Appalachian Writers

Dinner With The Devil

2009-11-07T19:17:00.004-05:00

Darkness bites a quarter chunk
Out of Harvest Moon
Whittling pink, pale flesh
Down to size
Down to size
Down to size

Streams of moonbeams
Dribble down his chin

As I feel
My penance start
My darkness follows suit
Down deep inside
Down deep inside
Down deep inside

Streams of heartbeats
Dribble down his chin

The Moon's eyes
Old and tired
Reflect my own
They cannot lie
They cannot lie
They cannot lie

Streams of regret
Dribble down his chin

A starving darkness
Consumes us both
We wonder who'll be
First to die
First to die
First to die

Only stars know who won
But they'll never tell

Copyright © 2009 WML

Morning Garden Guests

2009-11-07T10:50:00.001-05:00

Inside the perfect purple trumpet streaked with lilac pink
Glittering drops of dew wash flowery veils of velvet sink
Psychedelic gramophone speaker hums with poetry
There nutritious nectar feeds the hungry bumblebee
Gathering pollen for his poem, he hums his humble story
And mumbles, grumbling when I reach to pick a morning glory

The heavy husks of sweet sunflowers hang staring sadly down
Their yellow petals fallen now; their heads bent to the ground
But pinstriped seeds revealed beneath are now a dinner plate
Where anxious finches come to feed and flutter as they wait
Hummingbird wings the bumble’s tune and as the day gets hotter
Sits on a limb so prim to prune his beak of sticky sugar water

Appalachian Apparitions...

2009-10-25T18:02:00.000-04:00

I stumbled across this today and it sure takes me back. I've been thinking a lot about my mountains lately. It seems that when the fall of the year rolls around and the woods are on fire, I get a yearning to go home.

These is where I come from, this is my heritage, these are my people. I didn't know this old feller, but I know thousands just like him.

A friend directed me to this photographer; Shelby Lee Adams, who has dedicated a good deal of his life capturing the true essence of mountain culture. Memories run over me like rushing water when I look at his work. My mind flashes pictures from the past in front of me of faces I knew long since gone but still alive in his subjects. I think you'll them, too.

Second Savior

2009-10-21T00:41:00.004-04:00

There is a special reserve I keep for the dull and dismal hours
When the cold rain beats on my window pane and the milk of kindness sours
The memory is of friendship cherished far beyond the grave
A certain face that has its place in every treasured thought I’ve saved

I laugh to mimic his familiar voice and speak his words out loud
My dearest friend whom I depend upon, alone, or in a crowd
Soldiers do not make profession like star struck lovers, in sensual wiles
But one, who gives, so you might live, his life, is surely worth a smile

The chaplain spoke of a savior as they lowered him into the ground
He died for me, well it would seem, that I have two of them now
When overcome by troubling thoughts in my most gloomy hours
His face appears and my countenance clears bright as a field of summer flowers

Fall In!

2009-09-17T23:51:00.008-04:00

I just happened to look at the calendar a few minutes ago and realized today was an anniversary of sorts for me. Thirty-six years ago today, I was spending my first night as a US soldier at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.

Not much of it really stands out in my memory anymore. We were policed up at the Columbia airport and shuttled to the reception station in a pale green military van.

Once there, we were each given a brown paper bag with two ham sandwiches, a bag of chips, several cookies, an apple in it and some juice to drink. We drew linen and were taken to a big dorm-like bay sleeping area, given about 10 minutes to get squared away and then the lights were out.

I remember lying there amid the soft buzz of everyone talking; too excited to go to sleep just yet. The room grew strangely quiet as off in the distance over loud speakers Taps began to play.

Somehow, it was at that moment that I first actually realized where I was and why. That bugle call's somber duel nature brought on the realization that not only was it used to put soldiers to rest at night, it was also used to usher them into eternal rest.

I don't think I was the only one to have those thoughts as the bay stayed quiet after it was done playing. Our country was still at war in Vietnam and the serious nature of the oath we swore that morning took on a whole new meaning.

It was in those few brief moments of time, initiated by a simple song, that I laid my boyhood aside and became a man.

Cry Havoc! And Let Go the Dogs of War...

2009-09-11T09:35:00.004-04:00

9/11/2001 (Revisited w/video added)

Lest we never forget...

I remember that morning like it was yesterday. I will always remember the intimate details of it; the sights, the sounds, the smells. It was the day that the world changed forever.

I was married at the time and had stepped down to our pond to try and catch a mess of fish for supper. I had several nice ones in a bucket when I heard her call to me that breakfast was almost ready. I pulled out for the house with my pole and bucket in hand, stopping to sit in a chair on the porch to remove my wet boots. The windows were open and the radio was on and I half-listened, half-ignored the announcer talking about a plane crash in New York. I remember thinking that it was only a matter of time before something like this was going to happen. Sooner or later some pilot was going to screw up and hit one of the massive buildings jutting up out of the ground across America...the numbers were just with it.

I went inside and turned on the television and they had a live feed of the events going on. It was just about then that the second plane hit. And my heart broke. God help us all. My eyes clouded with rage, pain, fear, sorrow and a thousand other things all at once as a tear ran down my cheek. In that instant, through all my years of training in the military, I instinctively knew that we were at war. My wife asked me what was wrong and I couldn't find my voice, or my stomach, to tell her what I already knew. I just stared at the screen in silence and disbelief.

