"cumberland" poems
The rigger journeyman was city bred,
But Cumberland was in his bones,
He saw the hills above the doors,
He saw the fells above the roofs
And when the great pain came,
His eyes belonged to them again.
By Ruskin Street he stopped to choke
At forty six, his wife beside,
My father's line revealed to me,
A farming, rigging family tree.
His place of death recorded so,
Not 'in' or 'at' but 'by' they wrote,
Impressionistic, vague, but true,
Or careless hand for riggers, who
In city great of small account
By Ruskin Street,
Out for the count...
The journey ends
And Benson, male,
No sails will mend.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
Snap, crack, snap -- twigs break underneath
Each burst is music fed deep into her heart
Balmy air blows crisp across her cheek
A kiss as sweet as a daughter's caress
Pride inhaled with each labored breath
Seventeen miles of inclines and slopes
Over fallen trees and swollen creeks
Intentional steps, stitches of success sewn into
the blanket of her soul as she
wanders along the path of her
journey to renewal
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
The chilly camp-like home where I was staying,
had no running water, in winter all shut down,
but had—amplitudinous electric.
I must have been thinking extra sharp that morning,
when to electric stovetop I came; soon had boiling
Cumberland Farm’s bottled water
in a copper *** with four brown eggs.
With careful timing at last I took the four eggs out
and with the heated water applying
Barbasol and razor, so I shaved.
*Please take care to not spill a single drop
of soapy water into the winterized drain pipe,*
I heard in my head my sage sister say.
I discarded the contents of the ***
into a snowy patch.
Good morning, and happy happy, I sang.
I hefted one oak log onto a dying fire.
Two of the four eggs I ate,
saving the last for leaner days.
So complete--eggs
and hot shave breakfast.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:35 PM UTC
The power of the “Bonnie Prince”
had broke and fled away.
William, Duke of Cumberland,
at Culloden field held sway.
His juniors came and asked the Duke
about the wounded men.
A playing card he then held up
on which two words were written”
“NO Quarter” said the playing card
thus was the order given.
They wasted not one bullet for
a wounded, dying man.
By sword, by knife, by bayonet
The English played their hand.
Charles Edward Stuart fled the field
when, clearly, all was lost.
(He never had a kingdom
but at least he had a horse.)
He fled up to the Hebrides
where , despite a huge reward,
No Scottish Laird betrayed the man
who was their Sovereign Lord.
The butcher of Culloden
made the Scottish Highlands pay:
Women ***** crops destroyed,
the livestock borne away.
He never caught his cousin Charles
though he came close at Skye:
The bonnie prince, dressed as a maid,
sailed by him on the sly.
The Jacobites were finished men
and nevermore would rise.
Their cause died on Culloden field
back there in Forty Five’
For over two centuries Scotland has been held against her will as part of the United Kingdom, but she soon may regain her freedom and self Government.
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
A lovely optical illusion is old in seconds and dead in minutes
I remember the camper van; it was the highlight of my day.
There’s always time for jaywalking.
The people who name streets are the people who still use Internet Explorer.
Cumberland would make the perfect photograph.
If I had money, I would live in a fairy-tale for a day.
It’s like a thin cotton t-shirt pulled too tightly over the ridges of a spine.
We would make great comic book villains; we’re already competent bank robbers.
They boarded up their windows, how welcoming.
I wonder how much tape gets stuck to your shoes while you cross the street.
Everyone needs ceramic vegetables.
Catch the light with our breaths.
10th street goes through quite a transformation.
Financial time Deutschland.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
Won’t you tell us Miss Minnie,
Miss Minnie Green,
tell us where have you been to,
and the places you seen?
For the clock on the wall,
says it’s time to go.
Won’t you stay with us Minnie,
stay with us Minnie,
Minnie Green we’ll miss you so.
Are you goin’ to Georgia,
to see your family.
or to Cumberland Gap.
here in ol’ Tennessee.
You will always have a place,
in our hearts don’t you know?
So stay with us Minnie,
stay with us Minnie,
Minnie Green we’ll miss you so.
Now they say that parting,
is sorrow that’s sweet,
but without you
our day’s incomplete.
Fare thee well Miss Minnie,
Miss Minnie Green.
you are a friend indeed,
for this friend in need.
And when ‘ere we forget
what true friendship means.
