My daddy loved the Loblolly Pine
Always there to help remind
Him of his innocent childhood days
How in a breeze those tall trees would gently sway

My daddy above everything else
Loved the sweet scent of the Loblolly smell
It was well understood every chance he could
He'd drop what he was doing and head for the woods

My daddy spent the best of times
Living out his life with the Loblolly Pine
That is why we buried him beneath
The high shifting shade of his favorite tree

Wax myrtles slip
Sideways on bodies-
Their brothers, 
Buried beneath fresh soil 
Of an ancient Earth,
Mixed amongst
The loblolly pines
That caper with the breeze.

* * *

Sad nights shift
To dreary days
And ashen clouds 
Soak in the light
Until they all 
Ignite in flames
And lose their strength 
Or will to fight.
They lie alone 
In sheets of wind
On beds of air 
And thoughts,
And, patiently, 
They wait to end
Their lives 
And be forgotten.

* * *

Long after,
We sit and wonder
Whether palatial skies
Will fall like rain
Away from us,
Torrents of dreams
Abandoned
For to sleep.

It ain't the pork, it ain't the beans
It ain't the mustard on saltines
It ain't the redneck social scenes

I love about the south

It ain't the ice cold sweet southern tea
It ain't the way that we say please
It ain't the way we lemon squeeze

I love about the south

It ain't the perfect slice of pecan pie
It ain't the wink in the bullfrog's eyes
It ain't the fireflies that light the night

I love about the south

It ain't the way we say yes ma'am
When you visit Alabam
It ain't the attitude of yes we can

I love about the south

It ain't the way that we say ya'll
With the syrupy sweet southern draw
No it ain't none of that at all

I love about the south

It's the crisp clear starry nights
Through the shifting shadows of the loblolly pine
As I stand here with your hand in mine

I love about the south

Just the fact that you are here
And that I can hold you near
As I hear you call me dear

*I love about the south

Bucolic piedmont woodland avenues , where rain clouds touch the hillside after welcome showers have passed
Where pungent fields of green native wild grass connect ones place
with his past
Red-tailed Hawk sentries stand guard o'er Loblolly Pine forest
Contemplative Blue Herons work scenic marshland unnoticed
Land of Pink Dogwood , Cane and blackberry thicket
Of riparian wonders , foggy cattle- worn bottom land , lake dancers that twirl morning side West Point , Lanier and Oconee inlets
To rural lanes colored with the blessings of home* .....

Evergreen soldiers at the whim of Alraus
I've had a recurrent dream of the enlisted warriors
abandoning their post , occupying the fertile grassland
in a chess type move to gain control
Free of shade , of root-bound thirst , of choking
moss gathering unchallenged in overpopulated arbors
A celebration courtesy of the Robin Knights , the Chickadee troubadours ,
the Cardinal gentlemen at the Court of Queen Chestnut
Slash , sugar , loblolly and white oak
Persimmon , hickory , honey locust and dogwood
The myrrh of gardenia , magnolia , honeysuckle and tea rose
Earthen red clay , white sand , black loam and kaolin
Grasshopper cellist , cricket flautist , a chuckling crow with a
Spanish guitar
The toad trombones , a bluebird violin solo , a mockingbird reads
a touching poem that even sways the worker ants into a brief pause
The Old Forest becomes pasture and the grassland young woodland
The dove cue the night , the katydids croon to the moon ,
the bullfrogs 'pooka-dooka' and the lovers swoon* ...

Contents of that Secret F.B.I. Memo

Next week the world is going to end again
When the north pole and the south pole switch places
According to secret radio transmissions
Secretly beamed from the secret headquarters
Of the secret Club of Rome far beneath
The Vatican and secretly aligned
With the secret sword of the secret Knights
Templar with the secret star WD-40
By our secret Masters on the secret
Planet Xenophobe in secret accordance
With the ancient prophecy of Cranium
The Elder discovered in a Prince Albert can
By the Portuguese philosopher and
Explorer Almoso Nutellaeus
Who thus received the dark secrets of the
Atlantean sorcerers in a secret
Language which only he was able to translate
When the Moon God Myrtle of the Aqua Kirtle
Blessed his Radio Shack TRS-80
With a rare pixie dust which can only be
Found in a certain secret plain in the
Sahara Desert at the Winter Solstice
Marked by a Bionic Blood Altar cursed
By the Knights of Toledo in a strange
Ceremony which can only be witnessed
By the Initiates of the Order of
The Cumulonimble Secret Ferrets
Of the Discalced Colossus of Roads
Whose emblematic pilum can be discerned
By pouring lemon juice over the pictures
Of the Caesars in a sacred clearing
In the secret Wood of the Thirteen Oaks
And a Loblolly Pine made when The Primal
Pole-er Bear from Beyond Time set up
The North Pole and the South Pole, and gave the
North Pole Santa Claus and the South Pole Little America
Station, and this Manichaean duality
Has set the planet in opposition
To itself, resulting in the cancellation
Of Gilligan’s Island after only three seasons
Because Gilligan and The Skipper were close
To discovering the Pre-Raphaelite
Anaemic Amoebic Astrolabe in yet
Another papier mache cave infested
By toxic golden hamsters of existential doom
Guarding a time-and-space portal leading
Directly to Oak Island where Captain Kidd’s
Lost cuff links (the ones with little pictures
Of Elvis golfing with leprechauns) can
Be found, the cuff links that channel the energy
Between The North Pole and the South Pole enhanced
By the chakra of a Hoover vacuum cleaner
Once used by Winston Churchill’s housekeeper
During the Blitz before she married her second
Husband, Trevor, who was the Hereditary
Keeper of the Keys of the Guernsey Privy
And thus a carrier of fairy blood
As required by Ye Ancient Lawes of the Booke
Of…something-or-other…which was carved in runes
On Roman skulls just before the loss of
The Island of Anglesey to Governor
Suetonius who was told by The Voices
That the Druids invented rock ‘n’ roll and
Must be destroyed so that the harmonic
Harmony of the North Pole and the South Pole
Could be restored to their primordial
Nordic vanilla pudding.

