Blogs

Cousins,
I received a message this morning asking if I thought I was too good to add other blogs to my network.  I had to chuckle a bit and did want to respond.  It is a good question and you might have wondered the same thing... in one form of thought or another.

I use this blog as a writing tool.  I travel often and sometimes do not have a journal or pad of paper with me.  It is often easy to find my computer, or one in a hotel where I might be staying and put a few thoughts down.

I am a storyteller, I have told in 27 states as a teller (am telling at the Appalachian Festival in Cincinnati this weekend).  I also write verse - I call it Old Ragged Verse... as you have seen.  This is often where I begin with a thought, a verse or a story.  They are often first attempts.  Sometimes they might be something I have half baked in a journal or on a scrap of paper.

Mostly I write here because the writer, no the storyteller in me needs to be heard.  Writing is a lonely task and seeing the number of folks that stop by gives me a feeling that what I write might touch  kindred folk.

I don't have other blogs in my network because I don't often have time to search them out and read them.  When I have stopped to read I am taken aback by the wonder of peeking into other lives.  I am often humbled by the depth of feeling others express.

Lastly, I want this to be a cleft in the rock where a weary soul can stop, read and rest their spirit.  I don't imagine that this is better, or even as good or worthy as other blogs.  It is simply here with the hope that you will read, remember that place that is magical to you and pause to reflect...and smile for a moment at the memories.

Stephen

Gone

Lonesome valley
Weary mountain
Worn out creek
Cries a
Plaintive tune.
Willows weep
Oak and maple
Merry dogwood
Cry along.

Woe, woe,
What shall become
Of hill and holler
Stone and water

Now that you
Are gone?

Old Dogs

Old dogs are always tired
Pups, they're mostly happy
Farm dogs are ever hungry
As if they're seldom fed.

Mountain's Heart

Heart of the mountain
Soul of the hills
Ripped from the deepest places
Sacred, precious... valuable.
The Company doesn't care
About the heart or soul.
Heart of the Mountain
Only the black coal
Bought and sold.
Hauled away in truckloads
Hauled away with no care
Hauling precious souls
Draggin' the dead behind
Long trains to the north.

Heart of the mountains
Hauled away in carloads
Draggin' the dead behind
Burned in the smelters
Furnaces, engines, converters
To give light, steel, transportation
To those who mock
The mountains.

Weep, Weep, heart of the Mountains.

Sunday Dinner

Oilcloth covered table
Red and white checked once.
Now worn pink from
A thousand meals,
Hundreds of plates passed
Scores of fried chicken dinners
With a patchwork of preachers.