I'd love to take a boxcar to Chattanooga ..
Life in Macon is a cold , wicked , selfish game of accrual ..
A village of lust for paper tokens , pressed coin and ***** diesel engines .. If I could get to carefree Tennessee the millionaires would call on me ,
the Governor would seek my favor , good mountain people would call me their neighbor !
O' to be in Cincinnati by summer ! The queen of the Buckeye state by the banks of the Ohio .. This town is for lovers and artisans , a city of dreamers and poets unlike greedy , frosted Chattanooga with it's earthly ******* and mean spirited city folk ...
My return to southern charm ..I pray to be in Macon by the light of the Moon ..By the fragrant Magnolia ! These yankees have no time for a man of my good quality and distinction , busy with their daily toil and cold hearted drudgery .. I long for the shade tree , the sunny scape and a feather bed to lay my weary head ...
When the afternoon freight car bound for Atlanta leaves the Macon station I should hitch a ride to a more hospitable location ...

The eleven o'clock hour has crept up on me ..
Time's checking up on the dreamer who's eavesdropping
on the crickets just outside his open window ...
Shaking up words , throwing them on the table , picking
out the coal from the gold and the occasional blue diamond ....
Connecting the Pleiades and the Moon with an index finger ,
blowing a fantasy from open hand across his starlit creative theater ..

Playing life's jazz with fingers on a tabletop  ,
Tilting the balance between the carefree and non-sensical
with whimsical raven feathers of thought ..
The curator of his minds pale luminosity , foregoing
the feast of worldly carrion for a few bits of droll grain ,
god ****** this drudgery labeled mortality ..

And a sense of calm fell upon me as a towering vortex of cloud
filled my view of earthen dusk ..

Trinkets on shelves of maple , hand sewn sturdy lumber
from a mountain in Georgia  . Foolish things brought great
memories , cheap truck stop bells and shells from
the Florida beaches .. Painted rocks brought indoors by grandchildren ,
old coloring books and matchstick houses , odd belongings ..
Carnival days have died , buried in some paupers grave .
She was a foolish Hen indeed , a ******* nellie that tooled
her marble headstone thirty years before it was needed ..
He died in his chair , long before anyone really took notice ,
adjusting his antenna with a remote control , refusing to budge , drowning in his own sputum ..

The hour of the painted shore , wind lashed olive waters
, brother to earth , wind and rain .. What songbird call shall answer the question of the March breeze , which spring buck shall amuse the meandering broom sage .. How the fearful turtle skims just below the sight of my wandering eye . The graceful sigh of Loblolly Pines , red tipped lake lovers , for what has day brought the coming night .. Red Shouldered hawk , the hillsides exquisite ****** crying with intricate dance , wary to every changing movement above nutmeg hued trunks that long for their crowning expectations .. The Suns command , showered in benevolent virtues akin to red , blue and gold passageways , lead brightly westbound for the river as churned lake spaces settle into placid afternoon ..
Ghost of the piedmont forest walk these woodland byways , the breath of the Creek Nation give life to such sacred parcels of heaven ..

Deviant sublimations , the reprogrammed sociopath is now running downhill , faster by the hour , tripping over the final stone then falling
forever ...

Lose your scientific , orderly mind an learn to fly ..
Rename anything you like , re-tool the world to thy
satisfaction .. Sing colors , draw vocalizations and write
poetry based on your first hand accounts of 1905 ..

You know my emotional flight well , now run away into night ..
We're better left in hiding than among penny ante friends that know
nothing of our plight ...

Where has the sunlight gone
The joy in framed photographs on a garbage riddled nightstand
Memories of laughter across heirloom , wooden floors
Benefits of friendship , I cease to comprehend anymore
The hope of poetry's salvation , fallowed ink symbols on yellowed paper

I'm not privy to the politics on this page ...I've tried to stay clear until it finally got to me .. I was packing up and leaving this site up to an hour ago when I finally figured out what was happening .. I have effectively removed the cancer and will continue to do so as I see fit ...

And like the vibrant day all instruments of passion run their due course ..

I'll be home all day come election time ..I refuse to vote for a pompous , egotistical , downright 'Jack ***' of a liar ..

Skirting the railroad opportunity along the cotton mill wall ...
Bagging shards of coal in a burlap sack , to light home fires , to warm boiled cabbage on a December night ..'Tis a blessing indeed to be filled ..

At the hall of the Mill valley I will slumber in peace ..
Beside a confident , cascading stream , underneath the White Pine , blush -indigo advance .. Agin able , guardian River Birch in supplication , among the honed boulders , to claim corporeal vision with Nirvanas depositor of endless dream .. I will be released ..