We'll remember you Minnie
think of you Minnie,
think of you Miss Minnie green.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
I've always wanted to be a southerner
not the "refined" southern
more of that blue grass southern
most of that blue grass southern
are always on their way home
crossing land marks; cumberland gap, georgia river, rocky top
you see that blue grass southern
always has a "baby," a someone
waiting for them
when your that blue grass southern
you have blues that are deep
but your tune is always bright
well with that blue grass southern
your always searching for that simpler
never northern life
so please just give me
more of that blue grass southern
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
The rivers
that oxbow
slither
down the Cumberland drain
in May
SWOLE
M-E-A-N------F-a-t-----P--R--E--G--N--A--N--T,
hungry pregnant,
walking the floor & opening the fridge pregnant,
drown your own mother for a nosh pregnant,
cantankerously mad pregnant,
flowing from car to car, truck to truck and house to house,
through crawl space, doors, and windows,
down halls, laddering stairs, licking banisters, cresting attics,
feeding, feeding, feeding, feeding
on the stacked labor of years and years,
feeding, feeding, feeding
on unbelieving minds and dumb stares,
feeding, feeding, feeding,
on "We've lost everything",
"Oh, my God."s
and tears.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 11:17 PM UTC
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,
On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war;
And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarum of drums swept past,
Or a bugle blast
From the camp on the shore.
Then far away to the south uprose
A little feather of snow-white smoke,
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
Was steadily steering its course
To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.
Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort;
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,
With fiery breath,
From each open port.
We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale
Of the monster’s hide.
“Strike your flag!” the rebel cries,
In his arrogant old plantation strain.
“Never!” our gallant Morris replies;
“It is better to sink than to yield!”
And the whole air pealed
With the cheers of our men.
Then, like a kraken huge and black,
She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon’s breath
For her dying gasp.
Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the mainmast head.
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day!
Every waft of the air
Was a whisper of prayer,
Or a dirge for the dead.
** brave hearts that went down in the seas
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream;
** brave land! with hearts like these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
Shall be one again,
And without a seam!
1.1k
Saturday Boy
Pound of Cumberland, Mrs Finn?
Hand grab sausage swirl - in the bag.
**** for Mrs Peters, fillet for Mr Snyde.
Money in, meat out.
Out of sight saw-grind
cleaver-chop through bone.
Thick-set carcass/Gaffer neck
tea and toast and tea.
Meat fridge full of flesh
sky hanging dry on hooks
bags of liver and lights
pig head, sheep foot.
Open to Closed on the door
chain-link mesh pulled back
blocks scoured with wire-tipped brush
– scrub don’t tickle.
Gaffer writes tomorrow’s boards
saw, cleaver and blade soaked
floor swept and mopped
blood and bleach.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
Last night, I took a twenty dollar bill from my drawer
the last one
marked it with my words
in thick, black ink
grabbed a tack from the desk
and went wandering the alleys and backways and sideways of my town
scanning for the right spot
the right time
And alone on Cumberland, across from Potomac
I found a pristine telephone poll
sprouting tall and straight from the asphalt
like an urban redwood
Took the knife from my belt
the tack from my teeth
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
and I walked away, heart pounding
hoping no one heard, no one saw
leaving the twenty hanging there like jesus
like a sign
in thick, black ink
asking,
"What do you REALLY want?"
I feel like a fraud.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
She stood, barefoot,
at his burial
It was August and hot
Her onyx, knee length hair, hung loose,
blowing in the storm she was conjuring
Hailing from the eastern skies
Her burnt oil eyes, dry
She had no need for tears,
Heaven would cry for her
Born the first of 13
in a long line of darkened blood
300 years bread from Ireland,
to the Cumberland mountains and rolling hills
Every first before her, Born with a caul
"Knowing"
Each generation striving for 3 daughter's and seven sons
Seventh sons born water witches
Each first daughter a
"Seer", amongst other dark blessings
Cauls kept, and buried at midnight 'neath willow branches for blessings
These first daughters,
bore one of three hairs,
raven black, silver, or gold
from birth
Never greying
I watched her
stayed with my grandmother
beside her husband's grave
Till night fell
Her hair, never went grey
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 7:19 PM UTC
You told me to draw you,
so I painted your body in crimson & gold.
You told me to write you in scribe,
so I wrote you a sonnet, fourteen lines across your back.
You told me to leave a mark on you never forgotten,
so I tattooed your soul with tebori ink.
You told me to taste your scent,
so I walked down the lane, collected tobacco, & smoked a cigarette from your favourite apothecary.
