Holding steadfast

Remnants and reminders

out of mississippi

         The unheard weeping
                    (come of the evening on Wolf River)

the evening crept upon us
as we splashed about the river.
with haste discarded,
        the evening in accompany with slumber,
slipped upon us in our lapsing frivolity.

the forest fell into a different rhythm
about us as we collected dead wood
for the fire to warm the night.
the untimed falling of the hatchet
resounded the length of the Wolf.
the wood-laden canoes peacefully parted
the easing water, worn from its flood rush;
and the finding of a trout
ushered only exhausted excitement
from those building the fire.

and in our wearied talk
around the bristling fire,
the weeping was left unheard
Once More....

A.....uhhh...ummmm...Thought

Irratic
            attitudes
     offer
                               nothing.....

Out of Mississippi

Reflections upon a moment:
            the interval at Ocean Springs Harbor

The sky is a silent crystal blue
Hovering over the crafts that sleep.
The masts reach at the sky, and the water
Glitters from the relentless stare of the Sun's eyes
While small fish dart about beneath the piers.

A lone catamaran glides gracefully by-
A soothing wind filling her striped sails.
The rippling wake that she leaves behind
Unfolds like a fan that a countess bears.

The tall pines and cedars are gathered in huddles
Sharing secrets and adventurous tales
While seagulls swoop and dive in mock battle.

The aged docks give access
To the crafts that call their masters.
Shrimpers moan from the rugged week's work,
And power boats are readied for their weekend excursions...
The boats of sail are trimmed,
Awaiting the will of the wind.

The wind strengthens--boats roll at their moorings;
Their rodes restrain them....
Voices call out, they drift like waves
             snuggling up to the hulls, or like a path
             through a freshly dug garden.

There is a mirror...
It unveils the harbor channel extending southwest,
And a sailboat enters quietly,
            the crew lowering the genoa.

An egret watches all from atop a piling near a low marsh
While houses hide among the flowers,
           watching the harbor.
Their eyes enthralled by the quiet beauty.
Yet, they see another sailboat seek her berth.

And after her tired sails have rested,
           she will venture again
           into the mesmerist sea
           to become a vision
           against the azure sky...
At the helm--my father.

from west virginia

             Road to Bartlick Chapel

From the mountain, the brook
splashes over the sandstone configurations,
cragged and demure,
to the hills choked in an August forest:
          a restlessness cries the mountain
shown by the whiteness of the brook
over the sandstone channeled
in the cheek of the mountain
behind the Chapel,
         laying in white and silent of tongue
         under a clouded, quarter moon.

To the sides of the mountains
is a road cut to follow
the clefts and hollows,
encroaching upon the tamelessness
        of this domain
        in the Appalachians,
known only by its coal
and mountain rigs gearing down the grade.

And gripping the rails
is the Clinchfield Railroad
       grumbling over the Russell Fork River

The dusk of coal

From a Mountain

From a mountain
     on a Thursday evening
            cast in clouds,
A mountain's family blighted in poverty
     huddles in the muddy yard--
            yellowed laundry
    strung to trees the lonely decor.

Water from a rill, muffled,
    (but to the roots in drink),
           flows to the family
    of the haggard house
(Given long ago to the mountain's claim)
By a hose hung above the road,
     Heralding to the different whispered screams
           of four-wheel drives
With faces in the mask of coal.

And the mother's mother's mother
                  piano
hollering out mistimed notes
To the Bartlick Chapel walls
             Is sung to by just the ghosts in the pews.