The mountains call

Ancient mountain pathways cry out to me
Beg me to come, to seek and find them
Hope even now that my feet will follow.
Groanings ancient, deep in the mountains 
Draw and tug at my hungry heart
Somehow know and call my secret name.
They know my lonely thoughts
They awake my feet, tug at my mind
Promise me hidden wonders.
My dream self runs ahead and waits
My hands reach out, fingers caress
Fine tendrils of remembering.
 

Tin Roof Drummer

The old tin roof started a tip a tap beat
As the first drops of rain hesitated
Tip tap tippa tippa tap came the beat
Down the holler the storm danced
Tin roof played a marching tune
Louder and harder the rain played
Thunder crashed and rattled windows
Rain paused and tin roof slowed
Tap tip tappa tappa tip tip
High on the hills the storm brooded
Turned loose the winds that shook
Almost lifting that ol' tin roof away
Like beating a bass drum rains boomed
Beating and banging without rhythm
Flailing and thumping and beating
Till those inside sat quiet and afraid
The storm paused, seemed satisfied
Moved away from the holler swiftly
Leaving just a few drops to play
A simple tune on the ol' tin roof
Tap tap tip tappa tap.

Muggy Morning

The promise of dawn is already summer muggy
Trees rustle with an autumn dryness
Sinking their roots deeper into parched earth
The birds that will sing good morning are asleep still
Savoring the infrequent gusts of wind
The first hints of morning are almost unwelcome
It promises to be a hot, uncomfortable day
A farmer rises early, unable to sleep
Hitches up his overalls and steps outside
Scanning the horizons for any sign of rain
His hopes of a storm, for a cooling mist
Sink low with each blink of his eyes.
It is summer, hot, uncaring summer.

Oh Appalachia

Oh, Appalachia!
How I love thee.

How my heart sings
Sweet, slow harmonies

In time to the rhythm
Sounding deep within your hills.











copyright 2012  Stephen Hollen   www.stephenhollen.com

Early Morning Passage

Even as I pass through quickly
In the dark and misty dawn
The hills call to me, sing to me
The engine races in my old truck
My heart races in my chest
Glimpses of hollers, left and right
Catch the corners of my still sleepy eyes
Old dogs rise from the yards
Of a dozen sturdy houses
They look at me as if to say,
"Where y'all been so long?
Why run off so fast?
Can't ye come on up
And sit a spell?"









 Stephen Hollen is an award winning storyteller, humorist and Mark Twain Impersonator living in Beavercreek, Ohio.  He performs and tells stories in Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, Tennessee, West Virginia, Michigan and throughout the USA. 

Ammonia Lynn Collins

Ammonia Collins wasn't much fond of her name.  It weren't spelled exactly right, in her opinion.  Her Mama had named her "Aah-moan-Nye-uh" because she had heard the name somewhere in the mountains and thought it was pretty.  Mama claimed it was either Cherokee or Choctaw and meant something right lovely, but she never remembered exactly what.

The problem happened after she was born in 1951, when her mama tried to spell it out and write the name down in the family Bible and register here home birth at the courthouse over to Manchester, Kentucky.  She dutifully rode from Beloved to Manchester with her husband Chester in their 1950 International Harvester truck, visited the County Clerk's office and with some difficulty and not just a little pride completed the short form announcing the birth and naming of Chester Woodrow Collins and Amy Rose (Sizemore) Collins first baby girl. 

Amy Rose had learned to read and write way back when some city women came down the river and set up some sort of trainin' and schoolin' camp in tents on a hillside under a grove of sycamore trees.  The city women had taught cookin', first aid, readin' and writin', sewin' and other lady like pastimes. Amy Rose had learned all the writin' she could stand that summer way back when.

When she went to the clerk and handed him the form she had her shoulders back, a smile on her face and pride in her heart.  The clerk, Homer James Goins, looked the form over and looked hard at Amy Rose.

"Ammonia?  You are namin' your little gal baby Ammonia?" he asked carefully?  One had to be careful in the clerks office.  No sense startin' a feud over a misspelling.

"No, Homer James.  It is 'Aah-moan-Nye-uh', an Indian name.  I forgot what it means, but it means something awful good in Indian.  We are part Indian, you know.  My Grandma was named Cherokee Bowling, after all."

"Yes, mam, I do remember that.  You sure that is how it is spelled?  We could spell it a little different if you want." Homer James said hopefully.

