SNOW

Newborn glazed crystals Blowing out of an

Ancient mystic past, Transversing distant galaxies.

Cold, Northland,

Whistling through darkened halls To our dimension of life.

The new fallen snow Lies lifeless on the dead embers

Of winter, Exhausted after the mystic flight.

BLACK REVIVAL

The black Crinkled hands

Worn Around the

Gooseneck hoe Touch the polished Bench and flowered

Cotton dress Swaying in

Rhythm “Yes, Lord, yes,

On Jordan’s banks I stand”

And salty sweat Rolls down the Firm set face

Like tears Spattering on

A funeral home fan. The heat increases

As a shout Reverberates against

Aged oak walls “Yes Lord, Thank God

I’m free, Free at last.”

MOBILE BAY

The crisp clear Yellow full moon

Hangs out Over the Gulf

As a palm tree breeze Blows the spirit Ever higher and

Higher, Spiraling

Across the South land To murky swamps

And moss Hanging down

To toad frog stools And willows swaying

In the wind. Summer

Flowers melt into The moist hot

Air And the ocean Breathing deep

Rolls into Mobile Bay.

MEMORIES OF OLD PHOTOGRAPHS

A cool, crisp breeze Blows out of

Ewing Galloway photographs As memories

Tumble From somewhere Out of the mind.

The evening settles Into night. Thoughts

Captured by the mind’s Camera

Await playback

BIRDS

The awareness grew Until we cracked

The shell of our existence. Flying

Sometimes higher In search

Of the elusive truth To carry us Back to the

Womb of knowledge We escaped Only briefly Blown by

The winds of change We became

As birds.

BENCHES ON A COURTHOUSE LAWN

CLAY COUNTY, ALABAMA

They sit there,

The dusty ground Speckled with

Cedar needles and Cigarette butts. The grass, once

Growing thick And neat, now

Recedes to make Way for old men

Who spit black tobacco juice And talk about the weather

While the world Revolves ‘round

Sleek, shiny Cars,

Eighteen wheelers With Rebel flags

Hung behind Bearded drivers And tall, slender,

Bare skinned Girls walk past.

The cedar, growing Overhead and spreading

Its arms like a Comforting mother Knows the secrets

Spoken on hot, sultry Summer days when

All that moves Are the black piss ants

Seeking out food crumbs Dropped during talk

Of politics and death. Silently now, as shadows creep

Across the lawn, They await the return

Of the old men wearing Straw hats

Who warmed their Wood with dusty blue overalls

Filled with the smell of Hand-rolled cigarettes

And Alabama clay.

DREAMS ALONG HIGHWAY 11

It's a long time To think back

When times were carefree And candy and ice cream cost

Nickels and dimes. When new mown hay smell

Slipped through the distant sounds Of field larks and dew covered

Morning glories. Hot summer wind mixed with

Hot molten tar and Greyhound buses and hitchhikers.

There were a lot of hitchhikers In those days.

Like the girl who rode a horse From Argentina to Canada.

Road machines Mowing gently waving

Highway grass Growing around Burma Shave signs.

Progress was measured In how many young puppy dogs got Killed.

Lazy days spent drinking Cool-Aid And crunching ice,

Being forced to eat turnip greens And spinach.

Playing in dirty sand dirt and Taking naked baths by the

Kitchen sink. I became aware of

Bodies and sunrises and sunsets. Sunday afternoons were spent on The front porch counting cars or

Listening to ghost tales told By my uncle while

Summer thunderstorms rumbled distantly And flashed their lightning in the

Deep South. “That thunderstorm’ll come up tonight.

The crops sure doe need the rain.” Yes, I’ve been awakened

By the midnight storms and The frightened kinfolk and

Kerosene lamps and high powered Flashlights and talks of

Now gone rains. Innocently I pursued fireflies and

Rode tricycles and bicycles While stumbling through grammar school

And report cards. Those were the summer days

And working in the hay And the dress-up Sunday schools

And hell-fire revivals Where people wiggled in the floor

And spoke in tongues And young girls smiled on back benches

And the boy’s pants stayed hot. But I did not understand.