As I tried unsuccessfully to choke down the meal she had prepared, I watched in horror as first one and then the other tower crashed to the ground. And I prayed out loud where I sat. I prayed for those in and around the towers, but more than that I prayed for my friends that I knew would soon be placed in harms way once again. Their faces and names raced through my mind; I bet he re-enlisted, he's not retired yet, either...

I got up from the table, walked out the door and pulled my wet boots back on. I picked up the bucket of fish by the steps and walked past the flag flying at the front gate towards the pond. I remember thinking as I turned those fish loose that there had been enough killing for one day. I turned the bucket upside-down, took a seat on it and thought about all that had just happened and was going to happen. It was probably one of the saddest, most helpless feeling times in my life.

I often find myself on the US Army website, reading the names of those who have died in southwest Asia. And yes, I recognize some of them by name and all of them by trade. They were my brothers and sisters and always will be. And I love them all. I would urge each and every one of you to go there for a visit and pay your respects. They are the last barrier between you and the next attack. They gave 'that last full measure of devotion' for you and me.

I think I might take my pole and a bucket down to the pond this morning and try to catch a mess for my friends. I know that they would like that, taking comfort in the fact that they are not forgotten. God love 'em.

Alan Jackson More CMT Music More CMT Music Videos

Labor Day

2009-09-04T12:01:00.004-04:00

When George Pullman invented sleeping cars for the railroad back in the 1850’s he build a name for himself, but he also he built an entire town.

If you happened to live in Pullman, Illinois in the 1880’s chances are real good you worked for George Pullman. And if you worked for George Pullman, you probably lived in a George Pullman row house. And you probably went to a Pullman Church and did your shopping locally at a Pullman market.

All was cozy for a little while, but eventually the recession hit and he laid off a large percentage of his workforce. He reduced the wages of the remaining employees. I thought automated deductions from pay was perhaps something new to our era, but he was doing it way back in the 1880’s. If you worked for him, your rent was taken out of your check before you saw it. With the high rent and low pay this didn’t sit so well and his employees began walking out.

When Pullman workers joined the American Railroad Union and began striking and boycotting, President Grover Cleveland called the strike a crime. He deployed the Army to break the dispute. When the strike was officially declared over, the employees promised not to unionize again and this remained true until the great depression.

"The day for which the toilers in past centuries looked forward, when their rights and their wrongs would be discussed...that the workers of our day may not only lay down their tools of labor for a holiday, but upon which they may touch shoulders in marching phalanx and feel the stronger for it." ~ Samuel Gompers, head of the American Federation of Labor 1898

Calling All Poets!

2009-08-29T12:12:00.003-04:00

Calling all Poets:

I have created a new website for poets to share their work in a friendly and helpful community of writers. We are a family oriented website. The site is just as much about love and caring, truth, peace and happiness as it is poetry. I care very much for each and every member of this community and I am offering you an opportunity to contribute to the beauty of this environment. I do hope you will accept my humble invitation and join us. Mike Lawson has graciously offered his endorsement of this new site and I am very grateful to my dear friend to be able to share this here with you at Appalachian Writers. Here is the link and I look forward to seeing you there and sharing our love of poetry.

http://thepoetsparlor.ning.com/ Thank you for your time and consideration. Sincerely, Fabian G. Franklin- Site creator and poet.

Poet Farmer

2009-08-22T16:07:00.001-04:00

He scratches a scruffy cheek with dirty fingernails
Squints into the steam of his fresh black coffee
Bending stiff extensions on brown calloused hands
He loops two securely through his favorite mug

On a computer screen run little characters like black ants
His tapping fingers send them scurrying all in one direction
He spent the day cultivating fields; wheat and barley
Now he fertilizes a crop of words with weary sighs and caffeine

Thoughts tumble through his mind like hay through a baler
These; tied and stacked, are put aside for livestock feed
The animal of creativity bellows from the fence
The good poet farmer answers to its ever growing need

Fields begin to blossom on the liquid crystal display
Fruit is hanging on the vines; hopefully full and lush
Wonders as he often does when hauling produce to market
Who will partake of his sweat, tears and sometimes blood?

Weary yawns come longer with greater regularity
The field brought to harvest, his sunburned neck is tired
He looks despondent into the cold dregs of his cup then up
And smiles at a new creation laid out in perfectly printed rows

Wicks in Wax

2009-08-19T12:42:00.003-04:00

I came here on this autumn night
To say a prayer by candlelight
I came to read the words in stone
Reminding me I am alone

I cannot count the tears I’ve cried
The years pass quickly since you died
The sweetest song I ever heard
Lies buried here beneath the dirt

The magic music ceased to play
The morning that you passed away
Who knows if love continues on
When hope and faith are dead and gone

Who knows if we shall meet again
Or if you’ll know your long lost friend
I say my prayer and turn to go
By now my flame is burning low

I only know the cold hard facts
Our lives are only wicks in wax
Beneath this stone that bears your name
You lie alone without a flame

First jewel in the Triple Crown

2009-08-17T23:32:00.001-04:00

Whatever it was

which snatched her up

barred high horses and hay,

she rolled from the mount smiling that day

watching the wild ones run away.

Home for the Harvest

2009-08-16T11:49:00.007-04:00

We are in the middle of Dog Days here and it's hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. But it won't last long. It signals the beginning of the harvest for farmers here in Kentucky and across the Midwest.

