By Frank X Walker
It’s complicated.
Me and the South. Me,
and the land, and the trees.
Whose ever woods these are
are full…
Me and the South. Me,
and the land, and the trees.
Whose ever woods these are
are full…
Explore Poems: Town & Country Life
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- By Frank X Walkerthoroughbred racing
and hee haw
are burdensome images
for kentucky sons
venturing beyond the mason-dixon… - By Frank X WalkerIndian summer Saturday mornings
meant project door screens sat open
waiting for the vegetable truck
No … - By Terrance HayesZora Neal Hurston spent time
in the low country
interviewing & filming
kids on corners & folk at work,
but… - By E. Ethelbert Millerwhen trees bend funny and out of shape
when lightblue skies turn blueblack gray
hungry winds will
knock… - By Rita DoveYou prefer me invisible, no more than
a crisp salute far away from
your silks and firewood and woolens… - By Frank X Walkerat our estates
we sat on the side porch
stared at humble cabins
as young bucks
worked and sweated in the… - By Norma ColeRock or tree, inflexion
of tree, wild asparagusand watercress, weeping
and leaving, parting andfleeing, atmosphere
as always the distance... - By Jessie LeitzelThe end of summer
and our jalapeño plant
is wilting, its stem brittle
as the heat peels
away from us,
though… - By Kate PartridgeI don’t want to get emails from
the wolf people anymore, but
they know where I am—have known
precisely… - By Henry Wadsworth LongfellowUnder a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large… - By Tamsin MooreLong, empty roads stretching as long as the gas tank is willing—
Sixty-seven dollars left from last … - By Remica Bingham-RisherBut for the grace of God
one might begin and
this must be the life of a woman. I will barely touch the… - By James JoyceHe travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they … - By Rosalie MoffettMostly dumb, but hens are finely tuned
to length of days, won’t lay in earnest
till after the equinox, sliver of additional light
they measure from their mud yard,
heads cocked to the sky. Same gut process, spin
of tumblers unlocking a stock of promise... - By Isabel Duarte-GraySunday we lay hands
on a girl of ten hand on hand on
cornsilk hair. We sing
the secret language sung
the day the tin roof of the tower beat
on God’s floorboard
he got cramp in heaven.
Like our crying and our
fornicating so close to his... - By Benjamin GucciardiWe lived in a stone farmhouse at the edge of town.
I’d been assigned to process asylum claims
and you’d come to write about the abandoned homes
in the island’s interior the government was selling cheap.
A family of barn swallows lived inside our... - By Anna TomlinsonSauerkraut festival, sauerkraut ice cream from a tiny paper cup.
Places you could get lost in. Bike path that wound by the old airport,
abandoned playground with its huddle of bouncy animals
on their oversized springs. In the slough, Doritos bags
flashed from the... - By William BlakeSweet Mary, the first time she ever was there,
Came into the Ball room among the Fair;
The young Men & Maidens around her throng,
And these are the words upon every tongue:
“An Angel is here from the heavenly Climes,
Or again does return... - By Kimiko HahnThe child looks out the window at the peeling barn.
The mother sits on the roof and waves at her.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove.
The child has put away her Little Marvel Stove
because her grandmother is baking real bread.
The child...