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CK Baker Mar 2017
lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves

stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)

croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl

the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe

rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the  sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)

donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***)
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells

tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
and that **** rabid fox
are drowning
deep in castles well
CK Baker May 2017
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore

reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)

bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!


duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields

meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar ***** wedged on the white wash dock)

baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
CK Baker Jan 2017
They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen

peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with a steady tap)
snouts high on
grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack

folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy
Glen Castillo Jul 2018
Sabi nila,kapag nahanap mo na daw ang tunay na pag-ibig ay nahanap mo na rin ang iyong langit dito sa lupa. Kaya't naniniwala akong langit din ang maghahatid sa'yo patungo sa akin. Pero naiinip na akong maghintay at nanghihinayang sa bawat sandaling lumilipas , na hindi ko man lang magawang hawakan ang iyong mga kamay sa mga panahong kailangan mo ng karamay.Na hindi ko man lang magawang damayan ka kung dumadanas ka ng lumbay.Alam kong katulad ko,pakiramdam mo minsan ay binitawan ka na din ng mundo.Kaya't patawarin mo ako kung sa mga pagkakataong nararanasan mo yan ay wala ako d'yan para ikaw ay aking ma-salo. Kung totoong ang pag-ibig at ang langit ay may malalim na kaugnayan sa isa’t-isa,malakas ang kutob ko na tayo din ay iginuhit na katulad nila. Minsan na din akong nagtanong,saang sulok ng langit ka kaya naroroon? Malapit ka kaya sa araw? O marahil nasa tabi ka lang ng buwan,na sa tuwing sasapit ang dilim ako ay binabantayan.Kaya pala kahit saan ako magpunta ako'y lagi niyang sinusundan. Pero maaari din na ika'y kapiling ng mga bituin na kay daming nais mag angkin. Kay palad kong pagdating ng araw ikaw ay napa sa-akin. Kaya habang wala ka pa,ako muna ay magiging kaisa ng mga mabubuting kawal ng ating bayan. Makikidigma kung kinakailangan,ipaglalaban kung ano ang makat'wiran. Upang sa iyong pagdating ay malaya nating tatamasahin ang payapang buhay. Kaya habang wala ka pa ako'y taos puso kung manalangin sa ating may likha. Na paghariin niya nawa ang kabutihan sa aking puso bilang isang tao at higit sa lahat ay bilang kanyang anak , upang sa sandaling tayo'y pagtagpuin ako rin sa iyo ay magiging isang mabuting kabiyak. Hindi pa man tayo nagtatagpo,nais kung malaman mo na laman kang palagi ng aking panalangin. At habambuhay kong itatangi ang iyong pag-ibig na siyang dahilan kung bakit maka ilang ulit kong nanaising mabuhay. Nais kong ipagsigawan sa mundo na iniibig kitang wagas,ngunit mas mamatamisin kong hintayin ka at kapag naglapat na ang ating mga dibdib,ibubulong ko sa'yo na ikaw ang aking daigdig. Maghihintay lang ako,habang wala ka pa.




© 2018 Glen Castillo
All Rights Reserved.
Pag-ibig sa tatlong salita (IKAW,BAYAN at DIYOS)
CK Baker Feb 2017
late night by the holland sill
white framed and frilled
alongside the meadow
down by the grand
where cat fish
and cow pies
and silly yellow bees
make their stay

there are swings now
and an empty barn
(with quiet corners
and broken walls)
echoing chambers
that speak to the past
...and little dogs
not big ones

the plaster cracks
and wheat sways
from a warm west wind
it’s about time
for that late afternoon pour
you know how it cleans the soul
old percy would say

and flanders
the holder of those pigs
who fed us good
with sow and milk
as we plowed the
dusty fields
into the
hot summer sun

i can still hear the screams
of river dreams
the grand slams
and flints run dry
the barks
and breaks
and bends
a world past
with forbes
and dolls
and crab apple trees

think i’ll take a trip
up the back lane
they’ve cut the brush
and opened the line
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
Roses are red and wood violets are blue.
I love you, Babe, like the dawn loves the dew.
Oh, I love you, Babe, like the dawn and the dew.
I'm bringing home roses and violets too.
I'm bringing home roses and violets for you.

I'm sorry I left, that I never came through.
I'm bringing you flowers—seems all I can do.

