There once was a hound named Biscuit
He seemed to move from one part of Palmetto to the-
other in an instant
Although the garbagemen were his prime fellows he was known to travel by patrol car or would stealthy trod green , late night chilled-    
rail line and meadow..
He oft rested at the door of city hall
Loved a good game of tackle football
He was the only family member allowed on my fathers -
couch , held the honorary title of second in command in -
our tiny house ...
His 5:00 am bark alerted every canine around to join -
him in his take on the blues
To this day I can still see his tracks to town in the morning-
dew ...

The Sycamores have fallen for the songbirds-
but they refuse to recognize
Gallivanting each hour from Live Oak to Sugar Pine , chasing the wind
Taking their show to every tree in the warm
theater of May
It's rather sad at times on melancholy days

Contrails have etched powder blue skies , the April countryside enhanced with silver tones .. The collapse of reason coupled with an early morning frost , tender seedlings beg the mercy of the rising Sun , bound for its midday zenith ..  Such is the fragility of love just as the daffodils of Spring , a luster of Silver Maples dancing in the wind , clockwork precision of the Grist mill on Cotton Indian Creek . A brisk walk along the cool , riparian shore , bound for warmth , recalculation and the many miracles of familiar woodlands , across quiet bottom land . Alone* .

To lay my head upon the tawny cover of softwood pines once more
as I pry the manifest question of youthful travail and insecurity ,
to garner the earthen tier beside natures vested , rippling waters ..
Churning runnels lending delicate directions , whirlpool portrayals that countersink their matriarchal beginnings , only to gradually disappear ....
To wander the carpeted trail with arbitrary resolve , free of pious
intimidations .. Fixated with superb creativity  .. With the eyes of an eagle .. Determined . Pithiest .. Invincible ..
As heat obscures the blacktop ahead , the shade of home is but a dot in the humid distance , tar laced Georgia roads in the month of August are quite dangerous to young , bare feet ...
Sorghum fields , hog wire boundaries , darkening skies ..The unbounded Sun dragging each step , briar patches line the road shoulder , painful reminders of lonely boots foolishly left unkept ...
Fire ant mounds hide in tall grass , Cow Killers forage alone in Summer swelter , brown scorpions , cottonmouths and the list goes on virtually
forever during Dog Days , legends of wounds refusing to heal , double headed rattlers and rabid foxes , Longhorn bulls turning wild , growing bloodthirsty , hunting down unwary farm hands .. Men turned lunatic
from tainted moonshine , waiting at the wood line for clumsy boys and girls , well water made septic from lack of rain .. Bobcats running in packs for any food easily obtained , including boys that refused to listen
to mother , leaving their cowboy boots when warned not to do so ... This will be the last time I'm caught barefooted , all alone , left to my own wit and minds reserve , Mom and Dad can be sure of it !

Freezing in the shadow of a skyscraper
The newspaper collectors
Building tents to the ire of city government
"Lighting fires" to calm a cold crazed environment
The unaided dangerous , the unrecognized , 'the ignorant'
The belligerent , the political tool , the ticketed and the
arraigned*
The miffed , the rotten , the gifted , the forgotten
Spoiled  , the lofty , the will-do and their atrocity ...
Blame it on the Jews , point at the homosexuals ,
contain the Christians , foil Muslim aggression , the racist whites
the intolerant blacks , the free thinkers , the wall builders
The contained and the "pyromaniacs" ...

You can turn the sound of a busy highway into -
the oceans final destination
A saw into a rare tropical bird calling from the thick -
Indonesian canopy
Air brakes releasing become a noble Brahma-
warrior guarding his minions
Revved engines are motorboats sailing the African -
river wilderness
An afternoon cup of coffee with Walt Whitman
A lively front porch chat with Martin Luther King
Tucked into bed by  " The Angels " ...

Glorious showers squeegee the festive blues , they scrub the trees and brighten the moon
They bathe the birdies and sweep the drives , brighten the grass and detail the sky
Brushboard pines fastidiously tend to the oaks , 'Alabamers' leave the homesteads **** 'n span and float the johnboats
The catfish come alive and the crappie bite all night , the crickets seem to chirp non-stop till sunlight arrives* ....

