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Anticipation of Manhood
And suddenly
I was standing on the porch again
grimacing at the cries of my sister,
trying to screw the tip of my tennis shoe
into an old mouse hole—
knowing I was next.
The sun was hotter than it had been all afternoon.
Sweat trickled down my back
making my Authentic Babe Ruth baseball jersey
stick to me in the most unpleasant places.
Then the screen door banged,
and out flew my sister
hi-tailing it for the loft
where I knew she’d spend the rest of the day
licking her wounds.
With a deliberate sigh,
I picked up my selection
from the hickory tree
in the backyard
and walked solemnly upstairs
to my father’s bedroom
like a man.
Ben
They say daddy squandered his inheritance
when he put the house up for sale
and moved us to the city,
away from the blue mountains
and slurping rivers.
They say when he left
his mother wouldn’t speak his name
and the rest of us,
baggage,
didn’t exist.
We never saw the little boy
who shared half our blood;
the child,
who stayed in the mists
where mountains
watched over him,
and clear, tumbling rivers
sang him to sleep.
My Grandmother, Terrible Person
That furtive woman
in my cells
fled her brutal childhood
screaming like a demon,
as she raced away
on the back of a motorcycle.
She traded the throbbing vibration
of the young Swede’s bike seat
for childbirth,
and passed daughter after daughter into poverty.
Six played in the dirt
until the State came.
I am another spoke
on that bike wheel,
a woman after a woman
hurting, crying, spurting, flailing.
I cannot tear myself away
from my mother’s scars.
I've haunted this roadside for forty years
watching Marian ride off in the distance;
my mouth taped with Time,
trying to signal telepathically
Save mother! Save mother!
but bruised and broken,
the little orphan passed me into something better than dirt.
You’ve got to give her props for that.
Sometimes I get dark inside,
and see demons on my own front porch.
I want to run,
I want to ride,
I want to fly,
but I can’t go.
No, I can’t.
My momma can’t be left this time.
For Karan, When She Lost Her Brother
One unblemished star
new to the autumn night
warms my heart
like your hand on my shoulder.
Once we,
two little children,
laughed, sang,
teased, and cried,
while days fell behind us
in Technicolor dominoes.
Life’s picture show
seems so endless
until we say farewell;
then the images quietly fade,
and tiptoe into our hearts
where they settle
like hibernating smiles,
waiting to spring forth
with hugs and tears;
waiting for the stars to blaze
with you and me
and all the hands we’ve ever held,
encircled forever
in a sky with no season,
no end,
no goodbyes.
Dodo Bird
This old crow
sports hospital couture
different from three months past,
when pressed khakis
and Italian shoe leather
carried him from the office
to the golf course.
The unbuckled seatbelt did no good
flapping around in its
red Mazda centrifuge,
while he spun like an atom
until the ravine stopped him
with a boulder-lined embrace.
A three month diet of intravenous fluids
has done wonders for weight loss
when low carb could do nothing.
He’s leftover carrion on Death’s plains
watching us all
through morphine-smeared windows.
He holds my hand
as if I’m a nine iron,
interlacing our fingers
as though we’ve done it for years.
I do not know what to do
when he whispers I love you
because I’ve never heard it before.
Southern Woman
They called momma a Damn Yankee
because she didn’t know
what to do with bacon fat.
She pulled up half the garden
before she learned the difference between
snapdragons and plain old weeds.
My step-grandmama showed her
how to use an iron skillet,
and Momma gave up show tunes for
John Denver records.
On Saturdays, she’d cut hair free
for everyone in town,
while they taught us kids to drink ice tea
and eat trout.
I forgot about Chicago
when they sent me down the road
to that old mountain school.
Family Tree
I hated my uncle
for murdering the mimosa
behind his mother’s house.
The timeless woman
glued Victorian ladies
to pink tile walls
while I fantasized
that momma wasn’t a Yankee
and we weren’t garbage
Daddy brought home
to his mountains.
Reunion
The people across the street
wave on occasion
but we’re not that friendly
seeing as I’m not invited
to the obvious party
leaking out of their house.
