Foggy mornin' in the mountains

The fog is thick, as if the clouds dropped down to wrap misty arms around the mountains an' fill the hollers to the brim. Darkness latches onto the fog an' pushes hard agin the on-comin' day.

The thick damp mist muffles the sounds of dawn. Birds are feather fluffed an' quiet, waitin' for the sun that still hides behind the clouds. Roosters wander out of the hen house damp an' bedraggled, not willin' yet to crow an' call in the dawn.

Big Ben clocks ring harsh in the not yet day, unwindin' as they cry "rise an' shine". Ol' men reach out an' lift the clock to stare with sleep sandy eyes, seein' it ain't yet sunrise, thinkin' Big Ben must be lyin', must be wrong.

But mantle clocks an' that big ol' number 18 sized pocket watch, coin silver case an' 17 jewel sure both speak the same truth. Mornin' has come, no sun has risen, but mornin' has come home to the hills.

As they rise up, womenfolks sit on the side of the bed, gatherin' their long hair into buns, pullin' strands tight an' under tortoise shell combs. Aprons on, they head for the kitchens to throw kindlin' into cook stoves, light a fire, wash up an' get breakfast together.

The menfolks are more verbal as they stand, groan moanin' an' unsteady with mornin' aches to pull on overalls, drag on worn out socks and slowly tie up scuffed brogans. In cabins up an' down the creek they wander to the kitchen, wash up in the pans of water warm an' waitin' for them, grab a sup of water from the dipper before they lift the pail, head for the well to draw fresh water an' then to the barn to feed the mules, milk the cows an' begin the day's work.

It is mornin' in the mountains, hidden by the fog, not delayed.

Mornin' in the Mountains

Though dawn is still far away
Old eyes blink once, twice, open.
Nothing stirs in the early darkness
Big Ben alarm clock steadily ticks
Counting time, keepin' the beat
Keepin' a steady pace, onward till morn.
The yellowed newspapers pasted tight
Against the walls are still unseen
Old news, oxymoron long forgotten
Now keeps out the wind an' cold.
Deep feather bed is a sleepy nest
Quilts are hand stitched security
Pulled chin high an' held tight
Against the day, the morn, the dawn.
Then high on the hill, just there
A lone robin wakes, shakes an' sings
Inside a blink, a yawn an' ol' leg creaks.
Ol' dog's long vigil held on the floor
Curled nose to tail on a braided rag rug.
Them creakin' bones made ol' dog stir
Tail thumpin' 'gainst ancient chestnut
Hand hewn, sandstone smoothed puncheon floor.
Deep in a holler, down the creek
An ol' ramblin' cabin sits quiet like
Coiled tight like a spring, waitin'
For the ol' Big Ben to ringle jangle
Mornin'! Good mornin', Get up an' go.
Soon lights will lighten, brighten windows
Push through the humid darkness
Coffee, boiled long, strong, aroma thick
Will seep through every door,
Curl in every corner, warmin' hearth an' heart
It is mornin' in the mountains.

Early Morning Dreams

In the darkness of early morning
Well before the dawn,before my neighbors rise
I stood and watched the clouds move slow
Majestic as they sail across the sky above my head.
The high winds have pushed them tight
They appear to be washboards in the heavens
As if a wondrous giant wash woman waits
For dawn and a new day to scrub away yesterday.

Frost is painted on roof, fence and grass
Sparkling like the stars that twinkle and play Hide and seek in the blue morning sky.
It is so quiet now, no spring peepers or songbirds
No roosters, old dogs or even the sounds of cars and commerce
Just the quiet that is before the dawn.

As I stand in the cold morning I remember dreams and wonders
Dreams of spaceships and other worlds that surely spin
Around the very stars I see in my sky.
Dreams of  fairies, dwarves, heroes and elves, giants, gryphons,
And wings that spring from my back, a wondrous surprise
 As I spread wings and reach out to the winds and rise up and fly.

Rainy Mornin' in the Mountains

Down yonder in the mountains, deep in the holler
A right smart drive from any little ol' town
Little ol' cabins sit coveyed up in a wide spot
Not much more than a couple fields an' a creek
Sittin' in the flat place made as two hills run together.

It is early mornin' an' the mist still clings tight
Seems to wrap tendrils around the trees an' weeds
Writhes an moves an' reaches out here an' yonder
Hangin' on a might longer since it is rainin'.

Soon enough a weak an' ancient sun will rise
Tryin' to punch through the mist, rain an' clouds.
Birds will wake up an ruffle their damp feathers
Roosters, hoarse from the damp will crow a scratchy "cock-a-do".

Cows in beat up an' broken down barns are gonna beller
Hopin' someone will be out soon to milk.
Ol' dogs will rise out of the dust under them cabin porches
Shake an' look out at the rain only to drop down again.

 Lights are soon to come on an' little streams of smoke
Will start to rise from chimneys as coals are poked
An' big ol' potbelly stoves are stoked.
It is a rainy ol' mornin' in the mountains.

Folks are just a' risin', breakfast just a' cookin'.
Ol' men will be movin' slow this mornin'.
Bones just achin', feet a' hurtin' as they pull on their shoes.
But they is chores to be done, stock to feed.

It is a rainy ol' wonderful, blessed mornin' in the mountains.
Y'all come home.  Come on home.

Sneaky Morning

A cool and quiet morning snuck in.
In the midst of newspapers and comic strips,
Coffee and a plate of bacon, biscuits and eggs
Morning just showed up unannounced.

I looked up and wondered what happened
Why had the dawn so quickly slipped away?
When did it choose to wander out the side door
Not bothering to tell me good-bye?

