In my own shire, if I was sad,
Homely comforters I had:
The earth, because my heart was sore,
Sorrowed for the son she bore;
And standing hills, long to remain,
Shared their short-lived comrade's pain.
And bound for the same bourn as I,
On every road I wandered by,
Trod beside me, close and dear,
The beautiful and death-struck year:
Whether in the woodland brown
I heard the beechnut rustle down,
And saw the purple crocus pale
Flower about the autumn dale;
Or littering far the fields of May
Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay,
And like a skylit water stood
The bluebells in the azured wood.

Yonder, lightening other loads,
The seasons range the country roads,
But here in London streets I ken
No such helpmates, only men;
And these are not in plight to bear,
If they would, another's care.
They have enough as 'tis: I see
In many an eye that measures me
The mortal sickness of a mind
Too unhappy to be kind.
Undone with misery, all they can
Is to hate their fellow man;
And till they drop they needs must still
Look at you and wish you ill.

sky blueberry sky
beechnut breeze
cotton candy clouds
deep blue mountains
while
there is
something inside
those sugar cane eyes

The bold waters of Indian Creek polish skipping stones , cool waters
harbor Yellow Perch and Smallmouths , all manner of aquatic fauna ..
Sand bars glisten in the afternoon light ..
A chorus of nature's musicians sing to the coming of night ...

The life current of Georgia flows along this vital artery ..
Creek Indians fished , hunted and bore testament to their precious waterway ....
Full Moons still recall the laughter of young native American children along her banks ...
The shouts of intrepid spear fishermen haunt the calm Summer air ,
twilight becoming harbinger for many a ghostly tale on beechnut silhouetted darkness , mosquito ravaged nights ....
Creek hunters running from Oak to Pine , whistling messages along the banks ... Bobcats howl on foggy Dawns while Herons hold still , forever maintain their silent watch ..

Sing to me, o southern hill
where my mother lies,
she near the river
where other children
only her eyes could spy,
her fingers feel.
Willow trees, arcing oaks,
pillows made of amethyst and
amaryllis, beechnut spread,
linen spread by old Mill Creek,
cattle grazing, hazy August
afternoons, all alone was she
except in fantasy.
No love from Mother,
her Father farther
away than Ozymandias.
Tears she used
in her high tea;
no spoon had she.
She wept beneath a yellow sun,
a sister to the gentle sea,
the golden waves of wheat.

Tod Howard Hawks

There's a secret place
Where the birds fly free
It's a land of peace
Of tranquility
You go down the valley
Up the hill
Turn right at the farm
Left at the Mill

But you'll never find it
Unless you know
The meaning of peace
And let your self go
To a land of solitude and calm
Where your soul is free
Safe from harm
Where the clouds and mist
Become as one
Where a rainbow appears
Along with the sun
The cows and sheep
Live in harmony
Where a stream runs
Under the Beechnut tree

It doesn't matter
If it's rain or shine
Life goes on
In it's own good time
It's a magical place
Where time stands still
There's no one to rush you
To make you feel ill
You can sit all day
Just looking at the view
At peace with the beauty
Mother nature gives to you

At the end of the day
You won't believe your eyes
As the sun sets over mountains
With pink and orange skies;
When night falls
You'll sleep like an exhausted child
In this secret place
Where horses run wild

Ah, beautiful girl,
Lovely Lorraine,
I can see you now,
Your long brown hair,
Heart shaped face,
With a smile to share.

So young and fresh,
We were just kids, you and I,
Laughter came easy to us then,
As did the kisses and squeezes.

The scent of you lingers still,
Peachy soap on pale skin,
Cool Beechnut breath,
Is that a hint of apples?
Maybe from your hair,
Your long, brown hair.

You had a serious look in your eyes,
When we snuggled up tight,
Clinging together against the cold,
A look I could not fully interpret,
I get you now, though,
I get you now, Lorraine.

Too late now, though,
All these years later,
My very first love,
Taken away so young,
With distance between us,
Did you ever think of me?

Our kisses from another age,
Escaping on the edge of memories,
Emerging in a new century,
I can see you now,
Lovely Lorraine,
Ah, beautiful girl.

Who's hiding neath black pine borders
Whispering tales into the wind throughout -
the beechnut forest
Crossing Novembers broom sage
Will fickle weather entice Hill Country's
chilling rains
Will Rico don the coat of ice and snow
The smoke of home fires travel South --
and swirl to escape the field hollers
The rack of wintertide from naked treetop to
a cold , unforgiving stream below ...

Sing to me, o southern hill
where my mother lies,
she near the river
where other children
only her eyes could spy,
her fingers feel.
Willow trees, arcing oaks,
pillows made of amethyst and
amaryllis, beechnut spread,
linen spread by old Mill Creek,
cattle grazing, hazy August
afternoons, all alone was she
except in fantasy.
No love from Mother,
her Father farther
away than Ozymandias.
Tears she used
in her high tea;
no spoon had she.
She wept beneath a yellow sun,
a sister to the gentle sea,
the golden waves of wheat.

Tod Howard Hawks

sky blueberry sky
with your blow beechnut breeze
where the bluebirds fly
through cotton candy clouds
beside the deep blue mountains
with her whipped cream smile
thus her sugarcane eyes

"It is nice to fall down
with a pretty woman,"

I wipe my chuckles
on a nearby
beechnut,
then dare to jaw
you my open
hand.