I have to admit,
I never pondered the mysteries
Of cornbread.

Mammaw fried hers
In the iron griddle
So thin and light
It tasted like
Sweet, starched lace.

Evenings like these
I regret
I never had her light touch.

Sunshine
Floated
On that griddle.

Her kitchen table
Was a magic place
I wish
I could take you there

Dream with me
We will neither one
Be hungry, thirsty or alone
Any more

Waiting on the sour dough
To rise sufficiently
For kneading

The big grand dog
Is laying beside me on the couch
Snoring loud

The laundry
Is done
And put away

The breeze is cool
It will be a good night
For dreaming

There's a poem coming

Something about mountains
And voice

Conversations
Are waiting

Maybe something
About being trapped long years
And finally
Seeing a light
At the end of the tunnel

There is definitely
A poem coming

Maybe we will write it
Together

You may find me barefoot
With my hair stuck up
In a mess on
The back of my head.

You may find me
Covered in dirt
And sweat
And other grossness.

You won't ever
Find me startled.

You can't sneak up on
A woman like me.

I just got
A friend request
From Tom Petty
Over on facebook.

I noticed
He didn't
Have any friends
Or photos.

He's on my playlist
If not
My friend list.

It is a pity.
Music has charms

Or so I've heard

Sitting on a log
This morning
Trying to fan
The smoke of wet firewood
Into a tolerable flame

Nice lady walked by
And asked
"Where is your blanket? "

My what?

"Your blanket,"
She said
"To send all the smoke signals.

I had to laugh.

I only send mixed
Signals

Especially to white men

Folks have been asking for years
About my meditation practices

I finally
Have an answer

Mammaw knew

Stirring milk gravy
In the cast iron skillet
Until it thickens
Just enough

There
is
Peace and understanding

they laugh
because i want to know
all the weeds by name

and when they overhear me
talking to the plants
in the garden

it isn't enough to know
a plant
by name and purpose

or to be able to carry on
half a conversation

i have to know all the seasons
and stages

and guess what might
be lurking
under those leaves

I wonder, sometimes,
if this is how
our Creator feels

they fly in
and sit on my shoulder
even when
i don't want them to

old Bob's ex-wife
had his sofa covered
in some horribly ugly
historic print

(i thought it was
kinda pretty)

i saw a haversack
made out of that
self-same fabric
in my possession

today, Bob handed me
a leather bag
he had sewed with
that fabric as the lining

i hope i smiled

because the other vision
was of his family
clearing his possessions
out of his cabin
after he passed

i'm afraid it isn't
long now

Because
I probably won't answer.

Electronic mail
Is good enough
For today
I guess

Don't call me
Not today
Anyway

I probably won't answer

just me
and the little dog
and a headache from hell

dishes
are done enough

laundry is put away

too hot
to move

and no rain
in sight

I may be
Losing my mind.

The secret of it
Is
I don't mind
As much
As I thought I would.

Every body
Wonders
What is wrong
With that girl

And I sit
Still singing
Snatches of songs
Out of tune

Smart alecky tourists
All crack the same tired jokes
A thousand times a day.

And we are no saints.
Sometimes when the heat
Is elevated
And the humidity
Takes your breath
We forget to laugh.

One ******* on sunday
Asked If there would be
An indian attack
And I just looked at him.

Too stupid to give up
He asked if I would attack
Because I look like an Indian.

I smiled
As if to say bless your heart
And told him honestly
"Not usually on Sunday."

Knife and tomahawk
Are never far away
Though

I keep asking
"don't you remember?"
and he thinks I mean
a walk in a mountain park
my bare toes in a cold stream

you would think
he could see through me
by now

there are lifetimes
behind this one

and if I can remember
why can't he?

almost daily
I am asked
about my Native heritage

but my ancestors are mute
unspeaking

yesterday I was angry
ready to boil over
yet no one
brought me any strawberries

Your truck isn't stolen.  
I got it stuck in the field.
Keys are in bowl.
We will unstick it tomorrow.  
I picked a quart of blackberries.
Had to walk back in the rain

P.s.
Tyson got a new toy.

