Forgotten Soul of The South
WRITER'S NOTE . . .
I have, for a year now, wanted to talk about my homeland, the south. But more in photos than my own words. And finally, I did it. I hope you, from every area of our great country, who make-up the untattered fabic of our country, enjoy this.
THANK YOU, Kenneth
"My" Old Home Place
now filled with dusty tears.
I'm "that" someone you swore on a hot Alabama summer night that you would "never" forget. And to credit you, you didn't. At least for your teen years. "I" was all there was to you then. Curse the disease-of-time and years that made my memory fade from your reach.
"My" memory clings to unborne roads
singing, playing our games, as barefoot we go.
Ahh, yes, those early fall evenings with God's own paintbrush, how we would sit like statues glued to the kaleidoscope colors, whispering our names one to the other with gullible dreams of never growing old. Nor growing at all. The roads were being borne when you and I trod in barefoot times. Not enough trees to climb and nothing but a creek bank and pole resting on our minds. Now, too little fish and too many trees make "us" fall trembling to our knees from carefree-sprees, and losing our keys. Cursed be the wrinkled face of fate.
"Our" Families Are Gone
now 'we" rest silently seeking a rest of our own.
"Our" families are gone. Just their dusty bones remain. Old boards, broken gourds, and a time when "we" were somebody. A beaten old house that nature respected now creaks with light in crevice creep. Why lock a broken door? No treasure, belongings, or bread to be found. Only a shimmer. "My" only memory's glimmer of a sunset too many that I forgot.
Why Lock a Rusty Lock?
No treasures, belonings, or bread to be found.
No More Game to Hunt
We walk sadly thinking where did time, that varmint go?
Sometimes, "I" wish "I" were "we" again. Sitting on a wooden bench and feeling the red bug's pinch. "Mr. Reel," sawing his chords. Of demons, angels, his loves and Lord. There stands "my" barn. She's as old as "me." Funny, her heart is gone. No bellowing tones and just a crack in her soul to see. The fun times "we" had. Sunrise to set. Only lesson was giving. Never realizing how little "we" weren't getting.
Winter's Southern Sunset Gleam
For the many who past, those who went last, holding on to build their dream.
"I" can out-wait the best. "I" sit by water's edge. By graveyard's hedge. "I" can sit with sad, silent mouth. "I" used to know you.
"I" am the south.