You told me to find the name for the aroma that lingered when you left the room,
so I closed my eyes whilst sat beside you, & inhaled you like the cigarette I tasted on the way home.
You told me to image you naked, like Rose being drawn by Jack aboard the Titanic,
so I turned away, took a seat in the Cumberland leather chair, placed charcoal between finger & thumb, sketching an image of your silhouette in black dust ash, a memory that found me from when you slept beside me last night.
You told me to pick a flower that I gave to you the first time I whispered;
"I love you,"
so I wandered amidst the clouds & air of mountains far & wide, until I found the flower I so remembered.
In remembrance, I knew to pick such a tender delicate stem, petals so fragile they would melt in my grasp, the flower would cease to be what I loved,
for, I love you.
You are the rose in all its abstract glory,
you my dearest are no possession.
If I were to misunderstand such beauty, you would simply fade to exist,
so I sat down beside you, a painted memory,
shed a tear,
knowing this memory of you
would suffice.
© Sia Jane
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
Sharecropper's breaking the ****** land ..The braying mule at Dawn ,
the cool cascading fall line waters , the steady tolling of the iron bell at Dusk ..
The pull of the ferryman over her inland waterways , the roar of the locomotive to points south , fragrant tobacco and smoke houses , the burning of Winter fields ..
Skies filled with the doves of September , the black bears of Appalachia , the gulls of Jekyll , Cumberland and Tybee Island ..
The turned , fertile medium refreshing the sturdy October air , of diesel
motor , horse drawn cart and wooden barrow .
Late December frost lays thick along coffee-colored roadsides , the tapping of steel shoes across aged , buckling asphalt .. Winter songbirds congregate around late afternoon icy runoff , sun beams break the grip of afternoon fog ...
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
December 1970
I'm 14
Stuck at my grandma's
Tired of the drone of Howard Cosell
I go walking
Jim + Lydia etched on a square
Then up ahead
A dude ten years older at least
Just the age I look up to
But this one holding by the hand
A little girl ten years my junior
"Where's the doggie?"
"It's in the..."
His words fade.
December 2010
I'm 54
Paused in this city where my grandmother lived
Tired of the drone of NPR
I get out
Pass the old house
Hands held up against the memories
Jim + Lydia 40 years on -- Still together? I'd like to ask
Then up ahead
An elderly man 10 years my senior
And a woman 10 years my junior
"Look, they put stained glass on their alcove."
"Yeah, they decided to..."
His words fade.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
It's 9:30 p.m.
and the CSX train Jericho blows
its Doppler horn
across the black flow
of the Cumberland River
skimming the rafts of rippling light
lapping the west bank of early revelers
gathering in the streets and bars and ***** tonks,
spun together by an invisible attractor they're calling
"Happy New Year."
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 6:29 PM UTC
The barefoot southerner walks the land
He revels in charming Appalachia
A smile of his home
How to make our way out west?
The skies are eternal loving arms
Wrapped around the mountains
A feeling of home
How to make our way out west?
The sunset of the Cumberland ridge
The sky becomes blood in your veins
A heartbeat of home
How to make our way out west
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 5:58 PM UTC
Where is she, in her impeccable timing and charm?
She's gone to roam the Earth,
And all its great civilizations left to conquer.
She'll sing at the throne to become Empress of African empires
And keep me waiting.
It's shameful to think about the stuff I've cried over recently, and the things I saw of her while intoxicated,
Her beautiful face and the words of a woman who'd grown both petty and sad.
It sounds familiar.
It makes me want you more.
///
Is 1:30 too early to get ****** up?
I have nothing better to do.
Where have you gone,
And have you lost the plot on your journey from Cumberland River to Puget Sound?
I hear you're the Queen of Seattle.
I hear Eastern Kentucky has a long history of intoxication,
Blessed with unbelievable quantities of prodigies and savants.
Shouldn't it be a sign that they all leave?
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC
a ring
of chestnuts
aflame and
much hotter
here than
Clive is
to toast
eh blue
as shearling
laid Cumberland
newt with
proclivity as
his legacy
for hire
is too
tired for
the Pennines
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 7:58 AM UTC
I stared at the cinderblock wall, kudzu clawin’ up wild,
A green chokehold sprawlin’ ‘cross this Tennessee hollow,
Life flickers in me, a match struck on a humid night,
But leukemia’s creepin’, a month to ***** my candle’s glow.
Sixteen and I’m done, no worse than folks who linger here,
The sun meltin’ over the Smokies, the sweetgum air—why ain’t it mine?