We've great faith in Mother June , hope for sunny morning -
miracles with myriad songbird tunes
I've shady Weeping Willows to rest beneath and contemplate my viability , still able to galavant the grassy hillsides , mocking many- a -latent physical disability
Privy to dirt roads crossing cool streams , wild Blackberry rows beneath pungent evergreens
Hayfields that reach the painted horizon , a blue water impoundment
with infinite wonder and surprise* ..

Footprints harden in the Georgia heat
Feet cooled in clear running streams
Locust stair stepping the blistering fields
A break beneath wild plum trees
A sample of their sweet yield

Yardbirds , guineas and geese
A field of wiregrass
A stop at the well for a cool drink

An imaginary 'crow nest' from the top
of a crabapple leviathan

Bronze tillermen
Aromatic clods flung high into the air
Layers blindly following the mechanical
mule , dove straddle barbed wire fencerows
Noonday Sun laying heavy , smothering bare
ploughland
Agony neath the bitter blue ..

The dancer interprets the music
just as the poet recalls the day
The water reaches the seed
as the storm cloud portends the rain
The oceans are at servitude to the power
of the Moon
The lonely are swayed and led towards passion
by the color blue

The Pastor points to the top of the sanctuary delivering fire and brimstone ! He proclaims the Son of God "stands among us " , is looking down , walking the crowd so kneel down , worship at his feet , be afraid and get yourself saved !!
Jesus Christ is drinking from a thermos , picking through his lunchbox , checking the time on a pocket watch , not concerned with attending a pep rally in his honor but busy directing traffic at the crossroad of thought , disguising himself as a homeless man on a city sidewalk ! Performing daily miracles that are taken for granted , the sparkle in a babies eye , the full Moon in the nighttime sky ! Answering to his boss just like you and I  , punching in at seven , clocking out at five ! A hundred gallons of unanswered prayers stuffed in a fifty gallon bucket !
Double timing across The Sea of Galilee to get four more !
Tracking the Heavenly Host , handing out work orders , keeping one eye on the Devil and one on Creation . Working overtime to rescue the sinner from damnation ! Delivering the word of God , unloading the freight car of Salvation* !

Along the cinnamon shadows near the bristly,  butterscotch cover of the property line ...
A Barn owl reflects on the coming night ...
Where cold air mimics the call of turtle doves ...
Where obscured Sun transforms Maya blue afternoon skies to silver and gold ...

I wrote you a note in fourth grade , too afraid to send it to you ,  I put it away . I kept one eye on you at the end of each class all the way through elementary school , almost every day ...In high school you were so beautiful that I couldn't even begin to try an talk to you ! Your star , rising faster every day as mine gradually faded ..I watched from the front porch when you waved goodbye to your parents , then drove away .. I've always wondered if you remember me holding the door for you in mid-November that same year ? Brief yet ever sweet fragrance ...

Along the faithful stretch of tensile black ribbon
Homesteads garnished in sporadic , hospitable shade
Sunshine releasing every brilliant pigment ,
summit eloquence in festive motion ..
Botton land fathers toil a plethora of viable hillside earth ,
Afternoon chimney fires season the air with -
-Hickory and Oak kindling from creek-stone hearth
Silver Guineas patrol the forest edges , cordillera
Mountain Deer free themselves from the ******* of the midday struggle , recede into wooded escapes , immune from discovery ..

Smile and lay your sorrows at the foot of the Earth ,
Climb the highest tree and shoot across the blue like your favorite bird..
Grab the Crescent Moon , swing like an Olympian effortlessly ,
Swan dive with confidence into warm tropical seas ...
Swim to the Coral reefs to say hello , saddle a dolphin at the surface then off you go ..Blue seahorses and red catfish , float like a Pelican to the white sand beach ..Tip toe through the green grass , dance a jig , find another tall tree and do it again* ..

Wondering aloud and redolent for that 'lone shade tree' occupying -
a knee high grassy field , armed with a good book , Sassafras tea and countless piedmont recollections* ....

O , the talent of an October day to
thrill and delight , to correlate with the painted
pages in the wonderful volume of life* ...

One of these days I'll become a Jay
I'll bathe in Port Lake everyday
I'll command the fencerow with early morning
original song
Feed on blackberries and pine nuts the whole
day long
I'll nap in Live Oaks whenever I wish
I'll turn Crape Myrtles into my evening niche* ...

