Kentucky Home – a poem
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A home in my heart, not so far, far away, though I sleep in the subtropics most nights these days,
And whether I am standing on any busy street corner,
Or within any concrete jungle, having stood in Shanghai, Tokyo, Paris, and Amsterdam,
They do not feel the same to me, for in my heart, I will always be a proud – Kentucky son,
So, all I need do to take me home, is just close my hazel colored eyes, And I am …
At dawn, my face warmed by a vibrant springtime yellow sun, to reveal before me a rolling blue-green hued grass carpet, as if a forever highway back home … So I decide to stroll on, and beyond me,
From the morning mists of a genteel past, emerge, haunted four-plank, winter-white fence ghosts, as I stroll along into the early morn at the blacktopped roads end within a clapboarded horse palace stall, the fresh heart of a champion, Thumps, and Thumps – within a wobbly Colt that snorts a warning that someday soon it will be ready to run,
I smile as I breathe in the clean scents of honorable farming as I touch the golden hair tipped stalks of Sweet Corn, then I walk between row and row of pale green Burley tobacco,
A Red Cardinal glides past me and across a crumpled hayfield, to hide within a grove of Yellow Tulip Poplars surrounded by plumes of Golden Rods as Happy Viceroy Butterfly’s conspire to steal fresh nectar,
I jog down a winding single lane country road to outside the rock gates for my old elementary school, a jagged line of protected limestone rock walls, so I place my hands on the rough edges that were master crafted without mortar, I shed a tear as I contemplate the dignity of terrified slaves, who built them for their antebellum masters,
But as I stroll along, remembering home, I stand inside a silent tobacco temple and beneath my shoes the Tung-in-groove floor boards moan me back in time, to vibrate like a rocking, rolling clipper ships wooden fittings, the aged Burley leaf fragrance hangs witness in the air, off three feet thick, red brick walls, reverberations of an auctioneer’s cadence – price per agreed, another bundle taken away, a generational farming family lasts – another year,
The sport of a king’s thunders past me along the curved home stretch rail, I feel my heart pound, my faced blushed crimson as hooves crush the brown soil as the fierce competition with brave riders up, leather boots mashed into stirrups, as a vibrant kaleidoscope of colorful silks strides toward Her Majesty,
Then I gaze at a summer pageant, I marvel as the horse and rider jump in unison over a barrier, silk top hat, high polished, knee high boots, as formal riders dance within an orchestrated horse ballet, for that lucky one for winning the day, a blue ribbon corsage within the perfectly manicured mane,
One hot September day as a handsome yearling paces with a jacketed groom for a rich crowd, an equine life born from the traced DNA seed of English mares and Arabian blood lines is auctioned to the highest bidder,
Then I smell an angel share wisp past me from row and row, French oak barrels, charred, fire glazed, then the purity liquid sealed for a distant day to when an auburn ambrosia is revealed, distilled by father time’s timeless atmospheric dance, I hold the tumbler up to penetrating sun light, I sip hints of molasses, brown sugar as the warmth from ancestral tradition hugs me from the inside out,
Standing atop a natural rock bridge, I behold a crystal clear fall afternoon, I can see blue heaven above, as leaves turn toward winter the immense orange, red, yellow blended beauty, a soulful Kentucky Warbler serenades me hidden deep within the lush, Kudzu infested Appalachian forest,
And then the tears I shed, invisible to our reality the innocent children born to the Southeast’s constant poverty, the once honorable coal miner replaced by the dynamite blast, a mountain top removed, progress to some … I guess,
But then I grin at the mountain cloggin’ dance, banjo music, Master folk art craftsmen,
I can taste my grandfather’s blackberry jam, I savor my mother’s flaky cornbread, baked in her ancient caste iron pan,
Then I stand at the moist bank gazing at the perfection of the land between the lakes, at the end of a fishermen’s line the splash and fight with a Spotted Bass,
Driving at Mach 1 down I-75, a brand new convertible Corvette blasts past me, driven by a gorgeous Kentucky girl, behind her bumper music to my eyes, as a ‘GO CATS’ sticker screams past,
But now I am still, standing alone staring over at a tall palm tree thinking nothing moves my mortal soul, like the memory of my Kentucky people,
It is, the simple southern hospitality to a stranger, it is, the clannish nature of the hillbilly friend,
It is, the fire-and-brimstone Fundamentalist minister, the meetin’ on the mountain, the beats of an old time Baptist chant,
It is, the now silent Shaker Village, Bread pudding, wooden seed boxes formed by experienced hands,
It is, the heartfelt songs of Bluegrass, the dulcimer plucker, the mandolin picker,
For all these truths form a whole, and if you are lucky enough to be born from this fertile reddish-brown soil, be you rich, or be you poor, you will always at one with our whole,
For it is within our minds border, we stand, holding each other’s virtual hands within an invisible circle, United we are where ever we are, regardless if it’s in the subtropics, Shanghai, Tokyo, Paris, or Amsterdam, or any busy city street corner,
For our dream will never divide and fall, as long as we can close our eyes, and dream of our –
Kentucky Home.
NS
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