"Nossir,  that is the way it is supposed to be spelled."

That is how Ammonia, actually Ammonia Lynn Collins was named. 

Newspapered Walls

I am lonesome for the warmth
Of a coal grate burning, crackling
Glowing red and gently illuminating
Newspapers used as wallpaper
In an ancient mountain cabin.

The Hills Are Not Silent

The hills are not silent
They do not sit mute
High up on the ridges
Wind whispers secrets
Of the ages to the pines.
Water babbles as is wanders
Slow at first downhill
Then sings a bubbling song
Finally shouting for joy
As it drops from waterfalls
To crisp pools below.
Deep within even the ancient
Rocks creak and moan
As they lift the world
On their shoulders.

Hungry for the Hills by Stephen Hollen

Hills song

I run to the hills as they sing my name
Calling to me, whispering day after day
There is a comfortable old rockin' chair
Windblown and rockin' even now
As if warmin' up, ready for me.

Weary

I am weary
Weary of the grind
Weary of the blare
Of unwanted television news
Of the cry of talking heads
Creating economic disaster
With their intrusive blather
Crying in the spilt beer
Of lost financial gain
Weary of television, radio, internet.

I want to run to the hills
Hope for poor signals
Hope for undelivered papers
I want to walk in a woods
Filled with promise
As jack in the pulpits
Sneak through the debris
As May apples lift up.
I want to be scolded by squirrels
Angry that I have walked into their woods
I want to sit under an oak
Simply listen to the world
And perhaps sleep
Perhaps dream.

Step Out

What's your story
Who are you
Anyway?
Where do you hide?
The real you
The you nobody
Ever sees
Knows or meets.
Why do you hide
What are you hiding?
When will you step out
From behind the facade
And live life?

Meet me in the hills
Wander the woods
Sit and let mice play
Romping over your boots
Sneaking under your soles.
Listen to sunrise
Watch the sunset
Sing quietly in harmony
With the birds
Giggle at the doe
Who startles
When you sneeze.

Remember your place
In all of creation
You are not a product
Of plastic, electronics
Or concrete and brick.
You are called
Your name is whispered
Sung silently day after day
By trees, bushes
Hills, hollers
Rocks, rills and ridges
The very stones thrum
Tum Thrum
Spelling out a love song
To you
In some sort of
Ancient code
Letter by letter
Calling you home.

Love Song

The hills are calling to me more and more in the last few weeks. Work, a crazy economy, terrible gas prices and Wall Street making folks crazy have kept me away far too long. I have been an indentured servant to the needs of the job and my heart flutters with grieving as I drive past fields or waiting corn, meadows full of deer grazing on dying grasses. When I see birds gathering for their southern journey, I dream of the hills of home, of my little cabin in the woods, of the oranges, reds and yellows of tall oaks, hickory and maple trees.

Soon and very soon I shall escape, without telling anyone, without a word of warning, I will slip out quietly and run home again, to the mountain I love, to my muse, my solice, my quiet place.

I dream of sitting on my porch with a big ol' glass of sweet tea, maybe my harmonica in my pocket and a dulcimer on my lap. Maybe I'll play a tune or two or maybe I'll just sit and listen to the whisper of the woods, calling to me through the evening as twilight sneaks up on me, finding myself in the night before I am ready to give over the day to sleep.

I will dream of the trees, of the rocks and ridges that call to me, that sing a love song in the night, that lull me to sleep.

I will awaken refreshed and glad. Morning with dance with me in the dew laden grass and we shall wrap our arms around the day, morning and I. We will dance and the birds will sing our joy at being home once again.

That is where my heart is. They say that when the last queen of Hawaii died, she had her heart removed and buried secretly while her body went through the dignities of a Western Culture funeral.

Maybe she had it right.

Wherever my body shall rest, my heart shall dance in the wet dew with the morning for eternity.

Autumn Song

I revel in the fall.
I shout at the hills
Telling them it is here.
I want to dance
Through the hollers
Down the weary paths
Round the oak and hickory
Singin' the trees a lullaby
Tellin' them to rest, sleep
Wake up in the spring.
I want to reel and waltz
Round an' round
The mountain laurel
Down the deer trail
Twirlin' about
As the mornin' mist
And multicolored leaves
Swirl round my dancin' feet
As the clefts an' rises
Echo my call
Repeat my song
It is fall.