I just had to walk. I just had to think.
I just had to find my way back from the brink.

So I'm coming home with the smell of fresh dew
And rosebuds I've stolen like I once stole you.

Roses are red and sweet violets are blue.
Oh, I love you, Babe, like the dawn loves the dew.
I love you, Babe, like the dawn and the dew.
I'm bringing home roses and violets for you.
I'm bringing home roses, wood violets and dew.
Nigeria, a Dying country,
Her kinsmen will gather in war to share her sweat
More troubles for the unborn and her growing heirs,
The unfolding dread non-soldiers at heart like me.

Nigeria, she spring forth from the dark soil
Her past never stop to echoe, her Iroko turned void
Blessed with milk, honey and seeds with hearts fixed to the creator,
The sword bearer of coal  war-ful gladiators.

A vineyard in the days of her reckoning
A different story after her great hair home coming.
Tale of a true black race
And the  down laying of her good moral ways.

Just like how a river side tree dries,
So does her firewood also cries.
Her genuine red caps are nowhere to be found
Her wind, her seed will have to make do with the feeble dust in character around.

Shaking is her government seat on the rock
Still steady is her opposition in their secret walls.
They keep killing her vision in disguise of trying to unlock
While they battle to pluck away all her roses.
The voiceless murmur and watch,
Her pocket papers fly and run
While a once great country keep dying on.
Wade Redfearn Sep 2018
The first settlers to the area called the Lumber River Drowning Creek. The river got its name for its dark, swift-moving waters. In 1809, the North Carolina state legislature changed the name of Drowning Creek to the Lumber River. The headwaters are still referred to as Drowning Creek.

Three p.m. on a Sunday.
Anxiously hungry, I stay dry, out of the pool’s cold water,
taking the light, dripping into my pages.
A city with a white face blank as a bust
peers over my shoulder.
Wildflowers on the roads. Planes circle from west,
come down steeply and out of sight.
A pinkness rises in my breast and arms:
wet as the drowned, my eyes sting with sweat.
Over the useless chimneys a bank of cloud piles up.
There is something terrible in the sky, but it keeps breaking.
Another is dead. Fentanyl. Sister of a friend, rarely seen.
A hand reaches everywhere to pass over eyes and mouths.
A glowing wound opens in heaven.
A mirror out of doors draws a gyre of oak seeds no one watches,
in the clear pool now sunless and black as a cypress swamp.

Bitter water freezes the muscles and I am far from shore.
I paddle in the shallows, near the wooden jail.
The water reflects a taut rope,
feet hanging in the breeze singing mercy
at the site of the last public hanging in the state.
A part-white fugitive with an extorted confession,
loved by the poor, dumb enough to get himself captured,
lonely on this side of authority: a world he has never lived in
foisting itself on the world he has -
only now, to steal his drunken life, then gone again.

1871 - Henderson Oxendine, one of the notorious gang of outlaws who for some time have infested Robeson County, N. C., committing ****** and robbery, and otherwise setting defiance to the laws, was hung at Lumberton, on Friday last in the presence of a large assemblage. His execution took place a very few days after his conviction, and his death occurred almost without a struggle.

Today, the town square collapses as if scorched
by the whiskey he drank that morning to still himself,
folds itself up like Amazing Grace is finished.
A plinth is laid
in the shadow of his feet, sticky with pine,
here where the water sickens with roots.
Where the canoe overturned. Where the broken oar floated and fell.
Where the snake lives, and teethes on bark,
waiting for another uncle.

Where the tobacco waves near drying barns rusted like horseshoes
and cotton studs the ground like the cropped hair of the buried.
Where schoolchildren take the afternoon
to trim the kudzu growing between the bodies of slaves.
Where appetite is met with flood and fat
and a clinic for the heart.
Where barges took chips of tar to port,
for money that no one ever saw.

Tar sticks the heel but isn’t courage.
Tar seals the hulls -
binds the planks -
builds the road.
Tar, fiery on the tongue, heavy as bad blood in the family -
dead to glue the dead together to secure the living.
Tar on the roofs, pouring heat.
Tar is a dark brown or black viscous liquid of hydrocarbons and free carbon,
obtained from a wide variety of organic materials
through destructive distillation.
Tar in the lungs will one day go as hard as a five-cent candy.