Millions of pounds of burley tobacco will be cut over the next month and hung in barns to cure to a deep red color before stripping and baling it for market in Oct-Nov. Even if you don't use tobacco, the musky, earthy smell of cured tobacco in a barn leaves a taste in your nostrils and gets in your blood. It forms as a habit and calls you back to it every autumn.

Spring calves are pulled off their mothers and weaned, wormed and given their final round of shots. They are put on feed to bulk them out before going to market in 2-3 months. Seed stock bulls and heifers are cut from the herd and put on special feeds to bulk them up as breeders in the Spring.

Final cuttings of alfalfa and grass hays are harvested and stored away for winter. I have one field in Sudan-Sorghum hybrid grass to cut yet and then sew it back to wheat for Spring hay.

Thousands of acres of corn are being chopped as silage and put in silos for winter feed (especially on dairy farms as it is a high energy feed to produce more milk in winter). The remainder of the corn will be harvested as grain in Sep-Oct followed by the soybean harvest in Oct-Nov. Wheat was harvested back in July (if it was raised for grain, May if for hay).

But it's not all hard work to pay the bills; some of it is fun stuff as well in the Fall.

Right now is the last harvest of light, clear sweet summer honey before the asters bloom (and the bees begin to make a dark, strong tasting honey from the necter). Sorghum cane is cut and run through mills and winter stores of molasses are made. You can buy either of these commercially, but it's just not the same quality when mass produced for commerce as it is when made by hand locally.

Apples are getting ripe all over and their harvest has begun. Apple pies, cobblers, jellies and butters will soon be the order of the day around these parts. (Not to mention the distilling of a bit of good ol' hard cider for those who like a sip of such by the fireplace in winter.)

Pawpaws, also known as "Appalachian bananas," are also in season right now. They grow wild and many folks make preserves and such from them. Persimmons will follow in Oct and are ready after the first hard frost (if you try them before then, they are so sour your pucker will almost make your lips bleed.)

Gardens are winding down and the last thrust of sweet corn, green beans, tomatoes and the like are being harvested and canned or frozen for winter. Pumpkins and other squashes are also ready for the harvest now through first frost. I usually can or freeze all I want and bust the rest on the ground for the cattle; they love them and it's a very high energy food that increases their gains of fat against the pending winter.

I will turn a fallow plot to put out some turnips this week, I suppose, as they can be harvested after the frost. Maybe set out a few cabbages, too, for good measure. Potatoes and sweet potatoes will be dug, dried and stored away for use this winter.

Sep-Dec is the social season as well in our farming community. The other nine months people are too busy with their own work to waste much time yakking and yammering around. You will see groups of men, women and children all gathered to trade work, news and stories with their neighbors throughout the harvest. Moving like roving bands from one farm to the next until the harvest is done across the community.

It is where the fabric of our heritage is quilted together and passed on to the next generation. It is where a strong work ethic is etched into the character of our youth. It is also where lifelong friendships are forged (sometimes leading to marriage somewhere down the road)

Technologies and techniques in farming are exchanged. Barters are often made as a form of local currency; lumber will be traded for livestock or feed, hunting dogs will be traded for a good rifle, a rare pocketknife may be traded against some other heirloom or five gallons of sorghum or honey. More than one new business venture has been born over a stripping room table in a tobacco barn.

By the first of December, things are slowing down a good bit. Loose ends and chores are tied up and finished in preparation for the end of the year. People get together around stoves in little country stores, around fires in hunting camps and around dinner tables in warm houses.

Men move to the den to talk of men's things, sip something and smoke while women drift off to discuss whatever it is women discuss (probably conspiracies to make men behave better, but I can't swear to it).

There are many in modern society that would see this as archaic, maybe sexist, but we don't. We are simple enough to understand that men and women are just different; it's a natural law. You can't break natural laws, only break yourself against them. Even in a complicated society, the social needs of men and women, while equal in life, are as different as their genders.

Children find something to amuse themselves; just glad for a playmate that doesn't have fleas. The olders boys and girls sneak of in search of mistletoe to park under (or so I've heard).

It's also a time of great reflection and recollection of those who have gone on before us. It is where children sit around on the floor and listen wide-eyed at tales of the way things were "back when I was growing up" or "back in Grandpa's day." Morals and traditions are taught. They learn about their ancestors they never met and of history to pass it along to their children when the time comes. We don't raise children here, we raise men and women.

Collectively, we take a break from about mid-December until the first week of the New Year. It is a time for friends and family.

The cycle then starts over: there are plans to be made, seed to order, new regulations and training to learn, and equipment to service before planting time in April-May. Calves begin dropping in Feb-Mar and that must be monitored for signs of calf-pulling or other forms of distress. Cattle are caught up and worked in preparation for release back on pasture and the breeding season. And on and on it goes, but soon (sooner every year that passes it seems), it will be August again and Christmas right around the corner.

There is plenty to be said for the urban life, with it's opportunities and convenience, I suppose. But for me, none of that could ever replace the sense of belonging I have right here.

Dog Days...

Death of the Marienettes

2009-08-03T12:16:00.003-04:00

Yesterday left on a train
Ragged old suitcase
Clutched in its hand
Packed with faded hopes
And tattered dreams
To retire as memories

Pin-point predictions
Of history are made
By those not there to live it
Tales built on agendas of fear
The new playwright needs
To move the puppet's limbs

Freedom bought with men's blood
Is quickly wiped away
As the sponge of tyranny
Sops up the remaining drops
Of lives, liberties and happiness
Before eyes glazed with hopium

Tomorrow's coming later today
And with it, a New Order
One that brings New History
Of salvation from Old Ways
As euphoria pales, sobriety appears
Too late to kick the habit

Marienettes cover the ground
Writhing in agony, cold turkey
The Pusher cuts the strings
He smiles at his handiwork
As he polishes his Spanish
And brushes up on French

Copyright © 2009 WML

Twenty Years Ago Today: Do You Remember Where You Were?