Hour of terse movement and ambiguity
Gales rushing to secure their invisible voids
Anchored Goliaths pressure their manacles in turbulent , leaf -
revealed vortices , white feather cirrus highlight the blue crown of
Mother Earth as Elven cool day chant and witchcraft mock
the dying salvos of Lord Summer* ..

Butter peas for breakfast , naked with soap in the backyard , shower in a thunderstorm , intricate guitar without audience ! Three piece suit with combat boots , seeking White tailed deer , inquisitive with camera and apples. In tune with eight pathways , practicing morning metta , quoting Hemingway , lover of Sandburg and Whitman . Spring , Summer and Fall gardener , philosopher , in tune with Dusk , infatuated by Dawn , adventurous as Monarch butterfly , faithful as Mourning doves . Committed to prose and the power of true love , imagination sprinkled with cold hard reality at times , armed with dictionary , thesaurus , paper and ink pen , quick with the truth , compassionate , Southern and opinionated , emboldened , struggling with creativity , searching for his niche in society .

Opening the book of morning to the first blue page , chapter
one tells of Warblers and Finches , misty hillsides and scenic vistas ..
Thumbing through blessings , every paragraph a loving , written testament to the wonders of today ...

To hell with the common bug
Shedding it's skin
Born anew with the gift of the past
Infatuated with the moon , window screen and whispering country roads
Forever young
You're a six legged prophet ..

A cursory gaze into Palmetto sky
I spy a definitive portrayal of myself with
pen in hand , colloquial symbolism
penciled onto would be ancient papyrus
Screaming writes begging answers
Pushing lead hard till it finally splinters
A metaphor for anxiety left to linger
For now* ....

Someday you'll truly awaken
Not tethered to air , land or sky  
Your physical delights on Earth
enjoined into ocean , woodland stream-
and mountain ..
Drawn to the music of creation
Forevermore ..

Oyster white knights of the avenues
Of cloud laden repositories filled with
silver'd showers , of blown flowers begging for
green lush ground
Bicycles , pedestrians , stiff March breezes
Front porch neighbors , paper boy deliveries
Purple , pink and red skyways of dusk
Robins returning from the south , smoke returning
from neighborhood hearths , gas lighting o'er
manicured lawns
The first born star to call my own
To follow home* ...

'Tis Lucifer , the Fallen Angel that defecates upon the rocks , smearing , probing and sniffing , tracking the wolves thrown into Purgatory responsible for defiling , propagating and humiliating the good nature of the Child  ! Woe to canine returning to ***** out of jealousy with a callous and cruel heart ! The Spirit of humble poet and poetess defiled by aggressive tendency that begat corruption amongst her peoples shall face the very fire within the bowels of Earth ! Hades is a jealous entity as told unto men for judgement is swift and ferocious indeed ! !

The first cup of morning joe to the music of vamping crows , the songs of tattletale bluebirds and homesick geese
Frost glows in the sunshine , lighting pasture stubble and winter greens
Woodsmoke covers the valley as gray squirrels multiply their -
tally
Beagles burr in the naked hardwood , a feisty swamp rabbit up to no good* ..

We are wired for anonymity , yet ..
We jot foolishness on paper in the hope of pack acceptance , we strive for
a rhyme , tell of our fears on a lark then fire machine guns into the dark
We choose honor in the light but in the lonely night we just don't give
a **** , we jam another magazine and fire at will without giving a **** who we hit , that's the split second home where mans consciousness truly lives* ...

A wind driven paradigm shift in consciousness
Substituting bees for taxing people , birds for airplanes
Trees for worldly hope , blue sky for avenues of pained thought
Grass , a welcoming neighbor ..  Sun , a warm lover

Wetted grass reaches for its rightful late afternoon -
zenith as winged acrobatic performers delight -
and amaze with great zeal and utter independence
Simple golden flowers fill luscious , lawn borders
Intrepid sunshine breaking free of the thundercloud -
shackles , cool currents struggle with turbulent
water borne Summer air , laughter of Grackles dancing honeysuckle
woodlands
Green grasshoppers with velcro legs , stuck to ***** denim jeans , Luna moths hold curious twixt bronze porch torches where Walkingsticks review the epic day to the chorus of haunting Night Thrushes

I keep a stained glass heart
It's fell to the floor many , many
times , breaking into minuscule fragments -
and shards
I've spent countless days and nights gluing -
the pieces back together
Each little part becoming more and more brittle
Every sliver a lost love , turned into a riddle* ...