People ask how I am
Almost every day.
And I smile
I say I have been
A pretty good hermit.
They don't see the hundred hurts
That color every current
Interaction.
I have felt disrespected
And I can't
Seem to shake the bitterness.
It hangs on my shoulders
Til I go to bed
Way too early.
It whispers
From under the mattress
That I am the only one
Waiting apology.
The hawk has something to say
About the whole gawdawfull mess
But he talks in riddles
Around me
To the monsters
Hiding under my bed.

I wrote poems once
About blackberry picking with my children.
They were lovely.
The children, too,
When they were sleeping.
I thought about those poems
When I was stomping teasel and milkweed
In the field behind the barn
With my big green muck boots
So that I could get to ripe berries.
Alone.
Hawk dueting
With the two little goats.
You have to wonder why
In such a moment
That you would work and sweat
For two measly quarts of free berries.
When I was younger
It was not unusual
To get proposals of marriage
For cobblers and cakes and dumplings
From old men who were already married.
Two quarts down.
Several to go.

Every time I set foot
Out back
That old hawk
Starts hollering

And then I get to work
And there's
Another old hawk
Hollering at me there

Just once
I wish that old bird
Would spit it out
In plain English

I don't speak
Not one word
Of hawk

Not even
When I dream

Dozens of smelly pooping critters
None of which belong to me
Are on my last nerve tonight

I have walked for an hour
And a half
Chasing two houdini goats
And I am flat tuckered

Something has to give
The hogs are even
Starting to complain

I always have to wonder
When folks compliment me
On my wonderful
Imagination.

They never
Imagine
That my reality
Is just wider
Than most

She was 87 years old.
Has trouble with arthritis.
Daughter said
Can you smell that cream?

She told me her mother
Was full-blooded
Cherokee
And I told her
I could see it in her face.

She said I had cherokee blood
She said she could
See it in my face

She said someone
Brought her a seven-sided statue
She said she didn't know if she believed
His story.

He said an old chief
Came out of a tree
And gave it to him.
He said the old chief
Said it was meant for her.

He said he would
Take her to that tree
To see if the old chief
Would come out
To meet her

I told her
I believed

Bob is seventy four
And fighting cancer
Every day.

He's had us plant seeds
For four o'clocks
Twice now.

He told me confidentially
That he knows the flowers
Weren't here
In Boone's time

But his mother always
Had them

And maybe they are his legacy.

I found one
Of his wandering
Flowers in the garden bed
Yesterday.

And four more
In between
My sage and horseradish
Today

I dug them up
And carried them
Home.

I don't think
We could forget
Bob
Anytime soon.

And I sit reviewing my week

I dyed my linen petticoat
With cherry bark
And iron oxide.
I have five colors now.
Almost enough
For a box of crayons.

I pulled weeds
And planted garlic chives
And two kinds of gourds.

Hoed the garden
In between rains.

Baked biscuits
Twice.

Picked old Bob
A bag full of kale.

Spun some yarn.

Ground corn meal
With a big stick.

Pulled more weeds.

Started cleaning
And drying
Chicory root.

And more stuff
I can't remember.
No wonder I am
Tired.

I keep planting
My hands in the dirt.
Keeping the weeds clear-
Making the garden grow.
Repeating the thought that
There is healing there
Maybe even for me.
I never wanted to be buried
Under ground.
I have already known
Too much darkness.
But there are days
When I have to wonder
If I planted this old set
Of creaking bones--
Would something more beautiful grow?

When I was young
My mother used to offer to end her life
And take me with her

But I have noticed
That I walk away from tragedy
Without a scratch

Last week I found myself praying . . .
God, you take this pain
Or end me

And there was no answer

But the next day
When the storm rolled in
And my coworkers scurried away
And I prepared to meet the fate I prayed for
My car key flew off the key ring
And under my car
On my knees
Searching for the only thing that could get me going again
I realized the irony of my situation

Ten-4 dear Creator
I hear you
Loud and clear

He said that
I hadn't posted anything new
For twenty two days
And noticed
That maybe I better dip
My toes back in the pond
Of creativity

Maybe he should have
Specified
Something regarding quality
Of said creativity

:)

The last time I had a vision of him
He had gone to live in indiana
And the movie that played out
In my head
Referred to a spiritual crisis
That I couldn't have known
He was experiencing.

Today's movie
Was more disturbing
And I don't know
What I can do
To help him

I dreamed this morning of Alicia.
We met and she looked
Just like the last time I saw her alive
Sometime in 1991.