Carpenter bees are 'playing tag' in the yard ..
A mating pair of Bluebirds witness the festivities from the 'Old Farm bell'
rocker arm . Artistic Sun throwing shadows and lighting up grassy avenues , melding white and gray pillows , turning pasture from nutmeg brown to canary yellow . Raptors seem to lolly-gag forever , committed to the Spring breeze , soaring skyward , taking my imagination higher and higher .. Spiderling's are ballooning across the plain , exploring their new world , carried via warm air current , natures electricity growing in every circuit , spreading the desire of the new day through every leaf vein , downstream from every spring , brook , creek and raging river to the mouth of the Atlantic blue on this glorious Georgia afternoon !

Frantic , kinetic physicality for naught ..
Held within irrational ******* ... A drop of water trapped on a spoon ..
Candle light cupped within hands , fruit flies in **** jars , an open cell door to the outside prison .. Symbols committed to paper , hurtful words wander the brains topography , parables of the lost and forgotten .. Matter compressed into hardened steel , thought to action ..

Goodnight Selene .. Time for a cup of oatmeal , coconut sugar and a buttered biscuit .. A good book , a cold pillow and fifty winks !

Christ was afire as men were lynched ..The hopeless , unwanted , forgotten sons and daughters .  Christ was afire as the black child cried in abandon , unto the night .. Christ was afire as they continued to **** , long after physical death .. A symbol of Christ rages somewhere tonight ..

Sharecropper's breaking the ****** land ..The braying mule at Dawn ,
the cool cascading fall line waters , the steady tolling of the iron bell at Dusk ..
The pull of the ferryman over her inland waterways , the roar of the locomotive to points south , fragrant tobacco and smoke houses , the burning of Winter fields ..
Skies filled with the doves of September , the black bears of Appalachia , the gulls of Jekyll , Cumberland and Tybee Island ..
The turned , fertile medium refreshing the sturdy October air , of diesel
motor , horse drawn cart and wooden barrow .
Late December frost lays thick along coffee-colored roadsides , the tapping of steel shoes across aged , buckling asphalt .. Winter songbirds congregate around late afternoon icy runoff , sun beams break the grip of afternoon fog ...

I recall red and blue paddle boats at the base of the mountain ..
Summer concerts on the lawn , funnel cakes and Cherokee Red pop ..
The view of Atlanta just before twilight , fireworks into the night ...
Adults laughing while kids explored , railcars and steam engines ..

The lake flies are in full animation , the solar deities working incognito ..
Through nimbus blankets of calm afternoon , casual glimmers of
light , our life giver in evening repose , the eerie feeling of 'calm prior to storm .
Gray Heron's work their territories , Hawks fly figure eights high above the Juniper , White Pine , Elmwood canopy ..Bullfrogs settle in for the nighttime fireworks display as the first rumble of thunder sounds far off in the range ..Insectivorous topwater fish leave breakers beneath lilly pads , dance the waters surface for the feast at hand ..

He refused to sing on Sunday mornings , said it was 'not his occupation . '
When all hell was breaking loose on the news one day the only thing that passed his lips was "Please pass the biscuits .."
When the towers fell that ghastly morning he looked up from the newspaper later that evening and softly said "There's gonna be some trouble ." And on the day he passed five years later my gift for gab left for good as well ...

To the guitarist perusing the fretboard in boring , endless combinations , my ninety dollar ticket for a migraine headache in the back row.. For the artist throwing paint on canvas and decreeing this art I offer my head scratching amusement . To the 'gifted hands of the physician' whirling poor people into the river of bankruptcy I've nothing but scorn ...
To the Garbageman and the 'Street Sweeper' my lifelong admiration ...
For the 'Laborer' and 'Ditch Digger' my endearing praise , 'twould be an honor to have a 'Janitor' occupy the crown of my dinner table on any day !

To remove one free floating spider web , catch a Pine seed hurtling to the earth ..  To pinch off a pristine blade of zoysia grass , strip one tiny piece of precious bark from an Elm ... Retrieve a segment of quartz , to flick one crystalline granite stone .. Drop one grain of sand into clear running waters , to utter one sound across these auditorius sacraments ...

Templeton was privy to this poets inner sanctum , the soft voice
of reason in the black hallways of the minds 'Netherworld' .. The keeper
of the latchkey for a castle better left undisturbed , the feline equivalent
to Sandburg , Freud and Nietzsche .. The ear for many a spoken word awarded the benefit of paper and latter day reflection .. A noble 'Mouser of the Highest Order ... RIP Sir Templeton !