I want a day with a morning mist
that burns off
as the sun finds its way
through the thin trunks of Loblolly pines
along the river.

I want to *****
over logs and through bogs
and find my way around the bend
among whatever crawls, digs and hunts
along the river.

I want to feel like the first person
to sink my heels into untrammeled riverbank
and discover what raccoon and ****** know;
there is promise here
along the river.

I want to blaze a ****** path
and hear cracks, snaps, and squishes play a song
with each step of my boot
along the river.

I want to see what is
beyond the bend  
along the river.

Kindred balsam trails
Red rose convocations 'neath
Chestnut Knights
Swallows in Tangerine sky
Late night fires mingle with
Loblolly leviathans
Stellar captivations
Coonhounds bay for twilight
recognition
Where Mockingbird musicians trill
reverent evening chantey* ..

I'm a Texas boy
Born and raised
In the greatest and the proudest
Of the United States
Grew up in the shadows
Of them loblolly pines
This oil boom town
Sweet home o' mine

But I left it behind
To see the world
Traveled the globe
Just me and my girl
Meeting new people
Trying new things
Embracing and facing
Whatever life brings

But no matter where I've been
'cross God's green earth
My blood's kept me rooted
To my place of birth
And if you ain't from 'round here
Maybe you don't understand
You can take the man outta Texas
Can't take Texas outta the man

There's a saga in every direction
Stories to be told , a lesson languishing -
o'er tilled countryside and dirt road
Smokehouses , immaculate small towns
Sorghum presses , Pecan groves , Loblolly Crowns
May Robin carols , topwater Bream slice the surface of
brook fed glass ponds  , Whippoorwill's , Pileated Knights worshipping the given Dawn

Blackberry blossom and glorious Honeysuckle vine
Dark green Ferns and scented Loblolly Pines ...
Brush , briar thickets reducing visibility to arms reach
An Ole grey Opossum high atop a Cottonwood Tree ..
Thick floors of pine needles and knee high wild grasses
Yellow Locust , green grasshoppers flying in advance on stair -step hillsides leading into chilly Walnut Creek ...
Sandbars filled with quartz and mica , glistening between the 'Brick red clay cliffs' as far as you can see downstream ..
Painted turtles and Blue Herons , Cottonmouths and Black Racers ..
The music of life at every turn , every ripple of water , swaying River Birch ..

If I were a bee what a good bee I would be
From apple blossom to honeysuckle
From petunia to plum tree

If I were a bee what a good bee I would be
From peanut butter sandwich to sweet iced tea
Enjoying the company of the trippers , backpackers and -
picnickers
The honey , the syrup and the *** liquor

If I were a bee what a curious bee I would be
Flying high above a green mountain scene
I see bears , a buck and a sleepy red fox
A maple , an elm and loblolly tree tops .....

My mind often conjures
Up sweet memories
From days spent in youth
Beneath Loblolly Pine trees

With feet in red clay
Blue Carolina skies
If you catch me in daydream
That's where you'll find

Running through fields
Of tall Johnson grass
Rolling down hollers
Powered by laughs

Not a care in the world
Old or brand new
Kids being kids
Whistling Carolina tunes

My Papaw's old store
With worn wooden floors
Old men sitting round
Telling lies longer than yours

Fishing and hunting
Sport my memories
Keeping alive
These Carolina dreams

Tunneling into Sunday with a
gift of self
I'm the number twelve on the clock
The copied , most followed bird in the flock
A dominate loblolly
The general of a fictitious army
I'm the sunny side of the yard
A one eyed jack wild card
Let my contemporaries be the paddle ,
for today I am their handle*....

Condensate trickling neath the noontime pines
Tis the very wine of creation
Returning to a famished earth
Soothing the parched , nourishing the ailing -
and the sylvan floor enfeebled
Winter blades cascading from hardwood canopies ,
of every configuration , texture and hue
Madrigalian forest of a thousandfold , songs of cardinal ,
thrasher , bluebird , peckerwood and robin
Hickory , beech and loblolly undulate along -
the carpeted valley in November's artistic implosion
Broomsage under breaths bidding , dancing red tip grasses
and muhly , wild onion and sage in sacred midday communion* ...