I looked the same too.
And we picked up
Right where we left off.

When I woke up
I realized
That I must have been dead.

There was no pain there.

The thing is -
everytime that window opens
I still see the possibility
and I want to fly away
to happily ever after.
I think sometimes
that if I learn to do enough things.
Learn the names of all the plants.
Then maybe I can get your approval.  
And there's always a moment
when it all comes crashing down again. Every time.  
Is it any wonder
that I both love you and hate you?

You come around
and smell so much like freedom
and my heart thinks
maybe this time
Paradise has stopped for me
too

But then your best compliment
missed its mark by two miles
which might be a little funny
if you consider all the hours spent
studying trajectory and aim
of bullets

Your words fail you.

We were never meant
to be complete in this lifetime.

I spent the day with dishes and laundry.
This evening wrestling two dog
a cat
And a teenager
On the sofa.
My face is on fire
Now.
Tomorrow may be
A bad day.

I got to work this morning
and darned the sock
I was wearing.
Pulled weeds.
Talked to some folks
about foodways
on the Kentucky frontier.
Started a fire
and cooked
dandelion fritters.
Pulled more weeds.
Plyed some yarn.
And drove home in the rain.

Ready for my days off.

fort manager brought me a plant
this morning
he called it pennycress
but I couldn't find it in my books

he said try
shepherd's purse
and that was there

but the seed pods
are not heart-shaped
and the seeds are green

field pennycress
I know your name
and I hope you aren't
semi-carnivorous
like the other one

I wonder
what are you good for?

he comes out of the woodwork
every five to seven years
(maybe he's a locust)

usually when he's lonely
or *****
or wants to blow his brains out

he kicked the drug *****
out of his trailer
(he overheard
her cheating thoughts)
and so
she went back to his brother

it was a nice visit
he complimented me maybe,
he said i'm not man crazy anymore

I think maybe
he's made his last appearance
in my story

if he doesn't know me
in twenty two years
well, I don't have
the experience to compete
with his latest conquests

it started out innocently enough
herb gardens
and vegetable gardens
interspersed throughout the fort
in various stages of disarray

I started putting them into shape
one by one
pull a few weeds
put the toothache back
pull a few more
plant some feverfew
catmint and chamomile
and several other herbs later

and I find myself
compelled to pull weeds
wherever I am

maybe I need a multi-step program

co-worker started to holler across the way
about my **** addiction,
but heard it in her head
before it came out loud

but I really do think
I need help

noise is a good deal on my mind
today.
I don't mean the sounds
that people make.
Just that rumbling, growling
scream
that comes up from the middle
of me.
I got so I didn't notice it
until it is a little absent.
This morning I found three slow
gray snails on a bush on the woods-trail.
And while I was weeding the mint
the wind started blowing
dandelion seeds toward me
and they grew wings and flew away.
Turns out they were termites.
Ordinary miracles-
until you figure in the absence of noise.

he says he can't talk to me
the reason doesn't really
matter

my son won't talk to me
I can't pretend it is a phase
anymore

the nice man at work
who said
he would help me build the fire
didn't hear me
even the third time
I asked.

really starting to think
there is something wrong
with my voice

I was sitting
smack dab in the middle
of the herb garden
earlier today.
All of a sudden
I heard a voice say,
Well, there sits
a pretty flower
in the middle
of all those weeds.

I'm thinking
of changing my name
now.

I went out this morning
to clear the cobwebs
off the walking path
though truth be told
it was too cold for spiders.
The plants and trees
were more or less
hospitable.
That one **** spit
seeds at me --
will have to remember
to learn his name later.
The pawpaw trees
are looking well.
I greeted all the ones
on my level.
The violets winked.
A woodpecker drummed.
There were no still waters--
but I swear,
He restoreth my soul.

I try to learn one or two every year.
Plantain, mullein, chicory.
I try to learn some usefulness.
Some nice lady told me the other day
That she could never learn medicinal plants.
It seems she had never considered
Learning them one at a time.
I have to remember to learn the name
Of that **** that spits needles at me
When I get too close

Basket of resource books and herbs is in the car.
2. Basket of sewing tools and knitting needles is packed with an item or two to stitch.
3. One cast iron *** is ready to go. Two more in the process of burning off and seasoning.
4. Linen caps and kerchiefs are starched. Clothes are laid out.
5. Pack basket is full of pottery and utensils. Need to ask the woodworker if he will make me a lid and dasher for the butrer churn.
6. Copper kettle is filled with a bag of seasoned walnuts and two tin skilkets.
7. Still working on ingredients for the larder. Storing them in period appropriate containers is a puzzle.
8. Spinning wheel is excited for the new adventure. She said bring plenty of roving.

