sat on his front porch

After supper,

Under the Summer Triangle,

When the air was finally cooling off—

          God it was a hot one—

his thoughts drowned out

By the katydids and cricket calls,

The trilling owl and far-away yelp

Of the coyotes,

Answered by the rising bay of his hounds

In their compound just behind the

Clapboard house—

          Missing a few shingles

          And a shutter or two—

Things he just hadn’t gotten around to

fixing

Quite yet;

Do you think he knew

That it was the last time he’d see those brightening stars,

Or hear that fine chorus,

Or hush his dogs—

           for Pete’s sake, shut up—

Or that he’d never get

to those little annoying repairs? Patricia Thrushart
 http://www.thewatershedjournal.org/