2009-06-16T13:25:00.015-04:00

I do. I know exactly where I was, what I was doing and why I was doing it. Someone else is doing the same thing today while on their watch. The only real difference between then and now is that the current fool's daddy (Kim Il Sung) was in charge while he (Kim Jung Il) was cavorting around the world drinking, whoring, gambling and getting fatter with his countrymen's money while they starved to death in the countryside.

Soon it will be going on with his ne're-do-well drunk of a son in charge. Other than that, it's probably about the same. Seems the nuts in North Korea don't fall far from the tree. Some people just need killing and these jokers are at the top of my list.

Twenty years ago today, I was serving on the DMZ in the Republic of Korea with the renowned 2nd Infantry (Indianhead) Division's 5th Battalion, 20th Infantry Regiment (Mech). I was one of three squad leaders (E-6) in a Rifle Platoon. I was in charge of 10-11 soldiers under my 24/7/365 supervision.

There were 6 companies (best I can recall)in the Battalion (headquarters company, 4 line companies, 1 weapons company - TOW gunners). We had 3 rifle platoons (and 1 support platoon)to the line company. Each platoon was comprised of 3 squads of roughly 10-12 men each. Each squad was comprised of a squad leader, 2 fire teams (Alpha & Bravo Teams), 1 KATUSA (Korean soldier) and a medic.

We were housed in a tent city called Warrior Base for the duration of our rotation through the DMZ mission. I lived in a GP-Medium tent with my squad and our Platoon Leader (2nd LT); possibly one of the best young officers I ever served with (West Point 1988, I believe). He was a good soldier. All of my men were good soldiers, too.

We were locked-in on Warrior Base and could not go anywhere. (About 90 days) If you were lucky, you got 1 24-hour pass to go back to Camp Casey overnight during your stay on the DMZ. The only other times you left there was to run daytime recon patrols/nighttime ambushes inside the DMZ, stand guard on one of two Guard Posts inside the DMZ or on a PT run to the bridge on the Imjim river and back; in flack jackets and rifles (locked and loaded just in case of attack). In a nutshell, you were there.

Our living accommodations were Spartan, to say the least. Each man had a cot with blankets or poncho liners for covers. It stood draped underneath a mesquito net so you were not sucked dry of blood during the night. Your extra pair of jungle boots, running shoes and shower shoes were on-line under the cot for inspection. All of your personal gear was stored at the end of your cot in a foot locker. Dirty laundry hung in a cotton OD green bag there as well.

The walls of the tent were rolled and tied up leaving a 4-foot wall of mesh netting between us and the outside world. This was done because it was the only air conditioning we had. June in Korea is one of the hottest, most humid, miserable places I ever served. I prefer the desert; at least it's arid there.

One of the guys had brought a small 10-inch TV with him from the rear and it was our entertainment center (one Armed Forces Network channel was all it got). There were 2 30-watt lights on either end of the 6"x6" beam holding up the center of the tent.

We had a small cinder-block building for the company latrine/shower/wash room. The mess hall was a GP-Large tent that the whole company rotated through 3 times a day for chow. There was a little shopette-type PX there (about the size of an RV) to get essentials like razors, stamps, cigarettes and 2-beers-a-day. There was a Katusa Snack Bar run by the only woman on post (a 65+ y/o woman so ugly only a mother could love it).

So, you may wonder what the average day for a soldier was like on the DMZ back then. You can read all about it here: I Don't Think We're In Kansas Anymore, Toto...

This is not an official holiday like Memorial Day or Veterans Day. North Korea has been in the news a lot lately and my time over there in the ROK has been on my mind. To those who served there, EVERY day is a day of remembrance. Just know this: no matter the day or hour you read this little piece, somebody is out there far away on your behalf, doing all the things nobody else will do. Just so you don't have to worry about it.

Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down

2009-06-02T17:54:00.009-04:00

On a Sunday mornin' sidewalk,
Wishin', Lord that I was stoned.
`Cause there's nothin' like a Sunday,
To make a body feel alone.

And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound.
Of a sleepin' city sidewalk,
And Sunday mornin' comin' down.

Kris Kristofferson

Probably one of my favorite songs of all time. I understand it. I have felt it. I have lived it. I know the loneliness in every line. It's not a song about lost love or anything, but rather that of being totally isolated, in a place where you don't really belong or fit in.

I have lived in and around some of the bigger cities of the world, but never really felt at home there. Always felt like a guest; an outsider. People running around doing this and that, cars and buses roaring by, honking horns, sirens, jackhammers. I felt like I was caught up in a flooded stream, being swept along, pushed and battered, sometimes going under. By Saturday night my heart would be pounding and the blood ringing in my ears. I waited all week long for Sunday mornings, my personal, private island in this river of confusion. Only when the streets were sleeping, was it quiet enough to find the things I was familiar with.

I love Sunday mornings. Might be my favorite time of the week. Not overly religious -- no plans for church or anything. I just claim Sunday mornings for "me time".

