Lost Spring

Spring has lost her way
Somewhere she wanders
Coming here and back again 
Making promises unkept
Warm days and balmy nights
Trees budding and blooming
Daffodils pushing through
Dandelions springing up
Almost overnight they bloom
Only to be bitten and twisted
As spring hides, turns her back
And Winter romps over the scene.

First poem for National Poetry Writing Month

Mrs. Chappell's Wild Ride

Well sir, yesterday was full of excitement over to Booger Holler and at the home of my Cousin Peanut Chappell! I was not there, but heard all about it over to Buster Hollen's Barber Shop when I stopped in to get a trim.

Seems Cousin Peanut's Mama, Mrs. Chappell (we pronounce it MIZZ in the hills, of course) had determined to face the 8 inches of heavy snow and get out of the house to get some root vegetables an' gather the eggs from her hens over in the henhouse. Now that henhouse is actually a shed sort of thing built onto the side of the barn and there is a door from the barn into it. This makes it easy to go into the barn, get some corn and step in to feed and gather eggs.

She put on her husband Vergie's worn out ol' work boots that she often wore in muddy or icy weather. She thought they had better soles than her day to day shoes an' they came up over her ankles. She sort of figured they would keep the snow off her feet better. As she left the house she grabbed a big ol' dishpan so she could gather the eggs in it an' carry in some taters an' other root vegetables from the barn to make supper later that afternoon.

Goin' out weren't no problem. She was careful an' grabbed onto the clothesline post along the way to steady herself. The deep snow was covered by a sheet of ice an' her feet crunched through as she walked.

Once in the barn, she shelled some corn off the cob and put it into her apron as she held the bottom hem up to make a pouch for the corn. Steppin' into the henhouse caused a flurry of feathers an' cluckin' as the chickens gathered round her to peck at the corn as she tossed it to the ground. Though there was a small door for the chickens to get outside, they hadn't ventured out much in the snow an' it had almost closed up their exit.

She was right disappointed that they was only three hen eggs in the nestin' boxes. This cold an' snow had put the layin' hens off for the last few weeks. She gathered the eggs into her apron and went back into the barn.

After she carefully laid them eggs in the dishpan, she went to the back of the barn an lifted the angled door that led from the barn into the root cellar. Vergie had been right smart to build the barn with the henhouse an' the root cellar built on. She stepped down the two steps an' turned on the flashlight that hung from some balin' wire just inside the door. It gave her enough light to grab some taters, carrots an' turnips before she went back out an' into the barn.

That is when things went from normal to excitin'. She put them root vegetables in the dish pan, went out the barn door, turned to make sure it was latched an' turned back to start to the house. She noticed that it had started snowin' hard again when she turned an' took a step.

It was that turn that did her in, I reckon.

Y'see, Vergie had got himself a new pair of work boots a couple years back because the old ones was worn out and the sole was rubbed as slick as a slate rock from years of work an' wear. When Mrs. Chappell stepped out an' turned around she lost her feet out from under herself an' went down on her backside.

She let go of one side of that dishpan an' the eggs an' root vegetables flew out. When she put her hands down to catch herself the dishpan somehow got under her backside an' she landed in that dishpan on that icy snow.

That was just enough to start her skiddin' over the yard an' toward their ol' Ford truck. As she saw it comin' up fast, she laid back like one of them luge sled fellers goin' feet first. She went right under the truck an' out the other side but went to her left an' right into the dry branch that runs along the yard.

Once she hit that dry branch it was all down hill an' feet first. She commenced to squallin' an' carryin' on to beat the band. Vergie is a good bit hard of hearin' an' he thought it was just the snow an' wind comin' down the mountain an' through the holler. He sat back in his easy chair, closed his eyes to take a little ol' nap, smiled an' just listened, glad to be in on such a bad day. He couldn't wait for the hot beef an' vegetable soup Mrs. Chappell was goin' to make that evenin' for supper.

Well, things weren't goin' so good for his wife. She was a goin' down that dry branch like a locomotive, squallin' into the wind, the snow hittin' her in the face an' beginnin' to cover her all over. Folks paused all over the mountain, wonderin' what they heard. Most thought it was just the snow storm that had hit.

Then her foot caught on the branch of a cottonwood tree an' she commenced to spinnin' round an' round in that dish pan! The spinnin' made her squeals an' squalls sound like some sort of police (pronounced po-leese) or sheriff car or fire truck. Ever' one knew they was no fire trucks close by an' a few, includin' Dr. Percival Poovey (a purveyor of potent potables - he made 'shine an' sold snake oil on the circuit), was hopin' the sheriff weren't comin' after them an' made themselves scarce.