Morning

Those crowded into the brick
And concrete of cities
May never notice the sun
As it sets all orange like
Or see the blue of a new morning
As they rush to work.
The sun in their eyes causes a curse
As they reach for sunglasses
To dim their view of the world.

In the hills, or on any farm
There is seldom a day
That farmers don't stop and look
Up to the sky,
Looking at the world and judging
What will the weather bring.
Seldom does a golden sunset
Escape their weary glance
Or a morning fade to noon
Without an old man
Worn by toiling in the dirt
Stopping to look and say
To himself,
"My oh my, that sure is one pretty day."

Come

Come go with me
Let's run away now.
Follow me to the hills
I'll take you to my secret place.

Run away now
Don't think.
Don't wait for the world
To talk sense into your head.

Follow me, come
I'll show you magical places
Where whipperwills call
So mournful you'll cry.

Walk deep into the hills
Step slow in the shadows.
Far under the tall hickory
Neath the giant oak.

Just walk away
Away from the rush.
Away from the hurry
The busy that robs the soul.

Stop an' listen a bit
Close your eyes.
Open your ears and wait
There, can you hear?

Do you see, smell taste
Oh, it is good.
It is clean an' new an' callin'
Can't you hear?

Won't you hear
Please just listen.
Don't be wooed
By the hustle an' rush.

Stop, don't run
Don't run back.
Them hills need you
Much as you need them.

Comfort Sounds

Somethin' comfortin' about the sound
Of an axe splittin' wood.
The crack of it
Floatin' up the creek
Calms a busy mind.
Shh, voices,
Soft an' intimate
Sneak along the hills.
Folks hardly know
Their conversations
Get away from them
And run to neighbors
With all them little
Secrets of livin'.

Just a Question

Ever wonder where them little minnows are goin’ or what they are doin’ when they swim so very fast in the creek over by home? Have y’all sat down lately and let your feet hang close to the water as you watch the water skippers dart from place to place or seen a crawdad, dark as mud, creepin’ from rock to rock? Has your vision gone fuzzy an’ your mind drift off while watchin’ them go about their lives, not knowin’ you are sittin’ just over their world?

I didn’t think so. I was watchin’ you an’ just knew you hadn’t taken time to sit by a creek in a while. You have that hurried look about your sorry self. Sort o’ like you are too important to sit on a dusty bridge. Too uppity to just stare at an ol’ muddy creek. I reckon y’all think it matters to the world that you are off to a job where you peck at a machine, stack papers or shelve books or call folks for one reason or another.

Wonder when the last time was you took your darlin’ by the hand an’ walked quiet like through the mountains? Ever called in to that job an’ said you needed to get away and let your spirit lead as you wander through the hills of home? No? Have y’all ever sat in one place in the wood for so long even the squirrels forget you was there an’ went about their day huntin’ an’ diggin’ an climbin’?

I had a feelin’ you would say “no”.

Cousin, what you need is a liberation of the mind. A freedom of your spirit. First thing you got to do is stop an’ go outside for a bit. Shut up an listen.

If you are quiet long enough I reckon you will hear the hills callin’ your name. If you ever lived there, or your Mama or Daddy, or even your Grandpa three times removed, the hills know your name. They whisper it all day, every day, hopin’ you will stop just for once and listen. It is like a lover’s voice. I bet y’all have thought you heard your name floatin’ on an evenin’ breeze. Probably wondered who was a callin’ you.

Now, you’ll be askin’ how the hills know to call. It is the sweet earth, the rocks – slate an’ shale, sandstone deep in the earth with your family name etched deep on each rock. Your initials are carved into the hearts of the trees yonder on the hillsides. Your secret name is hidden in the tight buds of a magnolia deep in a holler that held your family homestead. That apple tree gone fallow now, standin’ in the shadow of a long forgotten chimney still bears a sweet apple waitin’ for you to pluck it, taste its sweetness.

Them hills know you, dear cousin. There is a thread tied from your heart to that holler where your spirit wants to stand. The deer waits and watches for you. The Red Tail Hawk soars over, checkin’ for you day by day. The Barn Owl cries “who, who” but knows who…it is you. The birds sing in hopes of your homecoming. The doves cry a sad song because you are not there.