Next door - Thompson frowns,
rolling his eyes like marbles
as he moves his truck into the garage.
I ignore his discomfort and inhale
sweet smoky pork—southern heaven.
The mailbox is empty so I saunter
back up the drive, smiling at the children
dancing over the sidewalks,
and bouncing up and down
on the backs of their family cars.
There must be a hundred people
on that subdivided plot.
Up and down the block
I see the angst in the windows,
concern from the porches,
as my neighbors
suck in their breath
and chew their lips like cows.
Nobody across the street looks worried.
They just look happy,
and hungry,
and lucky.
None of them could care less
the rest of us are white.
Cycling Rivalry
When we were just two little people,
you—almost two
me—a big three,
you thought that I was the best thing on a tricycle
since I could pedal
and you couldn't.
I let you ride on the back
when I felt like it,
but usually your hands
were too sticky,
and nose too runny.
When I'd refuse, you'd throw yourself
on the ground
and scream just loud enough
for Mom to hear.
I was on to you.
You were a lot smarter
than they gave you credit for.
But only I knew.
And who would believe me?
I was only three.
And you,
pretending to be only two.
Catfish
My grandfather beat the rubbery heads
of catfish
he pulled out of the water.
He showed me a snapping turtle
which didn’t impress me
half as much
as the long-whiskered monsters
who growled and spat
like scaly felines.
They threw themselves
against the foam cooler,
suffocating with anger
until the heart in my chest
pounded along
with Grandpa’s hammer.
He thrashed them unmercifully
in the driveway
until they were dead enough
to clean for supper.
Driving the Blue Ridge Parkway
Heaven touches soft my heart
when I can set the world apart
and wander where the road should pause
but leads into eternal halls.
Deep in the shadowed woods escape
where old green giants kindly drape
great leafy arms about my head,
and leave a blessing in their stead.
The peeping sun can only chance
a casual kaleidoscope-like dance.
And wind, his partner, hold their course
until they sweep, a dappled horse,
into the dark where I can’t see
forgotten friends who wait for me.
Tennessee
I love the winding gravel road,
where dust clouds rise
to skies unspoiled.
Here, Queen Anne regally waves and nods,
and Susan winks her warm applause.
I Dream of Maggie Valley
I dream of Maggie Valley
when I close my eyes
and let the sun
warm my face.
I will the wind into my mind
and hear it whisper through pastures,
where cows chew lazily
as if in no hurry to live.
In the pregnant orchard,
twisted trees
with gnarled hands
hold bitter young fruit
toward the heavens,
waiting for autumn’s
red kiss
to dribble cider
into the mouths
of tourists passing by.
Grandmother’s church
hangs over the ridge,
quietly crumbling
like pie
devoured at family reunions.
The mountains held us
throughout those long winters
when ice shrouded everything
in glory.
I can still feel the valley in my heart.
Bury Me in the Mountains
Bury me in the mountains, boys,
when I get tired,
when I get old.
Take me to my father’s hills,
where dogwoods fleck
blue swells with gold.
I ran the woods and pastures there.
My feet were small,
my feet were strong.
And though life took me far from home,
I ne’er forgot the river’s song.
Bury me in the mountains, boys,
where I’ll be happy,
I’ll be free.
And when you’re weary
and ready to sleep,
Come home to the mountains,
come rest with me.
Appalachian Legacy
I will not pass this on:
The trembling heart
and hands that struggle
to resist violence.
There is something volatile
in the love we nurture our family with,
giving everything your heart can hold
until it echoes with emptiness.
I understand even with the heat of fury on my cheeks
that sadness can make us vulnerable
to volcanic tantrums.
This I have learned:
There is peace in the trees.
I’ve felt hands cup me through the veil
those far off times
when daddy led us
into the hills and under the dogwoods.
My feet skipped over forest floors
like butterfly wings,
soft as moss
fast as jackrabbits
we fluttered through childhood
as we all do when we are euphorically happy.
Pray for me:
Lone warbler in the canopy.
I need a glimpse of heaven, a carnation dawn.