I despise death’s slow drag, its damp, cold fingers on my neck,
Not scared—just ****** a fire ragin’ in veins gone icy.
A dream once slunk in, like a copperhead through the pines,
Cross my warped floorboards, me froze, watchin’ it glide,
No fangs, no strike, just sickness coilin’ in its hush,
Woke me to the truth—my end’s stalkin’ these backroads quiet.
Why me leavin’ while others grill burgers in the dusk?
This land’s too pretty—cornfields gold, mockin’ my rot,
I’d toss a Molotov at it all, this carefree Cumberland sprawl,
If my arms had the grit to torch my **** fate.
The world churns on, deaf to my hollerin’ from the porch,
Beauty cuts deep—crickets chirpin’ a song I can’t keep.
Everybody’s fightin’ to breathe, no soul less than me,
But what’s it worth when death’s got my number dialed?
I chuck my truth like a deer stand spear, unmissable,
To God, to life, to folks cruisin’ Main Street clueless,
At sixteen, dread’s my gospel, my rebel yell,
A war cry howled, so this whole county might pay up.
Life’s a gift for us about to get yanked away,
We cling tight to what’s rippin’ loose in the wind,
My ache, my envy for kids racin’ four-wheelers, unborn,
No hate—just a love for livin’, sharp as a switchblade.
Through cussin’ and jealousy’s hot sting, I thread a tune,
A jagged love song hummin’ over the TVA hum,
Reckon this truth, let your own gripes loose like hounds,
I ain’t kneelin’ to anything . And I am proudly mad.
Mar 21, 2025
Mar 21, 2025 at 12:23 AM UTC
Disarray surrounds him
In his antiquated
fourth-floor dwelling
Sheets of music, tablature,
Scrolls of data, reports of minimal finance
In stacks upon chairs, teeter
Precariously like arched boulders
Along Cumberland Ridge
Papers shuffle through his hands,
Which long for a keyboard
Where he shuns distractions,
Intent to share
what flows from his passion
I remember
parishioners entering
St. Luke’s enraptured by his piano hymns
As he praised his God
He formed his very own God,
One
of tolerance, love and compassion
He wished for approval
For his playing, his thoughts,
His longings and lusts
So different from those
Lining rows of mahogany pews.
I wonder if he is happy
In his heavenly spot
Where friends adorned
In colored shorts and flowery shirts
Play lyrics on golden strings
And parade their adoration to God.
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 12:35 PM UTC
The mornings
are the worst.
Writhing between my sheets
like a night crawler cut in half
by the piercing apathy in your
permafrost eyes
the last time I saw them.
I'd cut off my own arm
before I went back to Barcelona.
It's that special kind of pain;
where I feel sick to my stomach
when I see young people holding hands,
kissing.
That special kind of pain,
where no girl is beautiful anymore.
I am the black hole,
the mouse hole,
in the bottom corner of the room.
It ***** out anything worth savoring.
I can act like I'm fine
for approximately 22.2 minutes a day
22.2 years I lived without you
two too many to count.
I used to be two
Now I am barely half of what I was
and I can't bear full moons.
I have the right to bear arms.
Especially after what you and I did to me.
But now I'm armless
You're careless
I'm handless.
I can't pick up the pieces
you scattered all over Denver
Appleton
North San Diego County
Barcelona
Valencia
Bilbao
Cumberland
and West Falmouth.
Maybe you can retrace that trail of blood.
I can't,
but that doesn't stop me from trying
every day.
And I keep arriving
at the same dried up
empty ocean
where only salt is left behind.
9 months later I'm still too ripe.
I'd cut off my own arm
before I went back to Barcelona.
I want to salvage
the parts of me
that sank with that ship
struck by whatever
the **** that was.
Whatever the ****
we all keep writing about.
In your defense and in mine,
no one as young as us
could ever be ready for that.
The world has two poles.
I was 23 when I was told
that I do too.
You brought them both out of me
and everything in between.
But now I'm stuck on the lower one;
a windless white flag at half mast.
Nightmares are just dreams
and nothing could be more real.
A heartbreak to a poet
is just a dream that came true,
and so are you.
Daymares are not real,
and neither is the frozen hemoglobin
they **** from your veins.
I used to get so high,
and laugh.
I've had one first cigarette
and a million last cigarettes.
I guess that pretty much sums it all up.
And back I go to Barcelona.
With one arm.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 12:42 AM UTC