Benevolent Memories

I have enough memories from the past to last me for the rest of my life. My bountiful memory will not bury them from which they were born.  A small country church, a chorus of crows; the splashing sounds of the brook running through the Birch trees. The wind caressing the colossal row of Oaks in the field.

Death, a road away from the weathered house of worship, followed by black feathered angels. No longer will the water beneath the Birch cool, nor will the winds surrounding the Oaks embrace flesh.  The rocker on the porch is stilled, no hand waves goodbye. In a cobwebbed corner of the room, the sun shines through a cloudy window, as the image of tattered curtains dance in a nearby mirror. Childhood is dead.







“Our past is the map we followed into the future!” eajm

Everything Dies


Standing on a cool green bank

watching a bowed stream move

through the shoal toward a far-away

sea secure in it journey’s end, endless,

rocky weather worn and grained.

Across it a Willow grows, filled with nimble

squirrels searching for food; brown nuts

cracking, fish splashing.

These are the sights and sounds of my

childhood, skinny legs running, torn breaches,

runny nose, toothless grins, and scraped shins.

Hiding beneath the ledges of caves, fearless,

trusting, happy days in the fresh clear air;

remembrances of these days hidden behind

a fog of despair. Childhood forever lost.

Your joy did not last your voice is no longer a

pleasing song; life has frozen your senses; your

soul. Soon your sweet breath of life will float

through the air, everything dies; your days are few.



Shades of Life


I hear the echoing of my soul as it fills with despair,

looming before me are shades of black and grays; I

desperately try to climb to the surface of tomorrow to

face my sorrow.

I wake to the day that I have come to dread, it is cloudy;

I could not take this day if the sun were shining and warm

southern breezes caress my face.

The meadow is misty, the creek sparkles as the ripples rush

toward the lake; a fox watches me from behind  the tall grass

a hawk screeches above.

Wild flowers bloom where ashes were scattered only a few

years ago; I am mesmerized as a group of dragonflies rise

from the blossoms spiraling toward the Heavens.

The water is cold, the bottom of the creek is soft and broken

branches tug at my ankles holding me beneath the surface; the

current becomes swift and nudges me forward, I will not have to

face another tomorrow.



Wild Mountain Rose


There is a legend upon Mossy Ridge children hear while listening to the old folks weaves their tales around their supper tables at night –


Two gentle spirits walking the rutty mountain roads under the mystical Tennessee moonlight. These stories begin many years ago about an old Cherokee and a little girl he called his Wild Mountain Rose –

Folks …

First saw her drinking from a cool mountain stream all legs and dirty yellow hair, abandoned by her family, so the story goes, but no one is sure of that, if the truth were told. The first time the old Cherokee saw her she was sleeping under a bush folks call the Wild Mountain Rose –


She was with him no matter where he would go. Folks would say that without old Willie Youngblood she would not have survived –


Knew that without her, he himself would have died. The years went by quickly and they both grew old, time had touched their hair with gray –


They could only dream about their younger days. One cool spring morning, Willie woke to find her gone from his side; he sat for hours head hung low as he cried –


He found her lying peacefully; she had died under a familiar bush on a soft bed of leaves, a mournful death chant was the only way the old Cherokee knew how to grieve.

Now if you know where to look, it is in the Tennessee Mountains where Willie Youngblood’s Wild Mountain Rose can be found –


The damp rotting forest floor in a shallow grave, up on Mossy Ridge near the entrance of Chicopee Cave. The following winter Old Willie died, and they buried him next to his Wild Mountain Rose –


Say in the moonlight two ghostly spirits can be seen sitting on the banks of Chestnut Creek, or floating along the rutty mountain roads.

When the sun comes up, they disappear…

Or so the legend goes, but everyone on Mossy Ridge knows that it is Old Willie and that golden haired pup he found many years ago that he called his…

Wild Mountain Rose.