Liberty Food Mart
Cheapest Prices on Cigarettes
Parliament $22.50/carton
Marlboro $27.50/carton

The white-bibbed slaughterhouse Hmong hunch down the steps
of an old school bus with no air conditioner,
rush into the cool of the supermarket.
They pick clean the vegetables, flee with woven bags bulging.
What were they promised?
Air conditioning.
And what did they receive?
Chickenshit on the wind; a dead river they can't understand
with a name it gained from killing.

Truth:
A man was flung onto a fencepost and died in a front yard down the street.
A girl with a grudge in her eyes slipped a razorblade from her teeth and ended recess.
I once saw an Indian murdered for stealing a twelve-foot ladder.
The red line indicating heart disease grows higher and higher.
The red line indicating cardiovascular mortality grows higher and higher.
The red line indicating motor vehicle deaths grows higher and higher.
I burn with the desire to leave.

The stories make us full baskets of dark. No death troubles me.
Not the girl's blood, inert, tickled by opiates,
not the masked arson of the law;
not the smell of drywall as it rots,
or the door of the safe falling from its hinges,
or the chassis of cars, airborne over the rise by the planetarium,
three classmates plunging wide-eyed in the river’s icy arc –
absent from prom, still struggling to free themselves from their seatbelts -
the gunsmoke at the home invasion,
the tenement bisected by flood,
the cattle lowing, gelded
by agriculture students on a field trip.

The air contains skin and mud.
The galvanized barns, long empty, cough up
their dust of rotten feed, dry tobacco.
Men kneel in the tilled rows,
to pick up nails off the ground
still splashed with the blood of their makers.

You Never Sausage a Place
(You’re Always a ****** at Pedro’s!)
South of the Border – Fireworks, Motel & Rides
Exit 9: 10mi.

Drunkards in Dickies will tell you the roads are straight enough
that the drive home will not bend away from them.
Look in the woods to see by lamplight
two girls filling each other's mouths with smoke.
Hear a friendly command:
boys loosening a tire, stuck in the gut of a dog.
Turn on the radio between towns of two thousand
and hear the tiny voice of an AM preacher,
sharing the airwaves of country dark
with some chords plucked from a guitar.
Taste this water thick with tannin
and tell me that trees do not feel pain.
I would be a mausoleum for these thousands
if I only had the room.

I sealed myself against the flood.
Bodies knock against my eaves:
a clutch of cats drowned in a crawlspace,
an old woman bereft with a vase of pennies,
her dead son in her living room costumed as the black Jesus,
the ***** oil of a Chinese restaurant
dancing on top of black water.
A flow gauge spins its tin wheel
endlessly above the bloated dead,
and I will pretend not to be sick at dinner.

Misery now, a struggle ahead for Robeson County after flooding from Hurricane Matthew
LUMBERTON
After years of things leaving Robeson County – manufacturing plants, jobs, payrolls, people – something finally came in, and what was it but more misery?

I said a prayer to the city:
make me a figure in a figure,
solvent, owed and owing.
Take my jute sacks of wristbones,
my sheaves and sheaves of fealty,
the smell of the forest from my feet.
Weigh me only by my purse.
A slim woman with a college degree,
a rented room without the black wings
of palmetto roaches fleeing the damp:
I saw the calm white towers and subscribed.
No ingrate, I saved a space for the lost.
They filled it once, twice, and kept on,
eating greasy flesh straight from the bone,
craning their heads to ask a prayer for them instead.

Downtown later in the easy dark,
three college boys in foam cowboy hats shout in poor Spanish.
They press into the night and the night presses into them.
They will go home when they have to.
Under the bridge lit in violet,
a folding chair is draped in a ***** blanket.
A grubby pair of tennis shoes lay beneath, no feet inside.
Iced tea seeps from a chewed cup.
I pass a bar lit like Christmas.
A mute and pretty face full of indoor light
makes a promise I see through a window.
I pay obscene rents to find out if it is true,
in this nation tied together with gallows-rope,
thumbing its codex of virtues.
Considering this just recently got rejected and I'm free to publish it, and also considering that the town this poem describes is subject once again to a deluge whose damage promises to be worse than before, it seemed like a suitable time to post it. If you've enjoyed it, please think about making a small donation to the North Carolina Disaster Relief Fund at the URL below:
https://governor.nc.gov/donate-florence-recovery
Kurt Carman Jun 2016
Memaw & Pepaw ..Mason Dixon Saturday night,
Just sippin' muscadine wine by the Tennessee moonlight
Rockin' chairs...Zenith Black and White
Roy, Buck, Minnie Pearl a Hee Haw delight.

