The music which flows/
from her soul knows* what her mind/
can’t articulate.
OR
*shows
The music which flows/
from her soul knows* what her mind/
can’t articulate.
OR
*shows
My atrophying/
muscles scream: Seek the trees! Walk!/
But chiggers say: Stop!
A solitary chair/
sits empty there/
as the deep woods surround/
where moist, mossy ground,/
lays almost bare./
An adm’rals daughter,/
she still slept ‘neath bridges ’til/
she got herself straight.
In the relentless/
mind-numbing, thought-boring, I/
ask how to escape.
You know you’re deep in/
the Bible Belt when billboards/
can quote Hosea.
One nice thing about
Southern back porch pickin’
is that you can enjoy some mighty fine music
even when you’re not invited over
to set for a spell.