A smiling face in the window of wonder and sheer delight ,
Feverish accounts of the confectionary woodland and the lemon drop sunny sky ..
In wonder of every 'puffy cloud' in the morning light ,
A most curious child in awe of 'Cotton candies' devise !

Black steeds reveal their charged breath with splendid revelry
o'er the piedmont valley .. Green , gray facades sweep across a volley of cannon and tooled steel reflections as Plough hand , Artist and neighbor stand garrisoned before their final hours ..
Morning skies are a terrific blue in springs first fleeting gasp ..
Is Barabbas among these warriors ? If so , let him stand forward !

I witnessed the colorful spirit of Dawn receiving our Earth ,
strengthening my spirit of love for the natural world ..

A bridal crown of gardenias , wild coneflower and daisy speckle
her grassy domain as dairy cattle silently graze white washed boundaries of wood , rusted nail and hog wire .. Branch laden silver gray Water Oaks dusted with Spanish moss , cerulean Valdosta ceilings with pink , periwinkle horizons .. Bradford pears grace country lanes to the West , bound for raspberry Dusk , in settled rural scenery .. Shore bird silhouettes led home by a golden Moon across the marsh ...

To shield your eyes from ****** images requires a wee bit of tact ,
discretion and wisdom ...
To peek is the basis for religion ...

To cull ones mouth for the warm Summer rains , for the wine of Concord
grape and huckleberry , for the tonic soured meat of tall grass ..
The cool morning dew atop Oak and Maple history , to overhear the
tall tale buffoonery of morning Crows and Wild Turkeys ..
To catch the midday sunshine , reach for the Harvest Moon at twilight ..
Yearning the freeman's forested religiosity , the captivation of starry
oceans filled with the secret language of angels ...

The curt March winds terse elocution , where seagulls explore noonday menus and beg for meager sustenance . A vision of shadow people cleaving the meld o'er boardwalk divisions , blackened , with crested burnt orange perspectives .. The barbarity of water subdued , I am born witness to warm ocean pirouettes .. Where a mans senses become one , at the final turn on the road home ...

Hill Country Sun is a dapper chap dancing across the morning dew kissed meadows ! He's lighting up the woodlands with his magical , silver brush , highlighting every Sycamore and Maple with his golden pen just for us !  Cat napping behind puffy clouds then returning with that "Hollywood smile !" Heating up the romance within young hearts , freeing creative minds and warming elder recollections in the sweet sunshine !

The poet and the politician thrive in wartime ...
A sense of unity across the country is established as the first bombs hit their target , a stagnant society refreshed , religious centers filled to the brim . Holding tiny flags wishing doomed soldiers well ...

When a man declares himself the winner his associations are over ,
for love is nothing but a brief truce among rivals with friendships based solely on "common ground ."

Sweat filled eyesight , loitering on exhausted knees ..
Stained , dirt calloused hands , overlooking myopic August heat .
Wet flannel misery , white hot Devil Star drying crippled greens ..
Heavy steps o'er crusted , bewildered loam .. Crows riddle power lines , ever inquisitive , question the dying man , locked in Sun confused circumstance . Contorted , weathered fingers on wood implements , blood entangled vortices mired in conviction , a cool spring well drawn from pure fable ..

She tried to enjoy the most miraculous time of day just for me ,
but the storms cleansing through her into a frenzy , with cotton in her
ears so as not to hear the thunder , eyes fixed on the floor with a broom
nervously sweeping the tea room ! Crying out with each flash of lightning , calling "the Kiddies" off the porch to stand under a table , drawing every dining room curtain closed with her hand on a Bible ...Nervously singing to grandchildren on such happenings , I pray for tranquil weather in Heaven for you Grandmaw on every evening ...

A silver pail of crickets turned over in the boat , the prisoners ran for cover to take a vote ... The Aye's would return to the bucket to risk their fate , "Our captors appear ready to leave the lake anyway !" The Nay's would seek limited freedom and shelter somewhere on the boat , beneath a paddle , a raft or in a tackle box , subject to be harpooned and cast into the drink at any moment ! Three young crickets said "To hell with such tomfoolery ! We're off the boat this very second , we'll swim for our very lives across the waters treacherous surface ! Two out of three lived to tell the tale , to witness all the Aye's and Nay's cast off into the watery abyss , the price for giving up one's independence , the very fruits of resigning oneself to be falsely governed , to lay in chains or hide in shame is no life at all for fisherman nor bug !

A young Owl taught four songbirds each day , they chimed in the tree tops with glee and magical , musical serendipity , singing love songs in beautiful four point harmony .. Today two songsters and the elderly Owl await by the window to complete their wondrous ballads , to count off time and write rhyme . Freed to chant atop every tree , revel in melodious joy , to be perched together along the Olive branch for all eternity  ..