Crickets a chirpin' and a Frogs a croakin'
Toe tapin' rhythm's got em all in motion.
Corn fields swaying like a metronome
Watching those two dance to cotton eye Joe!

Sunday mornings best at the Church of Christ,
Me, I'm Thinkin' bout Memaws country gravy, my fav-o-rite!
Fried Chicken, taters, eggs sunny side right,
These are the memories I like to recite.
I sure do miss you both. Hoeing okra and and mustered greens on Sunday afternoon. That **** rooster Ichabod having his way with those Rhode Island Red hens as Cecil and I laughed our ***** off. Making a sign for your hen house that read "Martins Chicken Hilton" and the day you died doing what you loved. I know your out there Cecil and Drewetta. I'll see you someday soon!
Marigolds Fever Sep 2018
Cowgirl boots cost her
just little pay
She knows to play it safe
Keepin them cowboys away
Wants soft black fur
To keep her warm at night...
they say
She murmurs by candlelight ...
Country bear soothing...
them Cowboys cause me fright
She doesn’t want a man
She’s lookin for a country bear
That’s her true fan
Cowboys want to make her purr
But a country bear is gona stretch his paws and groan
I finally found her
Big bear wont mind what she does with that hair
Cause he’s her country bear
She’s his woman
He’s her furry scare
Try not to stare
When they’re hittin the town fair
Kissin at the top of that ferris wheel
Ladies want to know
What’s that she feel
Township whispers..
there she goes
Smoochin that ******* bear
Maybe it ain’t no big deal
This is too surreal
Watching this
They eatin cotton candy
in complete bliss
Later in fright
Before the early light
All the ladies pray
Keep them cowboys at bay
Send me a country bear like Miss Fray
And we might promise to obey
Her secret
They want to know
She said forget it
Go to your rodeo
Bears ain’t something I’m about to share
That country woman
That country bear
It’s the perfect love affair
Time enough for y'all
to say goodbye
to the me
of yesterday!
This is who I am
and what I love!
I'm nothing,
but a Country Girl
and loving it!
Yep... that's me!
I spend most of my time
listening to my favorite station-
Yep... Its The B!
People say I'm a loner,
but how can that be?
I'm listening to my friends
all the time, my dj's-
Who cares, if its
through my speakers!
Take it or leave it-
Like it or not!
I'm nothing,
but a Country Girl
and loving it!
Yep... that's me!

2007

COPYRIGHT; Sabrina Denise Healey,
~Angelmom~
chorus *  Old, broken down...
And feeling like there's nothing left.
chorus  There goes another town,
A Dream lost by a theft...
chorus  Oh can you see?
Nothing left to stand for!

chorus  Can't be all we're gonna be?

One giant end, -a closing door.
chorus  What's it gonna be?

You know we've lost it all before!

soft-spoken statement;

"Who's gonna save us now?"

This is what he stands for...
THIS IS WHAT HE STANDS FOR!
This is what he stands for,
This is what he stands for -see-e-e?

chorus
IT'S THE AMERICAN DREAM!

<musical break>


chorus  Oh can you see?
Only we can walk through the door!
chorus  No one but "We."
No one could ask for more...
chorus  World can-not see,
No one could ask more...
chorus  No one can be,
No way to ask more, -how?  

This is what he stands for.
THIS IS WHAT HE STANDS FOR!
This is what he stands for now,
...stands for now...
This is what he stands for -see-e-e?

chorus
IT'S THE AMERICAN DREAM!

This is what he stands for.
THAT IS WHAT HE STANDS FOR!
This is what he stands for...
THIS IS WHAT HE STANDS FOR!
chorus  This is what he stands for,
This is what he stands for -see-e-e?

chorus
IT'S THE AMERICAN DREAM!

soft-spoken statement;

...the American dream...
...when did we lose our dream?

<musical break>

chorus  Worked in Michigan,
Lived in Virginia, -Carolina...
chorus  Jersey Re-pub-li-can,

BIBLE THUMPIN' AND A CHRISTIAN!

chorus  You know it's a sin?
solo verse
To let something special fall down...