Just imagine that sight! Some critter comin' down the dry branch, all white an' snow covered, spinnin' like a top an' bustin' your ear drums with its carryin' on. It scared several youngin's who was sleddin' behind Booger Holler Hard Shell Baptist Church. They ran inside the church, found the preacher an' confessed they had stole some cigarettes an' had a smoke! They wanted right there to get themselves right in case that was judgement that had screamed down the mountain an' by them

Mrs.Chappell commenced to doin' some very unladylike cussin' an' carryin' on as she continued her wild ride, twirlin' like one of them there dervishes folks read about in the National Geogramic. Snow had completely covered her an' she almost looked like a purdy white weddin' cake or some store bought sweetnin' spinnin' on display in a big ol' picture window.

Finally the branch started to level off an' she dug the heel of one boot into the snow to slow her wild ride down an' stop the spinnin'. She hit a log across the branch, flew into the air, still hangin' onto the dishpan an' landed on the hood of her middle boy, Walter Nutt Chappell's (Folks call him WalNutt) vintage AMC Gremlin. Her face smashed up agin the windshield an' the wipers started to clean the snow an' ice off her face.

WalNutt had been startled as a huge snowball landed on his Gremlin. Y'all can just imagine how shocked he was when the wipers revealed the face of his little ol' Mama, all squishy agin the windshield.

She blinked a few times, grabbed an' held the wipers and stared fierce like only a Mama can. She pointed a finger at WalNutt an' spoke quiet like, "Get me off'n here an' get me home.

He lifted her off the Gremlin, shook her good an' hard to get all the snow off an sat her down. She didn't take too well to the shakin' an' slapped him hard.

"I said GIT me home, boy! An' never tell anyone about this." She said to him as she looked up into his frightened eyes. She threw her dishpan into the back seat, got in the AMC Gremlin and sat starin' straight forward.

He swore he wouldn't breathe a word of it to anyone. He drove her home, helped her in an' went out to the barn to gather the eggs an' root vegetables. He was plain ol' shocked that not one of them hen eggs was broke. He took them into the house, woke Vergie to say "Howdy" and was on his way.

WalNutt Chappell went directly to Buster Hollen's Barber Shop an' waited till he was in Buster's barber chair to say, "Fellers, do I have a story to tell you!"

I didn't hear it first round. I was over to Knuckle's Dollar Store when I was told I needed to stop in the Barber Shop to hear about Mrs. Chappell's Wild Ride!

I heard it there and now have told it to you just as it happened. I wouldn't lie to you 'bout it! That is just how it happened. I'd rather eat fried chicken than lie to friends.

Snow Drifted Dreams

From his window the old man sits close to the coal grate an' watches sleepily as snow curls an' drifts around the barn on the hill.

It finds crevices and crannies to sink into, forming swirls, whirls and spirals of glistenin' white as the wind lifts and throws snow like a youngin' explorin' their first snowfall.

As the lumps of coal crackle and pop his mind looks back an' peeps into windows of memory, to times when he was young an' full of himself. Times when he would lace up his boots, throw on a coat an' wander up to the barn to make sure doors were tight latches, mules were fed an' content. Times when he would throw kindlin' into that ol' barn stove, light 'er up an' create a small spot of warmth an' escape from his cabin.

Not that they was chores that had to be done right smack dab in the midst of a winter storm, you see. A feller just needs to get out of his little ol' cabin an' see the world, work his hands an' body now an' again.

When the stove was goin' good a few lumps of coal thrown in would burn for such a long time. Then the real chores could be looked to. His tobaccer had been stripped an' was sent to the big warehouses to be sold not too long after they opened the sales floors in late November. He kept a good eye on the leaves as they hung in the barn. When they came into case there was always a flurry of work as the leaves was graded an' tied into hands. His tobaccer base weren't so very big back then, but it made for a fair to middlin' income when he was a raisin' tobaccer.

On them long winter days a feller would sweep the dirt floor to get up the remnants of the tobaccer gradin'. Tobaccer knives would be sharpened, oiled an' hung back up. Tables an' benches checked for boards needin' replacin'.

One of his favorite chores was to repair an' oil his harnesses, lines an gear for his mules. Inch by inch he would pass the well oiled leather through his hands, lookin' for cracks or dry spots needin' oil. Them ol' mules would snort an' cough, wantin' to be put into harness an' sent out to work. They got just as tired of the weather but icy ground could mean a broke leg for an ol' mule, so they stayed put.

There were times when chores could wait. Times when mules was fed an' brushed down, stalls were shoveled out, dirt floors swept clean. Those times was the best, the finest. Those times he would put a chair close to the stove an' just sit, damp boots close to the heat an' steam risin' from them as they dried. Don't know why men sit an' stare at an ol' stove as it crackles,pops an burns. He always suspected they was a studyin' on somethin'. That is what he would do, just sit an' study on the deep things of life.

The ol' man grinned an' blinked. He sat in his cabin for ever so long lookin' into the embers of coal that wormed an twisted in the grate. Yep, he could an' should get his coat on an' wander up to that ol' barn. They was always chores to be done.

He leaned back into his chair, pointed his feet toward the coal grate and smiled. Them chores could wait for a while yet. This here fire felt pretty good too.

