Thursday, August 28, 2014

out of monroe


And I overhear the tales told
With no prepared purpose
By the long weathered farmers
Planted on the front porch.
The eldest leans forward
And rests his elbows
On his aching knees.
He listlessly holds a cigar
       (Telling so much of his efforts)
But his bright blue eyes reveal
The truth of how he mastered the fields.
         Along 677.

In their only clothes that are dirt worn,
The husband and wife
Traipse up the front steps,
Resigned to their lives...
Still hoping for a future.
And the laughter of the children
Chasing chickens and goats
Interposes a specific contrast.

The cash register opens and change
Is made at the counter
For varied dry goods.
And I overhear the whisper
Of the keeper
Giving another
Thirty days of credit.
He slumps his shoulders.
He wants to help,
But even he can't pay his own bills.
From behind the counter,
A curly brown haired girl
In a stained, pink jumper
Scampers with mischief.

Iron weed and golden rod
Splash color along the ways
Inspite of the Cross Roads dust
Covering everything,
Turning the white-washed boards
The color of tobacco stained teeth.
And the old man with the
         Blue Eyes
Smiles at the baby cooing
In the young mother's arms.
He knows that still a future
Is to come as the dust
Settles from a passing truck.

the many years in monroe

Time in a window-
It's not what we always see.
Reflections In Shards
May be cast about the grounds;
With care,
They may be pieced to form
A history
That will be missed
By all the hapless passers-by.

other's thinkings

Live in the moments you would die for.

....emotional vampires...

If I kill you, you might die.

Monday, August 25, 2014

Sunday, August 24, 2014


             South Central Kentucky

With shoulders of no forgiveness,
The narrow highways
Seem aimlessly muddled
About the countryside.
They are as randomly laid
As one would blindly
Toss strands of baling twine
     Into the wind.

Extended fields of tobacco,
Beans and corn hem the roads.
Cross road hamlets
Resemble decrepit ghost towns
And the multitude of barns
Look more like crippled winos
Stumbling about the fields.

August withers under
The relentless punishment
            Of the sun,
While desparadoes spike
          The tobacco,
Readying it for the barns.
The choking fields of corn
Yellow and brown-
          Not much longer
Before being harvested
          For silage.
Country music stations
Clutter up the airwaves
With the same songs
In mind-numbing repetition.

In this all, you will find
A few good souls
That enrich your life.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

An issue 
Of looking.

an end view

In our youth, life is seen as grand.
Then comes age and the withered hand.
We look...we wonder...
We struggle to remember
The long ago days
When skating was a craze.
But the eyes only see through a gray mist,
Sitting on the bench, unable to recall the first kiss.
With a ragged and heavy sigh,
Hope is tenuous, maybe a lie,
As we look to the leaves falling,
Unable to hear the young one calling.