Oh how the Smoky Mountains,
And the Carolina Piedmont meet,
Water that carves through stone,
My, how these gentle streams,
The shining rivers owe,
Oh how a hay ride in Tenesseee,
Floods me in a dream,
Deep enough for the Tenesseee river boat,
For all her beauty, I know she will cheat,
And leave me all alone,
The surprise in her eyes,
As her valley wraps my sides,
When I flow from her beautiful hold.

My lord! the Virginia rolling hills, at the base of the Blue Ridge,
And the fathers are still in the home,
Though they welcome me in,
I do not want to ruin their mandolin,
When the Jack Daniel's begins to flow,
Like a bobcat that lost its will to live,
To the Blue Ridge--
To starve away while they play below.

Dam, how high this catskill road climbs,
And span these turbid childhood ravines,
So much trust, we put in rust,
The red and dying maple leaves,
But if we must, return to dust,
Carve my name in only these,
The surviving iron, that spans this deadly stream.

She let's me down, on shadowed ground,
Of the Worcester Plateau,
She is an icey mother,
These hills still in winter,
With lightning during snow,
These broken hills, that melt and freeze,
So no children can ever skate,
My lord! Look at all the lime young leaves,
So tender and ready to break.

Madam, be careful as you check this drone,
The Reaper is a Reaper,
As you bury your nose in your phone,
Watch those blades,
As you scan sensors,
For the souls it stole,
This one sensor won't read,
Come alittle closer,
And see what I see,
The blood mist through the propellers,
In the uncharted breeze.

It's true that being false,
With much beauty and no pollen at all,
Is a sting from the rose to the bee,
Making him court forever,
Until he lies down with the winter freeze,
But beauty is beauty, and is its own pollen,
The brunette still commands me,
Though all is withered and fallen,
If the Creator has deceived me,
With the sin of beauty,
Then His creation,
I love all the more truly,
I'll take him at his word,
And be snared like a hopping bird,
And when I hang by my foot,
Over blue chicory and purple asters on the ground,
Not even her snowy dress,
Could cut me down,
Surely beauty covers many sins,
That enthralls me to icey sleep,
Like the frozen Massachusett pond,
With pastel green sunfish beneath,
For I know he killed to cloth me,
For before a blizzard you see the dance of crows only,
And when the snowfall is too deep,
In the roads only the foxes jump and leap,
But if it be sin to stand in awe,
Then have her kiss me, so I thaw.

You just missed out on the love of your life,
Like a mirror image, a young brunette,
On a bicycle ride,
On this dead end street so summer bright,
Why am I telling you?
Cuz this world ain't got nothing for me,
And I'll gladly give you my gift of sight,
Oh man-at-arms, directing cars,
So the men can dig up this dirt,
This street hasn't been paved since before my birth,
I have no where to go, and no where to be,
I'm sorry your zeal is not pointless, it just got nothing for me,
Let the road be smooth again like at the first,
So the children can ride and shout,
When their fathers return from work,
The migrant can have this house too, standing since 1906,
Cuz I stood alone against the sky,
Repairing this sky-high chimney brick,
Fill the rooms with kids, and squabbling,
Till the silence cannot fit,
Cuz this world ain't got nothing for me,
And these many rooms alone I sit,
You can have my seat for this parade,
In back I will stand,
For any ceremony or holiday,
Cuz we both really don't give a dam,
But if you care enough to fake smile,
Then you replace the distant man,
If you have a cause, about a far flung plight,
Then speak on, I will be silent,
As the clouds at chimney height,
And if you have poolside memories,
Or a loving embrace to recall,
By all means, hang them on my empty halls,
Cuz this world ain't got nothing for me,
But to repair this house so dam tall,
I don't even think a memory will flash,
If I slip and fall,
Let this exhile leave,
His lonely foreign hill,
so love and laughter no longer is a dream,
And twilight childless and still,
From sunset being a fatherless mystery,
Like these initials under the window sill.

Upon the Brookdale walk,
My Husky sniffed a dead thing,
"Ah the Yellow Browed Sparrow"
Returning in the spring,
Feathered in the mundane,
Like his local cousin
With an expression most absurd,
Though the " White Throated Sparrow"
Was the proper word,
Now with that help of textbook,
And techno society,
Amongst the mean mugged house sparrows,
I can spot him in his slight degrees,
But if we lose our civilization,
And its lasered blazonry,
I will spot him by his big Ol Yellow Brows,
And that's what his name will be.

A walk nowither in winter's wasted wood,
Finding a deep quarried chasm,
From whence I stood,
A raven suddenly alights from a stunted tree,
Over breathless edge, eye level with me,
Like a pyschopomp with much ensiled underneath,
***** the raven over a quarry that has long since ceased,
And as if those wings flapped off the dust,
Of the ensiled toy size trucks,
I began to look around, in the wasted wood surround,
Everything matched the chasm, in its strangled hue,
Even a derelict station wagon, and through its cracked rear view,
A television set, cooking wares--
Far from any path but perhaps are overgrown,
All reflected the sides of the chasm, even in their ghastly chrome,
Even the Knickerbockers in their amber glass of old.
This site had no Rhodenite,  that much sought Stone of Love,
No Roxbury Pudding nor Chocolate Garnet were among,
Only the Granite Moonlit Rose,
And all her blushing has succumbed.
So I took the lightless amber,
And threw it into the blank dumb deep,
" Who are you, what you cannot speak?"
I impugned and laughed off the quarry,
And continued on to leave,
And when I would have thought the glass hit bottom,
I felt tracked and not alone,
In the corner of my view,
With amber eyes now sunlit gold,
A fox, furred in granite, of the silver blue Breathless Rose.