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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 ..
Copyright March 31 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Jon Shierling Jan 2014
Today, sitting in the library waiting for it to be time to go to work, I've decided that its a good time to write about some things that I've been keeping to myself for a while. Victor Frankl has convinced me to live as if I've done it already and now can make good on my promises and make different choices than the last go round (which was one helluva doosie). I should be looking for a house instead, or maybe hunting for that second job I need to take. But what's the difference between one house or another, or even a cardboard box out by the mall if there's no eventual destination one has in mind. So I'm going to write down my dream for the future, a wholesome dream I keep very close because its so real to me. There are other dreams of course, other lives I'm tempted to seek and have tried in the past to actualize, mostly out of a desire to escape, to be somebody else. But this dream is the real one, the true one that is all the more precious because it can belong only to me, whereas sailing the high seas or tramping through unexplored jungles could belong to anybody with a mind to do it. My dream has more to do with minor things, things that don't take herculean courage or a doctorate in linguistics. Things like taking the kids out for ice cream on a hot day. Or piling everybody into the car for the drive from our house in Floyd up to Woodstock for the Shenandoah County Fair. Singing all the old songs and some of the new as we wind our way through the Blueridge. Maybe somebody has a summer cold so Charlotte and I have to hunt for tissues in all the places where they might be, and then find them in the back with the kids where we put them in the first place. And then finally getting there, late probably, so that everybody else is already at the grounds and we can hear the announcer at the cart races as we unpack the car. And then there they all are, my Mother and Stepfather, Uncle and Aunt and Cousins and the Grand Parents deciding to come again this year, though its getting hard for them to make the drive from Virginia Beach. So we all head up to the track to catch the last of that days races, covered in sweat and bumping into random people, a four-year old perched on my shoulders, not just because it's fun for him but also so Charlotte and I can keep track of the other children easier. I can see the magic in their faces as we waddle around the pavilions full of animals for the livestock auctions. Our six year-old daughter gravely points out to her mother that there's something wrong with that turkey in the pen, it's the wrong color. She has only ever seen the wild turkey's around our place, never a domestic white. Charlotte shoots a quick smile at me, trying hard not to laugh as she explains to our daughter why not all turkey's are as pretty as the ones that live near our house. And then before ya know it the sun's going down and it's almost time for the live music to start. So we all wind up in the bleachers again, listening to old country singers whose songs I haven't heard in thirty years, sharing funnel cakes and singing along while I'm wiping powdered sugar off of little noses with my shirt. I could go further, talk about how we decided to keep heading North after the fair, up on to Skyline Drive and Front Royal, and visited the old Firestation where my Great-Grandfather volunteered in the days before there was a McDonald's. But I won't flatten things with too many details. They're not that important sometimes anyway.  What is important, is that when I see these things in my mind's eye, they're clear as if they've already happened. As if I'm remembering the night at the fair with my Family last summer, and writing about it now after I'm done grading papers and the children are getting ready for bed. There's splashing and laughing from a bathroom where it sounds like there's less bathing and more tickling going on, Charlotte laughing hardest of all. I write of this, and I know deep down inside, that I've found something I lost a long, long time ago. As if a lost civilization's Golden Age is sailing out of the mists, building's putting themselves back together and beautiful trees growing right before my eyes. I've got to go now though, I need to help Charlotte dry off the kids and then show the youngest how to make the best PB&J; sandwich ever, the same way my Dad taught me.
Do harbor love for chatty Mockingbirds
Lead vocal of the Piney-wood , carrying
the news o'er the red hills , the peanut
farm and blue water grist mill
An audible question from the first morning
Chickadee , a quick retort from a Cardinal
in a Mimosa tree , sail the tepid current
mighty Blue Heron as Cottontails quietly feed the
Red Clover shelf , chirping Bobwhite graze withered , October
corn as iron vanes portend the coming of the Blueridge storms
Copyright October 1 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
I paused to settle down for a moment , to face the incoming breeze , to briefly rest ..  As it began to swirl about me retrospection scrolled through my weary mind , thoughts of the March runaway and his life left behind ...The vociferous purveyor of forgiveness mute and dazed ..To drift across bittersweet periods , to fearfully walk in the tracks of insecurity and the minds malaise ...
Let youth represent Spring , may the child play in the bounty of April and May ..
Recall springtide as the poet , born of creativity , yellow butterflies and red roses ... June befit the Bride  , the month of love and laughter , the awe inspiring song of Turtle Dove , the Crows whimsical banter , the Mockingbird and the morning Fig ..
Attain the language writ upon the midday firmament , the voice of turbulent rivers .. The answer beheld , expressed over Sunflower field and Blueridge Mountain .. Forever ..
Copyright April 8 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson *All Rights Reserved
At the equilibrium of land and wave
Along granite jetties in battle -
with the ebbed blue sea
Across the misted olive waterfall terminus
Basking in the glory of the Almighty
from Blueridge escarpments , creek narrow tower
and river divide* ....
Copyright August 17 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
saige Apr 2018
the sun set like a postcard
stars fell on carolina
but skipped where we
off the blueridge way
here is where my heart will stay
in pieces
trying to
cram the blood back
inside of you
like stuffing keepsakes in
a suitcase
that just
won't zip
i left our bags in memphis
now this traffic
acts our ocean
i close my eyes and open
these fists
and let them drip
red clay replaced by
iron in my
stars fall into the
another dewdrop on the
we pass and pass and pass...
until dawn breaks like tie dye
it's about time you woke up,

— The End —