"papaws" poems
Please, read this with the thickest southern accent you've ever heard. It's my language. It's my home...
Hee Haws on the TV
Chicken's fryin' in cast iron skillets
Taters and maters scent mama's clothes
no AC
Papaws in the bacca field
Granny's sippin' on sweet tea
The law stopped comin' here they say,
Back in '23
The fruit's ripe for pickin
daddy did that last week
He said the Apple brandy
Tasted perfect,
bitter sweet
The moonshine makers meet
When the crickets sing at night
they pass around mason jars
'neath the moon
and southern stars
The wine stays burried till fall
muskadine,
other than strawberry
the very best kind
The yanks
buy it up
Its funny to watch 'em
they can't handle their stuff
The Demory Mart stays busy
oh Lord it's so much fun!
When the moonshiners play pool,
till the rising of the sun
Momma don't like it,
Lord she gets so mad!
But she puts my church shoes on me
and I know she still loves dad
But now the still's turned green
as copper always does
There are no moonshiners left
Time has passed, just 'cause
Papaw's gone
the fields have grown up
there are no moonshiners left
it's all store bought, mason jars
have turned to cups
Demory Mart is Yankee owned
the church has indoor plumbing
But late at night, I hear the banjo's
and the stills, copper humming....
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
Walk into a room filled with wisdom and pride,
The love you projected never lied,
Always there to give me a guide,
Making sure my heads on right.
Being in your presence was pure joy
Filled with laughter and chuckles,
But you were as stubborn as brass knuckles.
You found god and for that I'm thankful
Because now he has the most perfect angel.
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 2:05 PM UTC