Our Paradise
I longed to live where I was born Near the pasture where furry lambs were shorn As Rhody contentedly grazed all day Slurping cool water, gobbling sweet hay While his good eye lolled At the children who rolled Down the hill to where the meadow lay- Frolicking about in their natural paradise.
No city or country dwelling place Fills me with peace like the open space Where I grew amid potatoes and corn Without whose visage I waxed forlorn. From atop whose barn I looked about And in the distance heard the shout Of gleeful Cliff whose calf was born Within the circle of our paradise.
Always the pull of the live oak tree Resplendent in her towering majesty Upon whose dry, gray, corrugated bark Swiftly alighted the flitting skylark- The bees buzzed the drooping sunflowers While Papa snoozed away the sunlit hours Where cooling oyster shells eternally mark The approach of dusk in our paradise.
The cicada’s cry which soothed my ear Is the repetitive song I longed to hear When day slowly eased into night In cities where evening was eerily bright- I yearned for the sound of home’s voices Where at dinner we bickered over choices Of who would sit where to eat with delight An abundantly arrayed feast in our paradise!
I missed the gray boards of the weather-lashed barn Whose coffers burst with sun-hardened ears of corn Down whose mountains we would eagerly slide Giggling, merrily relishing a bumpy vegetable ride. When the opening between slats gave us a view Of the grownups rushing to give us our due We jumped from the loft door to escape with our pride Then hid in the brambles of our protective paradise.
The curling strands of the tenacious moss Undulate gently as breezes give it toss And the old hanging swing gently creaks As hours become days that wind into weeks Since I with heartfelt joy spun around And entrenched myself back into familiar ground Where I never tire of the glimpses and peeks I can finally rediscover in our treasured paradise.
Mulberry Wine
Verdant bull grape vines Loosely wound Our legs round As we ran wildly Through open spaces Within towering tree-places Past cackling hens Beyond makeshift pens Where piglets played And smelly hogs swayed On plump porcine feet Constantly rooting in the muck For rotting scraps Of piggy pluck.
We searched for wood To make the fire burn higher; While white steam rose, Hissing from the copper wire Of Uncle Bo’s homemade still. An infamous moonshiner A mean old-timer Whose ‘white lightning Was sought And bought By saints and sinners alike In our dappled country hamlet.
Stern, serious, holstered Lawmen from the city Smashed the gurgling still Regularly Without pity On wild, anonymous tips But only after taking Several long drawn-out sips To test the shine’s Au-then-ti-city.
Those were the days of running Barefoot through briar grass Hazy mornings of sunning Out of view of the hourglass A time marker we did not heed Reminders we did not need In our dazzling hot, carefree idyll.
Afternoons, we found Juicy, sweet berries Ripe, succulent, clustered orbs -Quite unlike cherries - Growing wild around The broken panes of Mare’s shuttered old house. A sad, empty relic Home only To an errant mouse.
The burgeoning harvest, Glowing blacks and blues In the dying evening light Burnished aubergine hues. We shook the trees And tasted our bounty Until the golden glow Dissolved abruptly into night.
Fruit we didn’t eat Or save for a later treat, We mashed Into Coca-Cola wine jugs Of yeast and sweetened water, Covered and hid in the cupboard to Ferment into Forbidden wine For a later, more grown-up time, Mulberry wine time Entwining Your memories and mine Woven on days of rising heat Before nights of Moonlight Amid endless shimmering stars.
Resurfacing
Our lives were marked By endless tides Which ebbed and flowed Between our rides Across the causeway On our way To school To church To town.
It was one of the constants, Like the heat in summer Or the wind in spring Or the money tree Turning gold in fall Before raining down leaf money Upon us all.
There were so many rivers We had to cross So many streams winding Their way Through sentinels of emerald Marsh grass On their way to fill creeks Gouged in between One bank or another.
When the tide was low It was time to go Fishing or crabbing Or playfully grabbing With sticks or a hand The scurrying fiddler crabs Before they outwitted us and In clever dribs and drabs Disappeared into Cavernous holes in the mud.
Sometimes when high tide called We piled into Jack’s wooden skiff And drifted slowly, Calmly, through Weaving razor thistles Along serpentine water lanes. Followed by squawking seagulls, We glided past Elegant long-necked cranes Repeatedly dipping their beaks, Triumphantly bobbing up Clutching Wriggling silver fish In grotesquely bulging cheeks.
The water’s surface became Smooth mirrored glass In which we watched Immense powder puffs slowly pass Overhead. The backdrop- a palette of blues- Sky, cornflower, and cerulean hues Peeked out between the billows.
The images of the past Always resurface… Continue to linger… Are destined to last.
Moss
The moss forges a path Through the low country Cuts a gray-green swath Through the heart of the land And perches on many a tree Seductively swaying free.
The fragrant tendrils Shade from the heat of day Warm in the cool of night Smoking, shoo gnats away Glisten with dew When the sun is bright.
Dry and crisp with age The moss lines beds for Sweet potatoes Or is packed around Ripe tomatoes Before shipping them afar.
The moss resembles But does not smell like sage When confined in a freight train’s cars. It can too be the rage For wrapping fragile glass jars.
The children make corn cob dolls And use the moss as hair It wiggles free and freely falls Into the squirrel’s lair.
The moss belongs to us And we belong to it We seldom make a fuss When on moss we calmly sit For lack of another seat When out of doors we eat.
The moss has wrapped its clingy self Around my sweet town’s heart It serves as very valued pelf In every treasured part The moss has been one true bounty In our lush, agrarian county Indelibly, from the very start.
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