Think I'll finish this cappuccino ,
walk out in the yard , **** on the grass
and call it sacred ..
Tell the government of my plans ,
call it a religion and get tax exempt
Wake up the next day and find another -
source of theological peanut brittle to chew
on before I'm hit with another epiphany to
keep the IRS at bay ...

A patch of earth in Kelleytown
Black from years of tending
It tested firm in my clutched hand
every Spring
It filled my boots at times , clung
to my tractor and ended up in my
pockets
It crusted ever so lightly , holding
precious water
It helped to fill the stores of Papa ,
Granmaw and my father
A true friend , a loyal companion ,
a southern crescent miracle , soil harrowed
in perfect rows , life bearing piedmont , fragrant loam*..

If I were a bee what a good bee I would be
From apple blossom to honeysuckle
From petunia to plum tree

If I were a bee what a good bee I would be
From peanut butter sandwich to sweet iced tea
Enjoying the company of the trippers , backpackers and -
picnickers
The honey , the syrup and the *** liquor

If I were a bee what a curious bee I would be
Flying high above a green mountain scene
I see bears , a buck and a sleepy red fox
A maple , an elm and loblolly tree tops .....

Tending a field of sinsemilla
With a bluebird cardinal chorus
A happ- happy guitar picking sun
above us  
A singing stream ,
Mr. Porker in his overalls ,
Mr. Goat in his denim jeans
A blue heron at the well
Whistling Sunflowers covering the Port dale
Purple bud in a basket , cool earth
'neath bare feet , Randy Rooster working
the hashish , chickadees crooning in the
tickled trees* ...

Excuse me Mr. Robin , pardon my interruption , I was wondering with you being so busy if Winter had finally run it's course ? If you had met your Spring lover , working the ground cover for twigs and little what -nots , building a sturdy home for nestlings to hatch and grow in the coming months ?
Mr. Bluebird was far too busy to entertain any such questions , his blushing bride was tweeting directions , every little leaf had to be just so , working studiously on a birdhouse we built the year before ..
Mr. Robin .. If your too connected with work I totally understand , I'll be on the porch enjoying the weather with visions of April in my head ! If you should find yourself in a quandary don't hesitate to come calling ,
knock three times and wait a few seconds so I won't confuse you with  
my old buddy the Woodpecker !!

I am certain that Hill Country Carpenter bees have brewed the antidote for this poets melancholy feelings
'My eyes will drink freely of this potion as needed',
whenever I suffer from a lack of piedmont scenery ..                    
Whirling acrobats , tedious gardeners from Dawn till the close
of day ..
Challenging surprise guest , staring straight into wondering eyes then
off into the aromatic wind , riding the suns ray's with a grin , happily bound for an afternoon of hard labor once again ..
Peeking into my window as if their calling on a friend .

White Pine boxes painted blue and red
A brand new home for a Carolina Wren
Lodging paid in song , harmony and
wonderful nestlings ..
Adorable , mirthful Wrens , make this
house your own forever ..

My adoration before God Almighty , guised in red sunset , deep blue eyes that ignite night's golden firmament
Guiding Pelican silhouettes vying for home , Eventide peace before Tybee Island shores* ...

Callie was a dishwasher who wrote
beautiful songs , she was sowed in
good earth but never watered , a bad tooth , a hard smile
and a ****** up father , a grinding job ,
unable to truly foster , a miraculous musical
mind but everyone wants the next Lady Gaga ,
big breast , 'the perfect ***' , hollow music
with the same beat , someone acting 'street',
someone with Hollywood teeth that'll drop
their pants in a second for all to see , someone that
wants to save the whales above everything else taking
pre-planned questions on Good Morning America ,
a hired hand for the Corporate Gestapo , a Barbie doll
with a low IQ , a jaded view , a politically correct jewel
devoid of true , independent view
There's a Callie waiting to touch our soul if we could -
close our eyes and let the music assume control* ...