I try to get up extra early on Sunday morning. Seems most other people prefer to sleep in, which makes it all the better for my private time. I can do whatever I want. No phone calls, no company, no distractions.

I like to take a cup of coffee and sit on the porch before daylight. Sit there and listen to the early morning sounds, feel the coolness of the night, smell the damp grass.

I like to watch the sky slowly get lighter in the east and wake up the birds. I like to watch the sun come up and not just be aware that somehow, it's daylight now. There is always a small breeze as the solar winds begin to do their thing. Kind of like Mother Nature's alarm clock. The sounds of night creatures are slowly replaced by those who work the day shift. There is something almost sacred in the moment night becomes day.

I like to watch the cattle slowly stand, stretch and begin picking at the grass at their feet; some 'ol cow bawlin' for her calf to come suck his breakfast.

I like to feel the day start to warm in the sunshine, the dew on the grass and tobacco leaves slowly disappearing in the sun and breeze.

I take a few extra moments to spend some time with my dog, pat his head and tell him how good he's been all week. I think he waits for Sundays, too.

Might take a walk through the wet grass down to the pond and watch the ducks at work there and see if any big fish jump.

I like a big breakfast on Sundays. Biscuits and gravy, fried eggs, sausage or bacon, fried apples, tomatoes, cantaloupe, fried potatoes and grits. And if I can eat another bite, the remaining cat-head biscuits will disappear with some honey and butter. I don't seem to get this very often as the main ingredient is missing, a good woman to fix it. But I think that will work itself out of its own accord and in its own time.

All good things must come to an end, as they say, and Sunday mornings are no different. Sooner or later that phone’s gonna ring or I'll see somebody comin' up the drive makin' the dust fly. I'll realize that my little escape from the day to day goings-on has ended. But it’s ok, that stuff is important, too.

It will be another seven days ‘til next Sunday morning and Lord only knows what the week ahead holds. But no one will ever know what a grand time I had this morning. It'll just be me and God's little secret.

Kris Kristofferson More CMT Music More CMT Music Videos

Dusk on the Pond

2009-05-26T10:05:00.006-04:00

Sun slides below distant hills
Casting long shadows that birth
Silhouettes of living things
Captured silent memories
Of grays and blacks

Two white rings
Circle long, dark necks
Proclaiming matrimony to outsiders
And ten small feet
Paddling between them

Feathered breasts slice
Inverted images
Like a craftsman’s tool
Shattered shards of looking-glass
Ripple to the shore

Darkness prevails
As Mother flips the switch
Moonbeams and fireflies
Light sheet music
As frogs blare a tattoo

Copyright © 2009 Mike Lawson. All Rights Reserved

Men Are Dying to Have This Read...

2009-05-03T08:30:00.000-04:00

Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but yup, we are all dying here. You have been headed towards your last breath since the time you took your first. Ever thought about what you would tell a loved one, if you had the chance, in the event of your death?

Most of the obvious things we do in life are more than apparant to those closest to us. But what about all the little things that you added to the relationship, the little ‘nuts and bolts’ kind of contributions you made, to ensure that it was successful? Are others even aware that you were doing these little things, behind the scenes, to make their stay here on Earth easier or more pleasant? Things that really show the deepness of feelings that you had for this person, that their interests were always high on your list? Have you really ever thought of all the little things that your significant other brings to your relationship? Do you show the appreciation towards them that they deserve?

I wrote this as a hypothetical letter from a dead spouse. Hope you give it a read and some thought.

—–

My Dearest Angel,

If you are reading this, it is because things are not working out exactly the way we planned it. Sorry I had to leave, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. I hope that it has not been unbearably hard on you and that you are fairing as well as could be expected.

I trust that my brother is helping you through this as I had asked him to do in the event of something like this happening. He is a good, fair and honest man. You would do well to heed his counsel. He will see to it that the letter of my wishes are carried out, with your approval of course.

You are fully aware of our property and financial issues, as we shared in everything there. All the papers and documents are where we put them and all is in order. I would just recommend that you continue our policy of invest wisely and spend carefully. I am sure you will and you will be fine in this regard.

There are, however, some things that will need tending to from time to time and I am not sure whether you are aware of them or not. They are just little things I did around, behind the scenes mostly, but important enough to bear mentioning here. I am sure I will leave some out, but I will try to give you the best list I can. Here it is:

Put a pack of yeast in the toilet and flush it two times a year. Keeps bacteria healthy in the septic tank. I do it on my birthday in April and yours in November, roughly six months apart.

The lugs on my truck tires are an odd size and the socket to change them is in the glove box. A breaker bar for it is under the passenger’s seat. I hope you keep my ol’ truck, burns a little oil but she’s been a good one.

I always walk the water out of the garden hoses before I put them up in the Fall so they don’t freeze and burst. Sure save you a lot of extra work around the place.

I try to keep water in the birdbath in the summer, oddly enough, for the cats to get a drink. Damn ducks get in their water bowl and just muddy it up, so I put it there.

Let the first and last cutting of the yard grow to seed before you cut it. I know you always hated this but it re-seeds the yards on its own that way. That’s why I did it. You know we always had a beautiful lawn, too.

Worm the cats, dogs and cows on our birthdays. Give the dogs their shots then too.

Make sure the fruit trees get water, by rain or hose, at least every ten days. Even in the winter. That is when they store their energy for the next season.

I try to put ground up egg shells, banana peels and some iron around all your roses in the fall of the year, that’s what gives you those big blooms and deep colors you love.

