going home

You can’t go home again, Thomas,

You can't go home again.

Too many things are at end, Thomas,

Too many days and too many nights,

Too many hills we’ve had to climb

And too many times descend.

We’ve too many stories lived and told

Then placed up on the shelves;

Crossed too many windows and too many doors

To go back where we were before --

You can go home again, my love,

You can, of course you can!

The apple tree’s grown bigger now,

With branches spread for reading;

The berries bear the scars of birds,

And grapes boast in their swinging.

The childhood circled magic ring

Stands open as it did;

The little house where we first met –

And yet,

Too much has fled our grasp, Thomas,

Too many things have gone.

Too many days and too many nights,

Too many lives and too many doors

Are ashes of what went before.

You can't go home again, Thomas,

For all your words can say.

No matter that it breaks our hearts,

That life has passed away.

Leaving Dreams

These nights, rising softly from my solid bed,

I leave you to your even rise and fall

and pillowed burrowing in dreams

to follow the moon’s long reach

that gleams along the grass and mutes

the nighttime feel of cool dew crushing underfoot.

In the moongold glow, small creatures

sleek as seals swim across the dampened field,

startled from their peace by one that steals into their world.

They run, these families of skittish mice,

to hide among the garden vines, deciding

here or there to test a bite, and leaving ruined fruit

as if it has no use to them at all.

These nights, when I trade my solid bed

and the solid rise and fall of breath for cloudless skies,

I push into the moonshine meadow light, stealing

to the edges of the woods, searching

here and there for fruits to test,

and discarding pillowed dreams

as if they have no use to me at all.

My Name is West Virginia

When I asked my three-years old grandson if he knew my name, he answered without hesitation: “West Virginia.”

“No,” I said. “Grammy’s name is Karen.”

“West Virginia,” he said with a smile. “You are West Virginia.”

I am dirt road hollers

and creeks without bridges,

glowing piles of coal

and coal black, lumbering bears.

I am Black-eyed Susans

and sticky, silky Milkweed,

swelling and bursting

in Autumn scented air.

I am whispered family secrets,

kisses beneath windows,

blanket-covered porch swings

and promises made there.

I am born of revolutions

and wars against my brothers;

I am apple faced women

and men who try and dare.

I am pinto bean weekdays

with iron skillet cornbread;

I am fried chicken Sundays

and sweet'ning if you choose.

I am Onward, Christian Soldiers,

on prayer meeting Wednesdays,

embossed zippered Bibles

and patent leather shoes.

I am Mother Jones marches,

the passing of the torches,

and American dreams

that somehow do come true.

I’m the boys from the coal mines

and the girls who learned to write lines.

I am West Virginia -

a majestic mountain Muse.

vertigo

seduced by the summer
and crying of the crows

i take the only path

that has been left for me --

a journey not my own

through the textures and feel

of this unbalanced home

ivy vines

Long tendrils pry into the cracks

Between the stones to plant their flags

In conquered ground,

So every year about this time,

I war against the ivy vines

I planted here.

And as I pull the clinging green

Encroachment from the wall, I think

Of good intent

That goes astray and trespass

That overtakes the peace and

Vanquishes the heart.

speckled promise

within the ivy

shadowing my garden wall,

as if appointed

by some keeper’s unseen hand,

a hidden, speckled thing,

light as rain,

heavy as a promise,

silently reminding me

that sweetest songs

are often those unheard

ripe summer

Let the juice

Of this ripe summer

Drip from your chin

Onto your crisp white shirt.

The vine grows full

And no amount of tying

Can hold a weighted globe

From its determined fall.

Slice these days

With your sharp knife,

And sink your face

Into the sweets of time.

Only your breath,

The blade you wield,

And your crisp white shirt

Will remember

The red, ripe seeds

That bled from

This abundant

Summer vine.

Sorry for Sunday

I went walking with the wind,

Blowing through the bowers,

Floating far afield,

Following the flowers.

I ran before the rain,

Skipped ahead of showers,

Played along the path,

Whiled away the hours.

I was climbing to the clifftops,

Traversing mountain towers,

Standing on the summit,

Praising nature’s powers.

So sorry for the Sunday

My wandering walk devoured;

I welcome words of worship

If found among the flowers.

two a.m.

hollow footsteps

stop and start

and stop again,

pacing off

the day before,

the day to come;

a young girl

leans her head

against the chair

and cries in rhythm

with the young one's

pull and tug;

old hands

tremble at the lock

that holds them,

cages him,

while strangers

snore in bedrooms

down the hall;

beneath the bench

two arms, two legs

a heap of rags

and bags seep

alcohol and other

fluid death;

a siren

cuts the night -

rifts, high and long,

scream someone’s

greatest fear;

alone at two a.m.,

I drink the dark

and shrink with

hearts that scuttle

in the night.

At the Teenage Corner

White socked boys

in rolled up jeans

slick their hair and

sway and preen

while teasing,

petticoated girls

swing their skirts

and twirl their curls

in time

with the music

at the Teenage Corner.

We belly crawl

the littered path

clap hands on mouths,

try not to laugh,

beneath the porch

we quietly crouch

to watch them court,

making time

with the music

at the Teenage Corner.

Danger circles up above

flipping dimes and

keeping time,

brushing multicolored skirts

against bare legs

that tease and flirt

as they roll

with the beat

of the music

at the Teenage Corner.

We hold our breaths,

and cover our faces,

fearing and longing

for the days when

we will own

the summer nights

and the magic jukebox lights

and the dreams

of Memphis kings

and the mystery

and the music

of the Teenage Corner.