I came home.
Built a fire.
Washed the dishes.
Took the youngest to school.
I have dogs stacked
like cordwood in my lap
fighting over a squeaky
Yellow rubber duck.
The big one just farted.
Time for a cold beer
before bedtime.

my locker is cleaned out
i have
deleted the documents
on my desktop
my uniforms are washed
and waiting for
the next new employee
tomorrow will be another day
and i won't be here

it turns out
i am leaving
as noteless
as i came

you are a mystery to me
nameless magician
invisible man
work of art that i can't see

intangible
yet so very, very real

i feel your thoughts
sometimes
like hot breath
on my neck

a tingle
along my thigh
when i lay down
to rest

and the only thing
i know
is your words

his words take my breath away
his stars are not my stars
and there are worlds in-between

so i come back and i sit
and trace all the letters
slow, slow

i let my heart wander
just far enough
to feel the mountain air

singing feels like flying
from the pines
on the mountain

his words take my breath away
and i don't mind much

in your poetic journey
you may meet poets
who are taller
and seem mysterious
and you may not understand
their magic.

their words
may be taller
than you can reach.

go back to them.

if they are worth
their salt,
they will take your hand
and walk you through
their lines.

you will grow.

the best poetry
carries our essence
out to greet the world.

the best poems
are conversation.

Dear Emily,

You may know me.
Sometimes when poets read my words,
they call me that other Emily.
You were the first.
I found you when I was a little girl.
My grandmother gave me a book.
And there you were.
I lost myself in your words so often
that I started to remember them.
I took you with me wherever I went
and when I was lonely in a crowd
there you were, my lovely companion.
They said you had trouble
learning to tell time, and so did I.
My hair is chestnut, too--
with a little gray showing here and there.
My eyes are brown.
I don't have a white dress, though.
I have a gray sheer
with white window pane pattern.
I wish our gardens connected
sometime
so that we could meet at the fence
and share receipts.
You might like my blackberry cake.
A cup of tea. A glass of sherry.
I wonder if you knew that you were
extraordinary.
Your gifts not just poetry.
You were a sentient person
surrounded by the deaf and blind.
You saw more.
Heard more
than your neighbors.
I just wanted to say that I understand.
We are alike in many ways.

Your most obed. servant,

Emily

If I could draw it -
but I was never an artist.
What a picture that would be -
my family.

And maybe if I could trace the lines
I could better understand
how I came to be--me.

But I can't separate the smells
and sounds
and touch of it,
pencils can only go so far.

And there are the scenes
that I can only imagine.
The ones that happened
decades before me.
I see my grandpa's smiling face.
I don't remember him
as a brawling drunk
terrorizing his family
after world war II.

Granny smelled like powder
and liked men
though she would never admit it.
She talked a lot
but I don't remember ever
hearing any thing worthwhile.

The one I can't name.
He hurt me in the dark.

Mom Glass, the bootlegger,
who took her grandaughters
on Sunday trips up the mountain
to buy moonshine.
She wore red underdrawers
and she didn't care who knew.

Mammaw, who gave me words.
Who didn't know I was a refugee
but always welcomed me warmly.
She taught me the beauty
of being earthy.
No prim or proper uppity
girls fishin in the creek.
That one brought tears.
I miss her smile.

There are so many faces.

Voices.

Memories.

All contributed something
to the poem
I haven't written yet.

North Carolina poet, Jim Wayne Miller, on his goal in writing poetry. "Growing up in North Carolina, I was often amused, along with other natives, at tourists who fished the trout streams. The pools, so perfectly clear, had a deceptive depth. Fishermen unacquainted with them were forever stepping into what they thought was knee-deep water and going in up to their waists or even their armpits, sometimes being floated right off their feet. I try to make poems like those pools, so simple and clear their depth is deceiving. I want the writing to be so transparent that the reader forgets he is reading and is aware only that he is having an experience. He is suddenly plunged deeper than he expected and comes up shivering."