Lost Christmas

The lights continued to flash, blue, green, red, yellow
Day after day, night after night they flashed endlessly
Reflecting merrily upon silver, gold, red and green ornaments.
Catching the flash, mirrored on silver bright tinsel hanging late
On a tree ever so long, overdue, under-noticed, laden below
With unopened presents, dusty presents, dusty tree
Angel on top lonely and sad with just a whisper of cobweb
Hanging from her wings, dragging down her halo.
No one to hear the bells on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day
No child to come play, to squeal with delight
No little one to tear merrily into multicolored wraps
To find treasures, Santa secrets or parent packages.
Drunken fool on Christmas Eve, runs a light, he walks unscratched.
Now Daddy's gone, For months Mama lay fighting...
little girl lost.

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.

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.

Stolen Heritage

Mountains destroyed
Hills laid low
Torn open to its heart.
Heart of the mountain
Ancient root of life
Precious black coal
Ripped from the depths
Broken and crushed
Moved, trucked and taken
From the hills of home
To power plants, factories
And homes distant
From our mountains.
The rubble, discard and ruins
Thrown down
Tumbled to the valley
Crushing and filling the hollers
With no thought
Of the beauty below
Or of ancestral homes.
Much less the sacred graves
Of those who ventured
As wayfarers
In a new land.
Appalachian pilgrims,
Pioneers forgotten.
Buried alongside
The primrose, sassafras
Honeysuckle, magnolia and sourwood.
All as if they were flowers
Forgotten at the grave
Cast off and buried
In the rubble
Of questionable progress.
Cry, Oh Appalachia
Weep oh hills and hollers.
Mourn what we have lost
Gnash your teeth
That we have allowed
Strangers
To buy,
To steal our heritage
For the sake
Of coal.

copyright Stephen Hollen  July 10, 2008