<musical changeover>

Why lose another town?
Feeling tired, old and broken down...
Founding Fathers stirring in the ground,
and the media won't make a sound...
We won't lose another town!

chorus  'Cause...

This is what he stands for.
THIS IS WHAT HE STANDS FOR!
This is what he stands for,
This is what he stands for -see-e-e?

yeah, yeah...

chorus
IT'S THE AMERICAN DREAM!

This is what he stands for.
THAT IS WHAT HE STANDS FOR!
This is what he stands for...
THIS IS WHAT HE STANDS FOR!
chorus  This is what he stands for,
This is what he stands for -see-e-e?

chorus
IT'S THE AMERICAN DREAM!

chorus all below
This is what he stands for...
THIS IS WHAT HE STANDS FOR!
This is what he stands for,
This is what he stands for -see-e-e?

...yeah...Yeah-eh!

chorus
IT'S THE AMERICAN DREAM!

fade out
...that is what stands for..
...this is what he stands for..
...what he stands for...


...what we're,
all
standing for...
When the thunder rolls in,
we're gonna party like the end,
   having whiskey shots like old men
tellin' stories of our kin,
when the thunder rolls in.

When the thunder rolls in. . .
Jeremiah Mar 18
a big floating rock held by god
seen from a big floating rock held by god
but on a country evening in tennessee
i don't think about astral rocks
i think about my lemonade
and my beautiful puppy
but if i did think about those things
i would think about you too
because when i think about beautiful things
i always think of you
Fearless Nov 2018
something something little lamb
all these poems are so sad
Mary probably ate that lamb
'cause she probly had no dad
and Old Yeller up and died
at least that's what i've heard is said
but i've never seen the movie
its so old now, he's probably dead
the little mermaid got divorced
because she missed her family
Mulan's life was totally forced
had to be a man just to be free
Eric must have drowned
tryin to get his wifey back
and once a queen is crowned
her main job is in the sack
poems are like country songs
they only talk of what is sad
a long long list of all the wrongs
they're focusing on all the bad
and if you read them backwards
do you think it all is happy things
all positive and happy words
rainbows, butterflies and birdies sing
laughter was my honest goal
but now I'm done with rambling
negativity can take a toll
but I feel for all those suffering
Just went through and read some poetry and it all seemed very down, so I thought i'd try to be a little funny.
Sun light streams through the picturesque windows
   Cut to streaks through white cloth curtains
Birds chirp, cows graze, horses nay
   Fresh cut grass surfs the wind
Flowers bloom and fill the senses
   Breakfast feast a organised chaos
Coffee, tea and toast
   Stained jeans, warm shirts, big boots
Goodmorning
   Country kitchen.
Trying to capture a morning in my house the way I remember it when I was growing up.
When it pours she finds the rainbow
In the sun she lets the wind flow
Through her sun-kissed auburn hair
Til the scent of perfume fills the open air

When it’s cold she lies real close to me
Til we breathe together in harmony
And get lost inside a dream
Waking up into a love supreme

When I’m late she says, “Don’t drive too fast!”
When dessert comes out we like to make it last
And give each other one more special chance
To make love with just some cheap romance

She’s the killer of all my doubts and woes
Wherever she goes happiness follows
If I lose a job she says, “You’ll find another”
She wants a grandkid for my darlin’ mother

When she cries it takes the man outta me
Knowing I’m not being what I know I can be
So we cheer up with a slowdown moonlit dance
And make love outta cheap romance
For a country song; for those who aren't in the club.
Vexren4000 Aug 2018
A country of people,
Reaching for castles in the sky,
Breaking their arms on high,
Breaking bones and bodies in the process,
Dreamers sacrificing lives,
For dreams that smolder in their souls,
Even after men die,
Those dreams and embers,
Burn on, for all of history.

©BAS
Mary Gay Kearns May 2018
The road lay empty down the lane
No bird flew out across the sand
Alone this trampled world goes by
And dancing hours beneath me call
But in this place that is no more
The latched gate closes once and all.
My grandparents’ backgate to their garden and bungalow in Totland when they lived on the Isle of Wight.
(not far from Tennyson’s Lane )
Vexren4000 Oct 2018
The pattering of small feet,
Running across the home,
Dashing of pets and children,
Times of peace and serenity,
Family and Strength,
Taken away from us,
By the modern world.

©BAS
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