Help me to embrace these
chickadees in my arms,
and wrench lose their bindings
when they fly away from home.
Mountain River
Down you tumbled,
a twisted course,
each monstrous rock
a strong gray horse.
And socks and shoes
with sweat and skank,
were freckles on
your muddy bank.
The icy coverlet of foam
would rattle teeth
and chill our bones,
while thigh-deep splashing
in your power,
we wasted away
sweet summer hours.
Two Angels
Two angels pass.
One from Earth,
the other bound for mortal birth.
And in the haze of stardust touch—
blue eyes meeting
sweet souls greeting.
The world below them strangely hushed.
Two angels pass.
One trailing tears,
the other bound for mortal years.
And only Heavenly whispers know
blue eyes will smile
from celestial isles
where she will watch posterity grow.
Two angels pass...
Polly Shook Leatherwood
9.29.1909 - 5.21.2002
When Polly Left Her Mountain
Now I understand
How God meant for you to be seen.
I can fly with the cardinal and the jay
and see how you ripple and roll,
reaching out to greet the horizon.
My children are below,
down in homespun quilt squares;
Living, growing, dying.
They shouldn’t be crying.
I am going home
smiling through their tears.
This is heaven.
A Bundle of Burdens
I was tired, and my shoulders ached from the trials I carried there.
I felt the chafe of burlap against my neck just wasn't fair.
And as I stumbled over rocks someone had cast aside,
I wished someone would take my bag and just give me a ride.
The path ahead looked stark and steep, there was no crest to see,
and clouds were gray and overcast where sunlight used to be.
Wiping tears from dusty cheeks, I fell to throbbing knees.
I cried aloud, "I can't go on. Lord, take this burden. Please!"
Then as I sat in bitterness, my sack tossed to the ground,
I turned my head towards where I'd come—to hear a whistling sound.
O'er every ridge he gaily marched at a steady, even pace,
Two bundles dragged along the ground while a smile shined on his face.
His shoulders had worn long ago, his clothes were tattered rags,
but how his eyes lit up with faith that he could pull those bags.
He greeted me with kindest word. I managed him a smile.
He called for me to walk along; I bid him sit awhile.
"No time to stop!" he bravely said, his burdens stirring dust.
"For if I stop, I'll surely quit, so carry on I must!"
And when the stranger left my view, I turned surprised to see,
another brother on his way, but he crawled on his knees.
His only bundle he, too, dragged. T'was bursting at the seams.
His swollen legs were raw, and bled from sticks and stones and things.
He didn't pause to rest although I thought, "Surely he will!"
Instead he gave a determined nod and continued up the hill.
I sighed. "I must be weaker. I'm simply not as strong.
I'm sure my load is heavier and how my paths are long!"
––––––––
While comforting my dreary self, a thought lit up my mind,
images of cursing crowds and soldiers—all unkind.
A heavy wooden cross to bear with tired, stumbling feet.
Long uphill climb, cruel nails in palms—His life given up for me.
Hot tears of shame trailed down my face; my blisters lost their sting.
My heavy heart looked up at last. My spirit yearned to sing.
I stumbled to my feet, lifting my weight with care,
and step by step I climbed that hill and forgot my bundle's wear.
Every now and then, I pass someone whose pace is not as strong.
So I offer out my hand to help and for awhile pull them along.
For you see, it's when I carry a weary brother's sack,
the burdens that I call my own are weightless on my back.
For Luke, On His Mission
You've left home before,
anxious and alone
and left at Heaven's door,
all you'd ever known.
And now you're asked to leave again
to sacrifice your time for Him,
who sacrificed His life for you,
oh, what more could a Brother do?
How honorable of you to try
to pay back Him who chose to die,
and all pre-mortal covenants keep
that you will go and Feed His Sheep.
Amazon
I am the Amazon,
twisting and churning across the planet,
black in my deepest recesses and emerald in the sun.
Undiscovered and bursting with hidden agenda,
I reach for the infinite sky while holding hands
with the trees. They kiss me and sweep
rutted fingers through my hair.
