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Browsing Tag: #mountainlife
No ships for me this morning No stroll for me today No bloody marys on the beachNo sunburn on the wayIt’s the tweeting of little songbirdsThe scolding of the squirrelsThe dew thick upon the fescueThe buzzards as they whirlThe mountains call me homeI see them in the distanceThe air has cooled the light has changedThe mosquitoes are persistent My old front porch beckonsAnd I reflect upon this lifeI’ll sit right here with my beerAnd bid the South goodnight…
I had to give my dog one last pat And rub those velvet earsJust one final time before I left my sanctuary And I had to be extra careful walking down the pathAs it had rained last night and Jewel colored leaves were stuck making my way slickThen I stopped to have a discussion with my neighborAbout the woolyworm she found on her porchWhich of course led to talk of the impending winterAnd so then when I finally got in my carWithout my coffeeI had to find just the right song to start my dayAnd as I drove inI was mesmerized by the fog rolling steadily across the mountainIt wasn’t so much the colors that stopped meOn the side of the road to take a blurry picture As it was the way the light was sparkling so clear With the mist continuing on its journey Nothing delaying it Unlike myselfWho had been interrupted half a dozen times already It is Fall Break after allBut I didn’t go to the beachI stayed right hereWhere I belongAnd I thought of how some people get itAnd it’s second nature to use certain phrasesAnd it’s musical These mountain waysSo anywayThat’s why I’m lateAnd it didn’t help that I hit snooze twice…
I’m not crazy, I’m just bored. Allow me to explain how this “seed” was planted: a few weeks ago, I was chatting with a friend. She was leaving work early that day to go home and can beans. This is a pretty common reason to miss work around these parts, at least in my circle, this time of year. Whether it’s harvesting hay, soybeans, tobacco, or canning, farm work won’t wait on office work. ‘Gotta make hay while the sun shines’ as the saying goes. It would be more accurate if it was ‘while the sun beats down and tries to kill you’, but close enough. So anyway, I was telling her I still have beans my grandmother canned, and she died in 2008. I wouldn’t be scared to eat them; they look alright and have been kept in a dark cabinet upstairs where the temperature doesn’t fluctuate. My friend said that one of her wedding presents from her in-laws was several jars of green beans. They’d been stored in the basement, wrapped in newspaper. And it got me to thinking about the life of a green bean. Some country music artists have written songs about teardrops, and I don’t see much difference. So here goes. I am told that my mother plant was designed and cultivated on a vast farm in Oregon, among many other certified seeds. I only remember life since I became packaged with roughly 400 of my…
You ask me what I’m doingBut if you’d think you’d already knowI’m watching the world wake upFrom my porchI’m admiring the sparkle of the dew in the grass like forgotten jewelsAnd counting birdsAnd listening to water dripThe locusts are gearing upAs I sip my coffeeWhile Chester makes his roundsThe tiny lizard darts among my flowerpotsOld Glory At half staffIs still proudNot beatenJust a little brokenFor a little whileNo breeze stirs her this morningA few bees out already Seek nectar from my petuniasI watch the chickens compete for bugsJerking their heads, their keen eyes zero in on their next victimAnother leaf drops from my redbudsTraffic is increasingAs the sun gets brighterAnd I suppose I should get upBut I’ll miss all thisSo instead I write a poemThat doesn’t rhymeThat most people won’t understandAnd I tell you simply, “Sittin’ on my porch…