There were first days at school,

Paper sack lunches, the Smoky smell of winter clothes and

People raking and Burning leaves.

But snows came and Highway 11 was Closed. And the woods were filled and full of Snow

And axes and warm mittens. Soft flannel pajamas mixed with

Pot-bellied stoves and snow cream. Easter Sunday was always a

Big day. Seven year locusts always Sang on the seventh year

As I dreamed of building roads And in the morning being awakened to

The distant sound of road machines In the east.

The freeway was coming through. Clearview Café and Smoke-Tree died Along with old man Cox’s store and

Hood’s Grocery. Some of the back seat church kids

Even married and moved away. Highway 11 died when Greyhound buses

And Van Camps freight stopped Running the line.

I also have moved my dreams to Another highway

But memories still sometimes Get in the way.

ENDLESS SUMMER

Summer’s grasshoppers Sing September’s song

Along hot highways Leading into December Stars move farther away

Preparing for long winter nights When the big yellow moon Will float slowly between The barren branches of

Large oaks. Memories fly by

Like dying butterflies Winging their way to death.

MOTHER OCEAN

I have waited So long to see

You. To feel your Waves and

Taste your salty Air.

Now, in the soft Silence of the

Morning I watch you

Rolling toward me In the yellows and Purples and blues

After the beach Has been swept by

Your tide And the shells

Lay lifeless on the shore. You roll there

Before me Bashful and powerful,

Silent and roaring, Calling and yet

Cautious. I left my

Footprints in your sand.

TRUTH

I awoke this morning Listening intuitively

To the rain Outside.

I lay back unconcerned As the lachrymiform

Dream Slid down the mental

Windows Of my mind.

Sliding all the way Down

And splashing on the Gutter of Death.

THE TABLE

Empty wine bottles, Food left on now

Dirty plates. Fortune cookie notes, Butter smeared knives And crumpled napkins,

Once clean, Now soiled.

The laughter, Now silent,

Floats back to me Within the smoke of

A smoldering cigarette. People come and People go within

This life. All, the Mystic Travelers and Parting words

Become more important Than what has been said before.

The players slowly amble homeward Continuing to play life’s little games

And trying to place Curtain falls on the backstages

Of their minds. Food scraps get tossed out to the dogs And worthless remnants of conversation

Fall like boulders Against the once secure flood,

The mind. There is more time in this life

For afternoon dinners And senseless talk.

There is more time in this life To reach out

And hold

And love, But the feast is soon over

And someone has to pick up the tab.

STREET WALKERS

They come slowly Down the sidewalk

‘Neath the oaks and willows Their black bodies glistening in

The early morning sun. Vibrating with energy,

Strong, soft legs shimmer in the Alabama heat. Movement –

My eyes drawn like a magnet The vibrations

Echo off their damp, Moist bodies. Stopping now

Before the light The black girls smile,

Knowing I have seen.

SOUTHERN EVENING

Cicada sing Long, drawn out songs

While a large green Grasshopper

Clings to the bamboo Curtain.

The wind shakes itself As an opulent red sun

Sinks on the Heat shimmering horizon.

An automobile Sounds in the distance.

The summer night Begins.

ALABAMA WORKERS

I drive this road, The hot July air

Fills the car. My mind,

Trying to get back To reality,

A place to be. I see my roots

Now among Alabama people, Plastered against the Mountains or sitting

Amid the valleys They use and mold

The earth. I catch glimpses of life

Here among the farmer, the Laborer and mill worker.

They etch themselves inside my mind.

SUNDAY MORNING SUNRISES

Yes, I’ll go down to the sea, The deep green sea.

Hearing the sea gulls and the surf The musical waves that engulf me.

I’ll feel the wind in my hair, I’ll taste the salt in its’ kiss

And watch old men with large pipes As they fish.

There with the cool wind, Water ‘neath my feet

Sunday morning sunrises Along the sea.

SUMMER AFTERNOON

The flying dust Rising from August fields

Is blown by the evening breeze. The Sun,

Grows smaller As it sinks

Behind gasoline powered tractors. Clouds, from some

Western state Descend upon us

Brought by a jet stream. The wind

Moves the bamboo curtain Hanging on the porch.