A Cabin Waits

In my early morning dreams and sleepy drifting I wander down an old dirt road and just as I turn the bend I see an ol' cabin just waitin' for me. It is carefully placed at the head of a holler, sourwood trees full of bees just a buzzin' on hillsides that rise high above. Though it is day, there is a light in the window to let me know I am welcome an' the cabin waits for me.

I ease up onto the porch an' sit in one of the sturdy rockin' chairs, ancient an' well worn but made well, just as the cabin is. I look out on the road an' realize the view is perfect. The sound of cicadas catch my ear an' I sit back to listen as they hum a mountain tune.

Just over to the right of my vision I see a creek slappin' an' dancin' over rocks an' divin' deep in them calm spots. Water skippers skate along an little ol' minnows dart here an' yonder. As I watch my vision almost glazes over, like they are a hypnotizin' me. But they ain't, I see it just then, they are a spellin' my name, tellin' me I am home.

Unexpected Snow

A heavy wet snow covers the hills of home
Weighing down trees as it clings like an icy parasite
Pushing branch and bush low and breaking twig
Smothering the buds of the rhodedendren

Look up the hillside and see tracks of rabbits
Pathways pushed by squirrels awake and hungry
The cautious track... slow step and pause,
Step and pause as a doe wanders along the ridge.

Birds still wake and sing their eternal love songs
Their bright songs barely echo and are snow muffled
Yet they still sing and seek a mate,  a lover, hear them flirt
Incongruous in the snow laden landscape.

Down in the valleys and winding hollers below
Snow has painted cabins, barns and fields
With a stark white brush that makes brilliant
The contrast of worn browns and tired grays.

Smoke curls steady from chimneys tinted dark
By wood dampened by the unexpected flurries
Windows show occasional faces pressed to glass
Waiting to be released to run and play.

Winter Charm

Can it be, is it possible
That Winter has slipped in
Unannounced with whispers
Of snow drifting, dancing, daring
Me to come and play?

I laugh, of course, laugh softly
As I breathe crystal rivers
Onto my windowpane.
For there is little snow outside
Just a tease, a threat, a charm.

Morning Glory

This day is a small thing
Fragile and morning delicate
Orange, wrapped carefully
In china cup blue.
full of promises, hopes, dreams.
Morning glory, slowly unfolding.

Winter

There are times when it is just too cold to write.
Fingers stiff, skin cold, just can't get warm.
Instead of being a beautiful scenic view of snow falling gently...
Large flakes drifting as if in a silent movie
It is miserable, icy and I am snowbound.

Winter is a nasty thing.
It is hideous,
Rude and unwilling to be gentle, nice.
It scrapes icy nails across the chalkboard of January.

Letters from Winter

An angry woman named
Winter
Pushes at my doors
Rattles hard at my gate
Strutting round the
Neighborhood
Mumbling and muttering
With chilly breath
Writing Dear John
Letters to
Fall
Upon my frosty windows.

Etch a Sketch

Frost on my windows
Mama nature doing
Her best Etch a Sketch
Imitation
Draws fantasies
On the glass.

Quilt Night

Quilt night
Good night to snuggle
Next to your darlin'
Sink deep
Into a feather bed
It puffs up
Round you
Wrappin' y'all
In warm security.
Howl wind, howl
Scream round us
Shriek loud
Hateful Winter.
For we are warm
And do not care.

Winter Cold

The winter wind is cold as it races unhindered through the hollers of home.
On the sides of the hills old cabins seem to lean into the wind.
Foundation stones reach down into the dirt to better grip on the mountain
The Wind launches itself at these signs of life.
Smoke pushes from the chimney like a baby tryin' to be borned.
Wind don't seem like it wants it to escape from the chimney.
Wind howls in anger down the dry stacked stones.
Screams at the folks sittin' close to a coal grate tryin' to keep warm.

Old logs, chestnut, oak an' hickory feel the fury and groan
As they hold house an' home together against Wind's wrath.
Windows rattle a bit, like old soldiers rattlin' swords.
All know they’re just tin soldiers, their rattle means little to the Wind.
They are at best delights for the folks within.

In the coal grate the Fire burns merrily, unconcerned.
It has but a small space to move, dance and flicker.
"Turn me loose, turn me loose and I'll show you the elemental master" it chuckles.
Even the wind knows that its anger would just be a free ride
If the fire escaped that happy little prison of a firebox.

Wind tries to push up the hills an' deep into the woods.
Trees old as history, young as the summer sway, mockin' the wind.
Some laugh joyfully, thankful for movement in an otherwise motionless eternity.
A few up on the craggy summits laugh like madmen.
They feel the full brunt of the wind, have let it shape them an' they reach to embrace it.
It is welcome to them on the tall mountains, holdin' tight to rocks.
They almost seem to launch themselves into the very air itself.

Wind don't get far up them hills.
It swirls around, looks for another holler, another valley.
The wind has slowed, aged.

Soon its short life will whisper to a stop.

Then Cold will stretch and remind the hills an' hollers it is still in charge.