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 Back Roads

An early morning drive
Over back roads
Down country paths 
So long ago taken.

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. 

Narcotic Naptime.

It is a lazy dog, hang dog, sleepy rooster afternoon
Though it is not yet summer there is a haze
Thick, damp and sticky hangin' over the house
Weighin' down my eyelids an' smotherin' my thoughts.

Sleep sings a lullaby and hints at such lovely dreams
Junebugs fall into the grass just too tired to dance
To weary to spread chitinous wings in the hazy day
Faceted eyes seekin' a welcomin' twig or leaf.

A wind pushes through once, twice but fails
Not enough bluster or strength to sweep through
Cobwebs seem to hang over my gumption
Nap time whispers like a wicked woman.












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

Breakin' Beans

Worn hands reach mechanically
Into a beat up tin pan
Grabbing a handful of green beans
Taking one after another
Between skilled fingers
To string, break, drop
Into a waiting pan.
String, break, drop
String, break, drop
As the old woman sits
Quietly working as she swings
In her porch swing,
Listening to the National Barn Dance
On her big ol' Philco radio.

Dank Dawn

It is a dank and misty dawn
A morning that stirs up
Stories of ghosts and spooks
And headless horsemen.
A drippy, wet morning
Full of damp dog smells
And distant hints of wood smoke.
Coughs and fits sound thin
From an ancient rooster
Somewhere up a holler.
Along the dirt roads
Standin' under the umbrella
Of protective trees
Or in a tin roofed shelter,
Teenagers grin in the dark
As they haunt little fellers
With stories of haints
Monsters and bumpitty sounds
In the dark.

Morning in Beloved

As the sun rises
It is a bright
Banana yellow
With a rind of orange.
Through my window
The world is awakening
To Crayola colors
As if creation was
A coloring book.
A periwinkle sky is filled
With clouds whipped thin;
But clouds are no competition
For sun or sky.
In the distance the hills
Stand round about this holler
A ring of isolation
From a harsh world.
The morning mist wraps
Next like batting,
But more alive than
Sun or sky or even trees.
Closest to this cabin
Guardians stand tall
Oak, pine and hickory
Silhouettes against the mist.
Sourwood, dogwood and redbud
Huddle near their feet.
Guarding the low road
That leads to home.

With regret I lower the curtain
I have held ever so long
As I looked out in wonder,
Turn away with regret.
Oh, that I could stay at that window
Watching the sunrise
Watching my little holler
As the world seems to forget
I am there.