The young man in Baltimore did not succumb to injuries resisting arrest .
He was ******* abused by the police. Call it out !!
The church members in South Carolina were not "called home" at Gods request .  They were shot point blank . Execution style .Call it out !
When the U.S. military tells you that civilian casualties are " kept to a minimum" with the "latest technology of war"....You are being fed a load of *******...Call it out !!
Watching the news with the sound cut off is the best way to be informed.
Keeps you from hearing politically correct nonsense..Call it out !!
Every ******* candidate has been sold out by corporate America prior to running for office , Presidential or Congress included. Don't be an idiot thinking otherwise  ! Call it out !
If you think that the public education system in this country is preparing our children for the future you are goofy ! Call it out !
If you don't believe that we are poisoning planet Earth with industrial waste then you have the I.Q. of a baboon ! ! Call it out !!

Walking brown hallways of -
February on a moody afternoon
Disregarding material drama , an eye toward
Port Lake , bursting with poetic -
value and quiet companionship
A ruddy featured friend with blue eyes , clothed
in colorful hardwood and evergreen
Placid , olive waters , engaging songsters
A gallery of riverdancers , bottom muddies and
shoreline wonders , a solemn , religious -
vision of the highest order , a plan as no
other ..
Vivacious , musical and needed* ..

This creek is an old friend , for I've sat at the banks with a gun in my hand . Lifted every rock for mud puppies and crayfish , walked it's bank days on end , as child , teenager , a soldier and a Dad , Twenty eight years ago I  travelled back with my new daughter , to give thanks , for showing me the light ,  and now much older with grandchild in hand I bow to you once more , my dear, dear , old friend !

October evening in Rabun County , frosty mountain air flows into her valleys ...Screech owls announce the rising Moon , while crickets and tree frogs strike up a tune ... Rainbow and brown trout abound in her waters , black bear common throughout the forest ..White tailed deer feed in pasture land at dusk , shadow of dove , brown bat , wild turkey and wood duck  ...At midnight every star of the season can be seen , at daybreak , morning sun upon Moccasin Creek ...........

Imaginative Boreas with water brush , highlights each and every color known to us .. Brilliant cool breeze , bringing canvas to life , singing in the wind , releasing the leaves .. Dusk , child of Seleane , antithesis to sunbeam , shadowing view .. Changing of mood , light upon field , juxtaposed with black forest , nerve-racking , ominous .. Ra awakened by Erebus , God of night  , to summon the Earth of impending first light !!

Weekend watercraft launch across blue bay waters ,
dolphins leading family and sailor out to awaiting nautical arms
Great Herons stand in silent royalty as sandpipers -
scurry their harbor home , enthralling the romantic -
fervor of Charleston , flickers of blessed creativity ,
the endearing gifts of maritime congeniality
Knock thrice upon the Atlantic doorway , write a song
of the placid waterway , count the Brown Pelicans that
ride criss-crossing zephyrs , pen your Carolina wonderment to
last forever* ...

A beautiful tune plays on the radio and there you are ,
You're with me at the lake , city park , grocery store ,
Guided my hand when I planted our Spring garden , the song of Cardinal , Bluebird and Robin .. The blanket I hold tight in middle of night ,  glow in my heart , Dogwood , morning light .....Enchanting , mysterious Harvest Moon , every Butterfly that meanders in June .....My hopes , the whirl of a ballerina , the choreography of the river dancer ....With every twinkle of light in the nighttime skies , point , marvel at your sweet brown eyes ......

Calamum et gladium ! Sally forward debilitated artist in various permutations , abnegated and incessant ! In simultaneous battle between thought and creativity ! Such is the day for the architect of Spoken Word........

The three o'clock shift empties , fills the parking lot
Factory people heading for cars , some on foot
The war is over , no ennobled cause of freedom  -                                           fought for in the textile mill , no bastion of democracy  on a hill
Shadows facing the ground , economic yellow lights ,
security guards waving goodbye
Headlight illuminated , neighborhood dogs running fence lines
Stopping for milk , beer and bread , hometown newsprint
Watching utilities .. Paying rent ..
Another quiet Dalton evening , gone ..

Our wind chimes sound like loose -
change jingling in Granpa's britches
He's coming in the door from a day at Scott -
Lake with a wry comment on Bluegill fishing
Every time the wind blows at the house I'm wishing
that I could be with him for just a smidgen* ...