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Joey Jones Sep 26
Somewhere off the highway
between over there and yonder ways
stands a little church on a gravel road
that took me home in my younger days.

As you pass grandmother's old place
where my ancestors found their stead
lays Uncle Pete's house in the woods
where reunions were held to break family bread.

It was at this place our stories were shared
as one generation met the one to come after
mournful old eyes glimpsed a jovial horizon
finding condolence in the future's young laughter.

It's here I learned the history of my inherited name
as I listened to the tales that ultimately lead to me
of how I'm related to this person who begat that one
or of those who served in the wars to keep us free.

As those stories were told I often found it strange
as the storyteller's gaze traced further down the trail
to where the gravel gave way to a dirt trodden path
that cut its way through Boone's forested dale.  

Over the years I have often made this journey
out past the places of my childhood memory
down an old Kentucky road of gravel and dirt
that finds its end at our old family cemetery.

It is a place were serenity accompanies finality
a small clearing shadowed by surrounding trees
where each marble marks a loved one in peaceful rest
their names etched in stone and whispered in the breeze.

My grandmother and Uncle Pete now lie in its shade
and in their passing it's only here we meet as a family
but it's on this road that I learned who I truly am  
and at its end lies both my history and my destiny.

© Joey Jones
Bob Wax Sep 25
no one cares what you do on your last day on earth
except everyone else left behind to carry the hurt

im not saying its a free pass to do evil
i only wish to do good onto people

so is passing away bittersweet?
happy for me and sad for thee?

or is that why we celebrate
we all knew along the way
that this was fate

each one is different
just a shade of memories

i cannot be insensitive
some are taken entirely to early

so does anyone truly care
what you do on your last day on earth?

embracing the next step of the cycle
as you enter a new birth

while everyone else is left
behind to carry the hurt

and im not saying its a free pass to do evil
i only want to do good unto people.

just something ive come to think on
as i drive through Kentucky feeling withdrawn
Peter Farsje Feb 7
I just love my old grandad.
He was born in Kentucky,
I think he has aged well.

He joins us at family parties.
He sits staight and tall
but rarely, if ever, says anything.

He brings warmth
and good cheer while he
quietly sits listening.

Sometimes I look for him
at the grocery store,
though I seldom see him there.

I just love my Old Grandad.
He is the head of the bourbon family.

Old Grandad.
Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey.
Andrew Rueter Dec 2017
My old Kentucky home
Is a cold unlucky tomb
I live in between the trees
And those that say freeze
I'm down on my knees
As I beg and plead
I try to talk to a world disconnected
And discuss the problems I've detected
Instead I end up feeling dejected
In a state deemed defective
I feel rejected

A downside to living in the Kentucky wilderness
Is hearing animals dying in the distance
And there's nothing I can do about it
Critters whimpering and bones snapping
Barrels simmering and bullets capping
I hear it on the news
Or hear it in the woods
Beasts biting into the weak
******* exploiting the meek
They use their teeth
To play hide and seek

Under the luminous full moon
I hear the death of raccoons
These are the sounds
To which I'm bound
And when I think I've lost them
I start to hear possums
Which engenders fear
Like the mangled deer
Lying on the side of the road
Dead to a world it never knew
And its curiosity never grew
Until a car didn't mind driving through

We should pay attention to one another's problems
Even if we can't solve them
Even if it's painful
It should be our main goal
In a world that's being gloabalized
Location is beginning to matter less
Unless you live where a bomb is being dropped
Then it's up to those that live within crops
To pick up a mop
And help clean up this mess
Which is a lofty task I confess
But I live in a society
That determines the emotions inside of me
So instead of giving up and saying **** me
I'll do the best I can from Kentucky
yellah girl Nov 2017
i don't want to, but if i did
you would be there, in blue
jean overalls, no shirt, just skin
with your hair pulled back in a
Kentucky Wildcat baseball cap.

on the porch you would reign
with a cigarette between your teeth
& a piece of wood in your palm
whittling & whistling the night
away, the stars twinkling away.

i don't want to, but if i did
you would be there, in the morning
while i make a *** of coffee, black
like the coal dust lingering on
top of our sunrise kisses.

deep in the Appalachian range,
where the starlight becomes our
city lights, our home in a holler
calls to my heart, and i want nothing
more than to be held
in your arms.
Unrequited longing is unusual. Sometimes, you don't realize you want something until you no longer have it.
yellah girl Jul 2017
i'm coming Home
& i know it's wrong,
but all i can think,
"will i run into you?"

our Love is unrequited,
& always will be.
you can't accept my God,
& i can't accept your gender,
or lack of one? i don't know.

i'm coming Home
& i will drive
through the hollers & the hills
of E.Ky, if only for the hope
of seeing you, even briefly.

i still recall the many nights
sharing music notes & secret dreams,
yearning to feel each other, to share
the same breath & the same mattress.

i'm coming Home
& i know i won't contact you,
but my only wish is that you
would read this & come find me.

please find me.
Bad Jokes Inc Dec 2016
My name is Young Slug
and I write hip hop songs.
The lyrics sound as clear
as a lady slurping dongs.

Martin Luther King once told me
that my mother was a ****.
So I whipped out a baseball bat,
and ****** him in the ****.

I think he liked it too much,
cause he was moaning "colonel sanders,
stick it in my ***... and make me dry like the flanders."
All names mentioned in this **** are purely coincidence so f*** you.
B Young May 2016
Driving through Kentucky.
Fields fragrant with summer flowers,
spring fast approaching.  
En-route to meet the boys of previous
summers lounging in London streets, fields, and serpentine parks,
And, stairs leading down to unwelcoming basements; as is the British way.
Malls of America now act as labyrinths.
Where the hell can I park my car?
Again, I ask, where the **** can I park my car?

I don’t care.
I just won’t park my ******* car,
in this god-forsaken middle of the western U.S.
Louisville, better yet, Hicksville.  
I pop another Vicodin to get rid of this ill,
Surviving bit by bit but drained incessantly until,
I am no longer near fill, in spirit or in gasoline, tangible but also metaphysical.  
Someone plunge into my depressed psyche and drill, drill,
DRILL!
Hey waitress of my mind, may I please request the bill?
With a pocket full of Xanax and a duffel bag of boomers,
my pockets jingle, (click-clack) as the pills bounce around with
every step, treating addiction with more drugs appears
to be the current stance of the know nothing doctors across this greatest nation on God’s green earth.
Hey babe, “want to walk with me to the methadone clinic,”
It’s rainy out, cold rain, can you carry my umbrella?
I can’t miss my dose or I’ll get sick.
So again I ask
Babe?
Walk with me to the methadone clinic?
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