Go, go as fast as you can. Do not stop till you are there. Run to the hills, fall to your knees and dig your hands into the rich earth at the feet of them worn out ol’ hills. Stomp your feet in your worn out brogans an’ dance in the tall sweet grass grown up ‘round the stones that are the foundation of that homestead, the foundation of your soul. If you dare, dance naked in the twilight. Throw your clothes in every direction as you spin the soft mist around you like cotton candy as it falls to the valley floor. Dance naked to the tune of a thousand tree frogs clingin’ to the sourwood, sassafras an’ cedars an’ be reborn to the mountains.

Dip your feet into the cold creek as branches flow from mountaintops, the very waters dancin’ at your homecoming! Sit on a bridge an’ let your vision go fuzzy an’ your mind wander. Watch them minnows an’ they will show you their secret…

They aren’t goin’ anywhere, they are spellin’ out your name.

Hungry for the Hills

Sometimes a soul just gets hungry,
Not homesick exactly.
More like hungry for the hills
Like there is an empty spot
Needin' ancient low mountains
Worn before men ever came.
Hills that wear on a soul
But become the lifeblood of a man.

Eyes that grieve for mountain laurel
Dogwoods bloomin' high on the hill.
Lookin' for tobaccer grown tall
The dark wood of a well worn barn.
Glancin' around for a hand waved
Arms thrown high in greetin'.
The smile of a dark eyes little girl
Man's heart's hers even before she grows up.
Eyes ache for the glimpse of a mountain woman.

Mind races to the hills
Tastin' yellow dust on grinnin' lips
Thrown up on an ol' dirt road.
Almost there, almost there
Past barn and field.
Through creek an' up holler
Under the sourwood tree
Over the mountain path
There, go down that deer trail

See it, See it?
Coveyed tween two hills.
Tin roof gleamin' bright
Washed by God's good rain.
Logs stacked ageless and aged.
The drystacked rock chimbley
Just buzzin' with mud daubers
Stealin' little ol' bits.
Smokehouse an' barn ancient brown
Well bucket swingin' joyfully.
It heard from the deep waters of the well
Who heard whispers from the branch
News trickled down from the creek
Found out as you forded the river.

Walk on up now to the cabin.
Been waitin' patiently for you'uns.
Feet knock on each stair
Feelin' the strength of the mountains.
Screen door sings it's ache as springs stretch.
Latchstring is out,
Go in, go in.
The cool of the cabin wraps around
Familiar smells rush to greet
Each beggin' like a dog
Smell me, smell me.

Black woodstove has waited patiently.
Logs at the ready, matches dry.
Windows suck light in
Rockin' chairs ache for the sittin.
Rest here, rest here.
The heart is home.
The soul is fed.
Eyes taste and see
Comfort food, soul nutrition.
Appalachian mountains reach up
Through rock foundation
Through poplar plank floors.
Into travelin' feet wantin' rest
Tendrils of the hills lace into the spirit.
Like briars they sprout easily in willin' soil.
Seeds of them hills bloom quickly.
Turnin' the desert of livin'
On the wrong side of the Ohio
Into an Eden of bein' home to the hills.

Balm in Gilead

Cousins,
I don't know why it is that I get lonely for the hills of Kentucky. I can't say why my mind races back there like the mind of a young boy thinking of his sweetheart. I don't reckon there is an answer in genetics, hormones or even environment.

I just know ever' now and again I get a cravin' flung on me to head home for the hills. It is as if the Appalachian mountains are full of sirens, calling to the poor unwitting mountain boy, calling him back over and over again to feed on the pleasure one takes in viewing the hills, the hollers, the rough cabins and wary peoples of the mountains.

I can close my eyes even now and hear them call, the hills of Kentucky. They sing a haunting harmony, calling to the heart of those born and bred there. Their song is sweet ...bittersweet even... with the toils and tears of a life that wore on those who lived there.

Do not think ever that it is or was an easy life. Clay Country, Kentucky, where my family started settling in about 1802, is one of the 3 poorest counties in the US. So it is not for the riches or income or promise of wealth that we seek the hills.

It is for the richness of a way of life, of friend and family, kith and kin. It is for the joy of listening to locusts on a hot July day and knowing that the tabaccer field is weeded, the animals fed and chores done. That joy comes in knowing you can rest for a spell. In the heat of the day you can sit on the porch and listen lazily to the laughter of a creek just there...at the end of the cabin.

If it gets hot enough, y'all might want to go down and just sit in that cool stream

If you go to the hills, don't stay long. If you do you will never forget the beauty. you will never lose sight of the hills. They will haunt you for the rest of your days. They will call like sirens as you dream. If you go and stay for long, you will be back.

I promise you will.