Mother’s Tears

She cries,
For her children still have not learned,
If you poison the womb,
The mother is left ill,
She cries,
And tries to stop,
But she cannot,
This body is not her own now,
And she is clouded,
And so she cries,
And cannot stop,
And the people beg “please”,
At the storms,
That are raging,
And she cries,
Because she cannot stop,
Because they did as they pleased,
And burnt her body,
And poisoned her veins,
Choked her,
And drowned her in her own tears,
And the people are now under,
In awe and in fear,
Of her thunder,
They argue over the reasons,
For unexpected change in season,
And still she cries,
And quakes,
And it will only get worse,
For her defilers,
Still refuse to admit
Any mistake,
And so her tears fall on.

-September 3, 2017

Advertisements

Still

June 30, 2017

Underwater
Cut off
Filter feed
Must
to handle

Everything
In quantities
Not overwhelming
For the worn
To remain
In the game
Must remember
To save
self
first

No bliss
In this ignorance
Just sugar
Water
With the pill

Dilute
To keep
Eyes open
And breathing still

Calling

May 2, 2017

Fresh air
Is calling me
Begging me back
Reminding me
of fields of green
And gold
Of memories
Stored in a child’s mind

Fresh air
Regardless of whatever
Existant impurities there are
Fresh air as I knew it
Is calling me

Fresh air
In a song heard low in the breeze
To family
To familiar plains
And trees
And valleys

Fresh applachian air
Is calling me
Home

Fresh Air

November 6, 2016

Fresh country air
There’s nothing better for you.

Nothing some good old Appalachian breeze can’t cure

Day wains
Kin circle the fire pit
Wind shifts,
storm’s brewing,
somewhere.

No matter;
Fire will have burned itself out
long before it gets here.
For now,
let the little ones play,
and run through wide open spaces.

Generation upon generation,
born and bred
country strong of blue collar creed.
Mills, mining, construction,
factories.
Family farms:
cows, chicken, horses, hogs.
Diesel, grease and oil perfume;
Remind of hard work,
and loving what we do.
Past cornrows, and pastures,
down country roads,
dirt; paved, old and new,
A trek to “town”, to work, to school.
Pickups, ATVs, on worn forest paths,
over rickety bridge covered creeks,
these country roads: tried, traveled, true.

Smell the seasons changing;
A hot lemonade summer,
aging to a crisp kodachrome fall;
next a frigid white Winter,
then warm floral Spring.

The amber sun sinks lower,
the buzz of the drill goes silent.
and workers hang their hats.
Before eight
all county stores,
paper mill, factories:
closed

Past dinner,
past dusk,
Fireflies flicker.
Little ones tucked in tight.
All house lights low.
Over paved roads semis still blaze.
Foliage, pollen, and manure
scent the dewy night.

Yet no matter time of day
or year,
most reliably,
Methanol,
Formaldehyde,
Ammonia,
Lead,
and
Styrene
remain

in this
fresh,
country
air.