Christmas Eve 2018 A clock tick away from thirty my grandson lowers onto a chair beside me where we stare at the curious chiaroscuro of Christmas lights blinking in a pattern as undetectable as the reasons for his diagnosis. He sips air with the feeblest exertion of swamp-diseased lungs. SomeContinue Reading
Capturing a misty Blue Ridge morning, we scuttled uphill, down dale, taking up trails, traipsing through dew-covered fields, and slipped off, passing untamed hours of existence. We rested near calm lakes roused by walleye’s sporadic splash, or bluegill’s breath bubbles or striders atop the water or dew-dripped sprinkles pit-patting aContinue Reading
Protection Bricking the house against the happy jaws of wolves, my father and his tawny hired man, backs drawn deep in conspiracy, slapped mortar onto trowels, eyes migrating to as distance beyond clouds. Heat swam around them, requiring the huge delusion of some believable project to produce it. Neither spokeContinue Reading
While sifting through his library the other day, our own Edward Francisco found this gifted poem (below) written by George Scarbrough entitled “The Kitchen.” The Kitchen Broad planks laid on the raw clay Composed the floor. Some had cupped At edges, others at ends, so one made A higgledy-piggledyContinue Reading
Their similarities were keen enough to define an archetype of the Appalachian writer at mid-20th century. Their differences were such as to make each a singular talent. Jesse Stuart, James Still, and George Scarbrough knew one another and admired each other’s work. All possessed shared experiences of growing up onContinue Reading
1. You and I lived nowhere by the river among the frogs, mushrooms, and flowers that flourished beside the sidewalks of our neighborhood. In the light of moon against the southern trees blowing in wind from the west, Your phone and my face glowed as we talked about what weContinue Reading
My grandson, Joshua Bathe, passed away last April after being diagnosed with an aggressive cancer five months earlier. The following is my poetic tribute to him. Elegy to a Grandson Grief undulates like an inchworm and just as slowly. It forces one to use the conditional tense: HeContinue Reading
Betty Brewer was my great-aunt, though only four days older than my mother. I never knew Betty. She died before I was born, killed by a jealous wife who caught her husband and Betty in a lover’s tryst at a boarding house rented by the day. Family spoke of BettyContinue Reading
This short poem was written some years ago when my daughter first started riding the bus to school. Nowadays, she is definitely unmoored from my hand but hasn’t washed out to sea (yet). The neighbor’s chairs (see photo) were cast off to parts unknown. Two Chairs Fading Each day onContinue Reading
Alvin Goins was a day laborer living in Rhea County, Tennessee, during the early and mid-years of the twentieth century. He was a Melungeon, a descendant of Portuguese ancestry. He was also illiterate. Yet, he had an extraordinary gift for numbers, able to calculate sums mentally in seconds, qualifying him,Continue Reading