Watch for the little asters to bloom in the early Fall, that is when to harvest the honey from the beehives. If you wait any longer, the bees start to make that strong, dark honey. You always like the light, clear honey. Tony will take care of this for you, or you know where the bee suit is. If you decide to keep them, better re-queen in the Fall, make sure they make it through the winter.

Lime. Can’t put too much lime on cantaloupes. You loved those ones we grew each year and that is the secret to the rich sweetness they always had.

If you have problems starting the old tractor, or she loses power and cuts out, bleed the fuel system of air bubbles. It’s in the manuals in the bookcase how to do it. Tried ever since I had her to find that leak and never could.

I guess I could go on and on, but I just need to let you go and get to it. You can learn these and the rest of the things I did on your own as circumstance dictates. You have always been a very capable and innovative woman and I have spent our time together loving you for it. Which brings me to my closing.

The most joyful and special moments of my life were spent doing the one thing that was the easiest to do; that being loving you. Wherever I am now, I am doing it still. I hope you find the time to slip away from things, now and again, to sit with me awhile down by the pond. Let the breeze there carry my voice of memories to you and bring a smile to your lips. Know that you were loved. When you look up on the hill and see a group of deer slowly emerging from the wood line at dusk, hear me whisper to you, “Look”! Know that you are loved. When a soft puff of summer air comes through the window and moves your hair a bit as you lay resting, it is only me kissing your brow goodnight. Know that you will always be loved.

Forever Yours,Your loving Husband

—–

I would suggest that we all keep in mind that we are only one breath away from needing this letter and conduct ourselves accordingly.

Kris Kristofferson More CMT Music More CMT Music Videos

In Egypt

2009-04-28T01:30:00.002-04:00

Quicksilver dust of sacred stones

Washed white in naked noon

Shifting windswept over old bones

Empires rest beneath the dunes

Stinging sand and scorpion tail

Serpent's bite in burning breath

Scattered ash of Saharan hell

Dry whispers on cracked lips of death

Burrows dug for absent shade

Graves scooped out with pilgrim care

Buried foundations pharoahs laid

Hidden by the wasteland there

Lapis lazuli embedded; blue

Riches; golden treasures hid

Sun consuming heaven's hue

Below the blanket of pyramids

Hapshetsut's obelisk unearthed

Camels kneel beneath their packs

Cradle of a kingdom's birth

Carved in ruins at Karnak

Desolate night where stars retreat

Into God's empty and hollow hand

Meanwhile, tarantula solpugids creep

Ancient remnants of an arid land

Retiring the Debt...

2009-03-22T17:52:00.000-04:00

Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.
Small bits of clay so fragile in arrangement,
That they briefly capture and hold breaths of life,
As they walk among other spirits in this physical world.
But the mighty and meek all share one thing in common,
On this journey we make to a grave destination.
The cost of life is life itself and the debt will be paid in full.
When the dun is levied and satisfaction demanded,
Breaths will be counted like coins, and as the coffers fill,
One by one, the debt will be retired.

Only the memory remains to remind us,
That our note will soon be due;
That the owner of the field is coming for his rent.
His reaper’s ears are deaf as stones,
As they scythe the field before them.
Pleas for mercy are never heard over screaming blades.
The debt is owed and due on call, and so they labor on.
The stubble of days and years pass under their feet,
As they cut their path across the headed crop.
Breaths are harvested and the bundles tied and laid upon the ground.
The tally is squared and one by one, the debt will be retired.

Today your debt was paid in full, tonight you sleep forever.
At dusk today I will give you back, to the earth that lent you to me.
Beneath the wild rose on the hill out back,
Where you laid and watched the cattle graze.
A place you would remember seems a fitting place to rest.
Your life was hard but your spirit never faltered,
With crippled frame you bravely faced all obstacles before you.
You lived life full right to the end, with a heart few have.
A good friend, a faithful friend, a best friend, a loner like myself it seems,
I would walk past a thousand men to spend my time with you.
I’ll see you in my dreams at night and when my debts retire.

Poem

2009-03-04T13:43:00.001-05:00

Bee Swarm

The air was quiet in the back porch sun,
save for what I though was a breeze
drifting down from the treetops where I sat.
So soft at first, I didn’t notice that
the whisper was not whistling branches,
not the rasp of twig on limb,
but a droning buzz drawing closer.
Something zipped past my ear,
catching my lazy eyes in the direction
of an approaching swarm of honey bees.
I bolted from the concrete steps,
spun and wove around like a drunken boxer,
swatting the air hastily as if stung.

This roiling fist of wings, enveloping,
swirled instead around a center,
an atomic nucleus, as the queen
herded her hive to a larger nest.
Around the eaves of my house they clung,
rolled in the air like cloud vapors, rose
faster than I could run around to
the front yard to watch them continue,
down the driveway, across the road,
neighbors wondering what I was chasing.
Barefoot and panting for breath, I watched
the glistening coil disappear into the woods.
I longed to sprout cellophane wings,
to follow her secret pheromone trail
where a hollow tree or rock crevice
waited for her and her horde.

Band of Brothers

2009-01-30T21:07:00.003-05:00

(Written just before my son --#3-- left for Iraq in 2007. He's home now, so I can post this poem. Superstitious? Maybe)

Brothers do not speak of worry and fear.
They talk about work to be done,
a physical answer to an unspoken question.
Fix the barn roof, build the fence, repair the toilet.
Solid talismans they wield in the face of uncertainty;
daily prayers for men who know
only one way to control the unexpected deployment
of one of them, the band of brothers.