The King of Dawn

In the early morning hours the sky is dark, midnight blue and clear
As if God laid his royal robe over the earth for a moment.
The stars glitter brightly, they are His royal diadem
Dropped carelessly onto the majestic robe as He passed by.

The crescent of the new moon is surely the jewel
Set atop His Scepter, laid aside for just a while
As He tends to the hearts and hurts of men, women
Little ones who cry out even now to a loving God.

Royal vestments aside, the Shepherd of our lives
Searches each one out, reaches out to comfort.
He turns to see His Son and Spirit waiting, watching.
To the great Comforter he speaks softly, gently;

"Tend this one, and those over yonder, they need Our touch."
And in the early morning hours, awakened by the Son,
Warriors rise up, drop to their knees and intercede
Not knowing who or what the need is, but knowing.

In the early morning hours hurting and desperate folks
Cry out to the Omnipotent Creator, not as King of Kings
Nor as the Great Shepherd of His far flung flock
But like a little lost child, crying, "Abba, Daddy".

Dark and Damp Morning

It is a morning that is still dark and damp
The air is so very cool for a Summer day.
In the darkness there is no birdsong
They've not yet awakened to brighten the day.
 In the distance there is the sound of traffic
Men and women already rushing from home.
Minds wrapped around all they must accomplish
But it is a morning that is dark and damp.
 The world is still quiet, nature still rests.
The grass clings to the drops of rainwater
That so freely fell during the short summer night
Soon the sun will burn away the excess.
But the grass drinks quickly and deeply in the dark.
 Lights are blinking on in distant windows
Coffee is surely brewing, children are being roused.
Loud yellow buses will command the roads.
Little ones will appear hump-backed in the distance
Shouldering backpacks and talking loudly
Hiding their nervousness on the second day of school.

But it is still a dark and damp morning.
Nature still sleeps, waiting for the sun to slowly climb
Inch by inch into the empty eastern sky.

Muted morning

The morning is damp and muted
As if the rain turned the volume down.
Back yonder a rain dove calls
Her plaintive cry is lonely an' slow.
Other songbirds are slow to join in
As morning rises and the day beckons.

A few Saturday morning tidbits

Here are a couple pieces from the archives for a lovely Saturday morning:

 A piece of ragged verse called "Morning
http://www.mountainstories.net/2006/05/morning.html

Another simply titled "Sassafras"
http://www.mountainstories.net/2006/06/sassafras.html

Last of all, a short piece called "Good"
http://www.mountainstories.net/2006/05/good.html

Foggy Blanket

My world is wrapped in a damp shroud
Thick fog clings to the ground
Reaches up and covers any hint of morning.
Headlights shine shafts of brightness
Pushing unsuccessfully through the mist.
It has wound around trees, bushes and homes
In the distance the eastern horizon
Does not yet exist, is not there.

Rise Up You Will

The comfort of a mornin' rain
Drummin' a constant beat
On a worn out tin roof.
Birds callin' in the trees
Yonder, up on the hillside.
The warmth of this ancient quilt
The texture of cloth and stitching.
Just smell the strong smell of coffee
Inhale the promise of bacon crisp.
Apples fried in a cast iron skillet
Cat head biscuits still risin' in the oven.
Eggs just gathered from under a fussy hen
Broke into a skillet and fried careful like
Just the way y'all like them.
It ain't fittin' to rise up to such a feast
But rise up you will, ready to go.
Its mornin' down here in the holler
Y'all wash up an' take a seat.

Battle for Morning

Fuzzy mornin', cold mornin'
Don't want to wake mornin'
Worn ol' quilt up to my neck
It is a losin' battle though
Fought hard against a cheerful robin
And the smell of bacon cookin'.

Bird Song

The eastern sky is still dark
Yet birds have started singing
They seem to wait, to take a cue
And then begin to wake
Ruffled feathers, stretching wings
Then they hop to another branch
Beaks open and waiting for a nod
Morning steps in sight just then
Spring smiles gently and sighs
Dawn lifts her glory onto the stage
Then joyous, the birds begin!

Muddled Dawn

It is early dawn and the day is yet defined
The eastern horizon is covered in a mist
That has muddled the first attempts at morning.
Purple, yellow orange and red swirl together
Behind that opaque curtain in the distance
As if they are beauty contestants
Vying for the title of Queen of the Day.
As I sit and wonder about the winner.
Which shall introduce the wonderment?
The joy of a new day rolling along 
Toward me through the misty morn.
Flashing finally brilliant and bright.
Which shall win the prize and glow
In the eastern sky
Purple, yellow, orange or red?

Is Down Home still Home?

 I'm just sorta homesick for the hills of home. 

Dreamin' and wonderin' if the air is still as sweet

The dew on the grass, does it still glisten

Diamond bright in the morning sun?

 Do folks still wave an' holler "Hey, howdy!"

As cars an' trucks pass by their place?

Do they sit on the porch each evenin'

Watchin the day finish it's rounds?

Is sweet tea still as sweet?

Does cornbread crumble on your plate

As you spread fresh churned butter on?

Is down home still... down home?

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.

Early Morning Back Roads

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

Celestial Shades

The morning sky was washboarded
With red and orange hued clouds
As if God was raising celestial shades
Pulling back the curtains on a glorious day.











 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. 

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. 

First Peep

Not too very far
In the darkness
Of unrealized morning
Peepers cling tight
To bark and twig
Grass and branch
Singing long and loud
Calling to lovers
Peeps of high pitched harmonies