I've music outside my door
Emotional tones that touch the soul
Symphonies of light and song ,
piedmont melodies to mull over ,
heavenly voices resonating o'er fields of
purple clover
Nights filled with the wonder of Lady November
Starlight , evening tinsel , a bold harvest Moon at the tip of tall Loblolly's to fondly remember
I've whippoorwills calling day to close
The smoldering leaves of Autumn to tickle my nose
A sturdy rocker , black coffee and dove call
Twilight miracles that lend faith and enthrall* ..

The natural gift of Loblolly evergreens
Mockingbird , tonic songs from colorful -
Red Bud trees
Wind whispered vows of Summer days -
with sun-swept dreams , Black Crow cackle -
across the violet , flowered green seas
Shadows of Dusk tint a Georgia blue -
canvas , Pin Oak splintered memories -
from a waning afternoon , fodder for the seasoned -
romantic , aromatic Jasmine and Honeysuckle fill , overtake
my senses*...

The hour of the painted shore , wind lashed olive waters
, brother to earth , wind and rain .. What songbird call shall answer the question of the March breeze , which spring buck shall amuse the meandering broom sage .. How the fearful turtle skims just below the sight of my wandering eye . The graceful sigh of Loblolly Pines , red tipped lake lovers , for what has day brought the coming night .. Red Shouldered hawk , the hillsides exquisite ****** crying with intricate dance , wary to every changing movement above nutmeg hued trunks that long for their crowning expectations .. The Suns command , showered in benevolent virtues akin to red , blue and gold passageways , lead brightly westbound for the river as churned lake spaces settle into placid afternoon ..
Ghost of the piedmont forest walk these woodland byways , the breath of the Creek Nation give life to such sacred parcels of heaven ..

As I take in this beautiful confusion
November's breath is but an illusion ,
misconstrued as something permanent ,
simply frost longing to paint the firmament
A homeward trail , sugar glazed southern
pastry begging for black coffee , chips of
black walnut and pecan , golden apple
stained glass fragmenting portals to nirvana
and beyond
Happy sun , frosted window masterpiece -
Wednesday
Tall , ***** loblolly knights guard this wooded
passageway
Nosey , noisy ravens giving away my location
Aromatic , seedling evergreens to tempt my
imagination* ...

On clear days it rains buckets,
swelling the headwaters
and the algae blooms gluttonous.

Rufous clay breaks into wider trenches
and the towhee flashes away.

You never flinched when I crushed your hand
on that first day on the ****** rise before a charging
buffalo sun, gnat swarming my wild panicked eyes,
giddy with each hill blue upon bluer receding.

I'm a woodland kid, baby, creek crouching
with roots and canteens of sassafras
in the leopard light and leafmold;
the wannabee Tarzan swinging
on wintercreeper vines.
I'm the scurrying rat in the stormdrain,
taking the shortcut home for supper.

But there you were, straight as loblolly pine
in the canyon lands of Chicago, prairie drifted
in with the drifters and the hawk winds
of winter to find the woodland kid dragged
blind before the gridiron sky.

Two rivers led nowhere, two rivers
and a chance confluence of running
merged and pooled in a one bedroom cave
on Belmont, hatching our tadpole dreams,
fattening the swimmers with mustard greens
and gaudy hotdogs.

When we crested the banks,
on the continental divide,
one to the woodland, one to plains,
the water ran as waters do,
and as in each great story,
the boy follows the girl,
to the ****** rise before
the charging buffalo sun,
where you held my hand
and I saw the sky for the first time.

Lake Tuesday ..
The hour of the painted shore , wind lashed olive waters
, brother to earth , wind and rain .. What songbird call shall answer the question of the March breeze , which spring buck shall amuse the meandering broom sage .. How the fearful turtle skims just below the sight of my wandering eyes .. The graceful sigh of Loblolly Pines , red tipped lake lovers , for what has day brought the coming night .. Red Shouldered hawk , the hillsides exquisite ****** crying with intricate dance , wary to every changing movement above nutmeg hued trunks that long for their crowning expectations .. The Suns command , showered in benevolent virtues akin to red , blue and gold passageways , lead boldly westbound for the river as churned lake spaces settle into placid afternoon ..
Ghost of the piedmont forest walk these woodland byways , the breath of the Creek Nation give life to such sacred parcels of heaven ..

Western breezes tell tall tales within sparkling canopies as hardwood and loblolly vie for the afternoon sky ..
The Lamp of Creation highlights a sylvan masterpiece -
with amber , gold and wild rye ....
Rambling yet pertinent ..
Blessed growth cloaked in antiquity ...

Her name is Loblolly, you
do say it quickly, see

the whole beach sticks to your tongue
she must often be told

Loblolly, please, drop what thing you have found-
   Like the Southeasterly tree?

Yep, like when spent, that conifer's cone
   By which you mean...ovally brown

Ha. Like her head.
  Plus, look, the way that her tail

Loblolly, Treat!
sends for the Sun
columnarly.