Work:
To-do lists.
Discuss ladders, nails and plumbing.
Do not speak what cannot be spoken:
that he is not here;
that we do not know when he might return;
that we do not know where he is.
What we can control is here.

There is work to be done.
They mark off the to-do list
that, when completed (nothing left to chance)
will guarantee their brother’s safe return.
Intently, bearing tools of construction
they ward off the possibility that war might destroy
their band of brothers.

Slow Nights...

2009-01-24T23:28:00.004-05:00

He tried to clear the fog out of his head long enough to figure out what had just happened. This was all wrong somehow. Why was he lying here in this muddy gravel as the soft rain fell on his face? Each drop that touched his face caused him to wince in pain.

He wondered for an instant where those sirens were headed that kept getting louder and louder. It never occurred to him that they were coming for him.

What did occur to him was each gasping breath that brought shots of agonizing pain through his chest accompanied by a wheezing sound. And what was that in his throat that kept choking him?

He raised his trembling hand to his mouth and wiped it clean. He was more confused than ever when he looked at the blood-soaked fingers he held before his eyes.

Had he been in an accident? Who were all of these strangers gathered around him here? Why wouldn’t his legs work so he could get up out of this muck?

No... something was definitely not right here, he thought. Not right at all.

* * * * *

This had been a bad day for Dave Mahoney, in fact, it was the worse day he had ever had. It started out well enough and almost ended the same way, until he made a series of mistakes that brought him to his present position in the gravel and the rain.

The first mistake he made was coming into a strange place and starting trouble. He was a big fish in a little pond over around Weaver’s Run and he just assumed that everyone far and wide knew of him and his reputation. They didn’t. Or if they did, he found out, some simply didn’t care.

The second mistake he made was picking the wrong man as the source of tonight’s entertainment.

* * * * *

Will Hanson was a regular here at this little roadside tavern. He had known the owner most of his life and had gone to school with his kids. After twenty years away in the Army, Will still found things here at the Elbow Room much like they had always been; mostly a hang-out for locals that all knew one another. Not to say it wasn’t friendly enough to strangers as long as they minded their manners and acted like they had a little sense.

The rain had kept most of the regulars at home tonight and this was a fairly quiet evening. Paul tended bar as his two sons, Eric and Stevie, stocked cases of beer in the walk-in cooler at the end of the bar. Ol’ Red Man sat at the end of the bar by the door and read the race results as he tried to pick tomorrows selection of losers to bet on. Back in the corner Tim Johnson and some woman Will didn’t know were drinking a few beers and laughing as Tim applied his best efforts to get in her britches.

Will was sitting on one of the tall metal stools at the middle of the bar facing Chief on the next stool over. Chief had his back to the door, leaving Will to roughly face it. They both had frosted mugs of draft on the bar beside them as they talked quietly. Will had just set his half-full mug back down when the front door flew open and slammed against the wall behind its hinges. In the doorway stood a man none of them knew. He looked around the room with a troubling sneer on his face. He stepped inside and slammed the door closed hard enough to make the jalousie panels of glass in the door rattle.

Dave walked straight away to the far end of the bar, right behind Will and demanded a mug of beer from Paul. He dropped some change into the jukebox and reached around behind it turning it up enough to make conversation difficult for everyone in the place. He backed up until he bumped into Will’s stool, almost upsetting it. Will looked into Chief’s eyes and could see a smile start there. Will looked over his shoulder in a cautioning way and never said a word.

Dave picked up his beer, chugged it down and slammed the heavy vessel down on the bar and demanded another. He walked to the dartboard that hung beside the jukebox and pulled the feathered projectiles from the cork there. Once again he backed up almost knocking Will from his stool.

Will slowly turned to face the bar on his stool and laced his fingers through the handle of the mug, clutching it like a glass. Will raised the drink to his mouth and drank the remaining contents down.

Dave stood there and faced Will about arm’s length from him the whole time. He waited impatiently for Will to say something to get things started. That was how Dave liked to do things. He needed to feel in control of the situation.

But Will never was much of a talker.

About the instant Will’s mug touched the bar, his left hand shot out and grabbed a handful of chest hairs and shirt about Dave’s top button. As Will snatched Dave towards him and pivoted to face him, Will’s right hand swung the mug cupped in his fist to meet Dave’s forehead right over his left eye. The sound of skull meeting beer mug made a sickening thud as the glass shattered. Dave’s head snapped back hard and he began to crumple. Will was not going to let him simply pass out. No, Will wanted this stranger to get his money’s worth for his trouble.

The white light of pain flashed again in Dave’s head as Will’s knee crushed his groin. Dave thought how badly he needed to puke, if only the hand that held him up would just let him sink to the floor. Another blow took Dave just below the breastbone and stole every molecule of breath from him. He thought he couldn’t feel any more pain until Will’s hand grasped hold of his crotch and lifted him off of the ground. Still a hold of his shirt, Will threw him hard to the slick concrete floor.

Stevie and Eric vaulted the bar and grabbed Will just as he swung the long legs of a barstool at Dave’s ribs for the second time.

“Will! Stop! You’re gonna kill him,” Eric yelled.

“He needs killin’,” is all Will said.

The two boys and Paul and Chief half-wrestled Will back to his righted stool. Dave lay on the floor and made noises like a crippled rabbit.

“Give me a beer, Paul,” Will said.