Crocodiles, old sentries of my shores,
keep you at bay,
for the silt between my toes
is too bleak, too thick, for contemplation.
You do not understood how to explore,
Floating friendly flower—
you are more lost than wandering.
Powder Boy
His wooden universe between those white beaches
cold and damp, to promote and reward him;
slips out of indigo waters perhaps midshipman,
by way of kinder wind or some far-off day,
and sun more amiable an officer’s post.
than one framed by sextant His peers, cutthroat educators,
at noon over the Atlantic. sport splinter and shrapnel scars
He is cherry cheeked, far more impressive
no longer a pale palette of infancy, than the trace burns on his young hands
yet there remains from simple gunnery practice.
the shimmer of innocence Hungry for initiation,
on smooth arms and legs; it arrives
a virginal epaulette so long after expectations
of battle experience. that he is fearless and invincible
He is the audience, when the call to stations comes.
not the storyteller; Heart pounding courage into him,
a greedy voyeur of manhood the seductive scent of slow match,
and war—that thing they call action a grip on his innards
in the Caribbean. (That heavy fist of hard-weevilled biscuit),
His captain, his GOD, and he cheers when he sees her,
has replaced his mother the Indomitable, 80 guns,
leaving only a tendril of memories take the first broadside from his party.
to seep into his stubborn conscience He knows in the instant
like irksome water through the caulking. his vision is clouded by heavy smoke,
He steals moments his ears deafened by thunderbolts of iron,
in the topgallant crosstree, that he will forever tarry here
soars with canvas kites, under pennants and sunsets,
contemplates clear horizons, should his hammock and round shot
and considers that destiny be the last arms to cradle and pull him
just might lie in wait gently down into the emerald deep.
Irises
Charlene scanned the yards of all her friends
like an ambitious garage sale junkie
spying over the fence for tomorrow’s best bargains.
She sidled around their gardens
pointing out things that were wrong,
and always managed to dig up an iris or two
to add to her overzealous garden.
Colorful blooms painted the house
Easter Ecstasy every April.
But there came the sigh of autumn,
sharp green blades mildewed to inevitable pulp,
and by winter’s stealthy admission,
the whole place just looked
Dead.
Fish Story
Cliff said a hammerhead shark
lived in the pond.
Behind his trailer,
climbed a path to a small ridge.
There through young trees,
hid his mysterious clearing.
The pond, deep and murky,
had a rickety pier
and peeling red canoe.
I skirted the pool on fast tiptoes
and kept the water
in the corner of my eye.
Never in all my years,
did a silver triangle of death
split the surface
and release the scream
that brewed in my throat
like thick stew,
ready to disgorge if the liar,
the old grownup liar,
was telling the truth.
For Stacy
You blew into my life
like sea spray
on the ocean breeze,
and taught me
how to appreciate
the horizon
even with sand on my feet.
Little Boys
What are little boys made of?
What is it that makes them tick?
Some say snails and puppy dog tails,
but the very thought makes me sick!
For my boys are made up of laughter,
and wrestling and rolling and hugs.
so shame on the one
who frowned on the fun,
and said little boys come from slugs!
––––––––
Little Girls
What are little girls made of?
What is it that makes them so sweet?
I've heard sugar and spice
is what makes them so nice,
imagine—girls made from something to eat!
I think little girls come from rainbows.
They bring hope to the world on the wind.
And I'd almost swear
in their fine golden hair
I've seen halos again & again.
Success
I stood back
in the morning shadows,
not wanting to gaze
awestruck at the sunrise
like all the silly fools
lined up at the window.
Turning away,
I slipped outside
and ran
through the early morning mist,
my bare feet skating
over dew drops.
Looking back
one last time,
I waved to all
the dreamers
trapped behind the glass.
Then I ran into the sun.
Danielle Thorne, a native of Chicago, was raised in the mountains of North Carolina and Tennessee. Happily married with four children, Danielle has lived in various southern states, as well as a few out West. She is the author of poetry, historical, paranormal, and contemporary novels. When not writing, she enjoys traveling, food, and friends. Throughout her life, poetry has been the outlet that has enabled her to survive and grow.
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