To the scientist a scheme ..
For the poet a dream ..
To riparian Eagle the treetops o'er quiet 'brookside' ..
For elderly man , the hope to shop his scarlet horizon come eventide .
To the Pastor , the promise of salvation's candle in the dark night ..
For the young man freed of theologies chain , however , is to lay claim to every star in the twilight skies ..

Let's sit in the yard and watch the heat lightning off to our West ...
Why don't we sip on Margaritas and look for constellations in the night
like two young newlyweds once did
Watch the fireflies from the front stoop , listen out for whippoorwills and tree frogs , watch the airplanes fly by and try to figure out where their going to or coming from
Shoot caution to the wind as they say and just stare at the Moon for awhile , ride the crest of June , pick a few songs on the guitar ...
Grab two blankets and that old portable radio , hunt for shooting stars
and do something fun , relive 1979 and for God's sake be young once more* ..

I've found far more solace in a German Chocolate Cake than any religion
I can think of to date ....

The Old Gray Owl is telling on someone tonight !
A pole cat or a stray bloodhound , a wild hog running around !
The Crescent Moon is laughing with delight ,
cause the Old Gray Owl is callin' out tonight !

I cordially invite ya'll to sit a spell on the front porch sometime , eat a plum or two with a cup of black coffee and 'talk shop' for a little while ...

Writing our names with sparklers in the August twilight ...
Drinking homemade milkshakes , tying June bugs with sewing thread ,
Collecting fireflies in the humid night , the tail of the Milky way
in the diamond studded skies ...

Period homesteads line Peppercorn Road , meticulous working farms of corn , cotton and sorghum cultivars , rugged gravel drives cut into dried , red clay ditches , Charleston architecture cooling her Summer residents . Double story barns with white washed brick silos , picket fences and blue ribbon cattle .. Sturdy Pole barns shelters surrounded in shamrock clover , the clanging of cowbells as Dairy cows return from her glistening fields ... Catfish feeding frenzies over field corn and evening mayflies , gas porch lights illuminate the family garden with activity in Summer well into night , Crowder peas and Fordhook butter beans , Okra and Butter peas harvested free of Red wasp and Bumblebees as opposed to hungry mosquitos , red chiggers and Crane flies ... Silver washtubs on hot , humid nights , the instant relief of cool well water relieving the pang of harvest .. The creaky screen door and porch ceiling fans , white rockers and good books ...Mason jars filled with sweet tea , hearts filled with adventure and young eyes with sleep .. Coonhounds sing to the ever rising gold Moon .. All was well .. All was most certainly well ...

In the cold northeastern flow , silvery gusty moments persuade brown waters , Pines stand tall in her reflection .. Cirrus whips and windsongs
filter through earnest thicket , delivering free voices ... March's airborne delivery divides morning tidings , in question of the young day ..
She hides from something yet unknown , her topwater lying tepid and unsure , shorebirds fly low across the waters tension and temptation , red songbirds answer from each shoreline , belated zephyrs swirl in temporary confusion ..
I vision the writer , feel the cool struggle of verse upon the empty page ,
where solutions lie to many an inquiry , thought turns to Oak leaves
sailing the ever evolving lake , to the brief intense sun showers that garble the poets stage ....
Chortling , avian neighbors delivering previously unheard melody , turtles vying for the crest of exposed Oak branches , godspeed the call of warm weather nestlings , the playful fawn , the taste of May ..Greens , clusters of dead Pine cloaked in tall broom sage , life slowly returning to zero ..
Sparrow , Finch and Wren escort me home as I view rolling hillsides amid the cracking of elder giants along the sandy field road...
A witness to change , to eroding wind and the cataclysm of time , to mud puddles brimming with life .. Sing for the day sweet Cardinal , for blue ceiling influences among amber hues and gray scenes , color my beautiful vision with vibrant , native grasses and natural serenity ...

Pink Muhly blushing in the April winds , White Dogwoods tell
of their direction as cloud cover divides the storm tempted distance .. Native grass sash shays across the motherland dale , seedlings ride the afternoon whispers , boldly appear from her earthly protectorate , epochs born of magenta horizons and Peregrine ballads ...

The ten o'clock hour on Sunday nights was made for mystery and blistering works of imagination and hardline poetic reality .. For the fifty and above , writers that have felt the fire and burdened their share at the crux of painful sentiment , walked the streets of purgatory on many a lonely night and lived to tell it about .. People that can pick out hidden meaning from ******* , that know the difference between love and tantric *** , ones that have learned to hide their cotton candy soul within a steel resolve , writers with bone dry eyes and little time for Friday night teenage angst wannabe jargon !