“You ok now? Sumbitch ought to know better than to come in here like that.” Paul said.

“I’m fine. I reckon he knows it now.”

“Put his beer on my tab, Paul,” Chief spoke up.

Stevie and Eric helped Dave to his feet and started toward the door. Red Man stood up and opened the door as they shoved the intruder through it and helped him to his car.

After about ten minutes Paul said, “He’s still sitting there. He ain’t left yet.”

Will already knew this because he had never heard the car start outside or seen the lights come on in the parking lot. Will’s life in the military had taught him a long time ago: stay alert, stay alive. He eased into the restroom and raised his pants leg enough to get to the .380 Browning he had hidden in the top of his boot. He tucked the small pistol into the waistband of his Levi’s, making sure it was hidden by the jacket he wore. Better safe than sorry, he thought.

Will had just taken his perch on the stool again when he heard the car door slam outside and his hand moved instinctively near the grip of the pistol behind his belt. The handle to the front door turned slowly and was pushed open. Dave stood in the doorway with a pistol in his hand.

He had not even raised the gun up half way before the second round from Will’s pistol struck him, tearing pieces of his lung and spine out two large holes in the back of his coat. He dropped his pistol and reached out of reflex to the entry wounds in his chest as the third round pierced his hand behind the knuckle of his middle finger. As this round left his back, his legs took one step backwards each and crumbled under him. He fell in a heap at the bottom of the single step at the door.

* * * * *

The sirens were close now and then they stopped. He heard the gravel crunch as the crowd parted to let the EMS workers and deputy through. Dave’s eyes were open but he couldn’t see anything. The sounds and voices seemed to be coming to him from the far end of a big pipe and getting farther and farther away. The last thing he heard was the voice of the young deputy as he spoke into his radio.

“Dispatch, this is Charlie 17. Ahhhh, cancel that STAT flight to this location. EMS is on the scene and have requested that the Coroner be started this way, over.”

After that, he heard nothing at all.

Copyright © 2007 WML

For a Frozen Winter Morning

2009-01-17T07:32:00.002-05:00

First Light...

This is the first morning of the rest of my life,
And I’m sure wishing you were here…

Standing in the kitchen in the early morning darkness,
I look through dew-wet windows over the sink,
And take my first look at the day before me.
The moon is resting on the western horizon,
Waiting for the first signs of the sun,
So she can lay down and rest for a bit.
She’s gotta work again tonight you know.
And these winter nights are long and cold.
She lights the land with a light so pale,
That there really are no colors.
Only shades of grays and blacks.

This is the first morning of the rest of my life,
And I’m sure wishing you were here…

I smell the breath of coffee now and pour myself a cup.
A scalding sip, like a blistering kiss, makes my eyes fly open.
I cross the room and take a seat, opposite the window,
Pulling a blanket around me, I listen to the silence.
The faint tick of the clock, a rooster in the distance,
The rhythmic sound of a cat’s breath,
As it sleeps on the back of the couch behind me.
The reflection of fire from my cigarette,
Glows back at me from my image in the window.
A ghostly image of loneliness,
In shades of grays and blacks.

This is the first morning of the rest of my life,
And I’m sure wishing you were here…

The morning light is slipping in, as images get clearer.
Fence posts, once invisible, begin to appear one by one,
As they reach for the road in the distance.
The sleeping humps of resting beef, slowly find their feet,
As little mouths fill themselves beneath their mother’s bellies.
The blanket of frost across their backs looks gray,
From its mirror on the sleeping pond.
Fields, farms and hills slowly come into view,
As the sun paints the countryside with her brush of new colors.
A palette of pale greens, browns and whites,
Pushes out shades of grays and blacks.

Finally it is done, the moon has been relieved and gone to bed.
The sun takes her post and begins her watch.
Under her warm gaze, I do what must be done.
I shake the blanket from my shoulders and rise.
This is the first morning of the rest of my life,
And I’m sure wishing you were here…

Copyright © 2007WML

Red Winter Morning

2008-12-27T00:13:00.001-05:00

The sun rose displaying a volcano Cyclop’s eye

A giant red orb floating through black licorice twigs

Spewing molten lava into cool pools of baby blue sky

Beyond the twisted branches of burned autumn figs

Birds glow into Phoenix flames; feathers on fire arching

Waves of warmth shimmer and dance on the skyline

Frozen fields reflect the fire in ice and darken

Crimson against the majestic purple treed horizon

Stiff sheaves of bloodstained grasses stand cold

By bulky bales of summer hay burning in the sunrise

A funeral procession led by marching charcoal crows

Leads somberly away into evergreen woods of pine

Cloud embers steam into early morning fog sizzling

Crystal dew like tiny frosted rubies sparkling dawn

Winter wraps her shoulders in sable furs drizzling

Magical mist into the smoky mountains of morning

A Regret At Death

2008-12-23T12:07:00.004-05:00

He stands alone in time his health
has fallen to despair

His mind a swirl alone of fright
of death who wonders near.

His thoughts are turned to fonder days
with voices him around

But in this lonely state of now
the silence, it abounds.

He fears of death, its cold embrace
will make its fated rounds

Upon his weak and fragile form
with little warning sound.

He wishes he had sought a way
to seek to make amends

To those he hurt and pushed aside
when time, it had no end.

He feels the pain within his chest
but knowing death is near

He follows it o' saddened thoughts
of all the wasted years.

© Steve Sites
http://stephensites.wordpress.com/