The Lincoln-Logan Line

                                    I was born in West Virginia

                                    in the spring of ‘49

                                    I grew up a bare-foot boy there

                                    on the Lincoln-Logan Line

                                    Could have lived in West Virginia

                                    But they closed the Big Creek mine

                                    moved away from Broad Branch holler

                                    and the Lincoln-Logan Line

                                    I was born in West Virginia

                                    on the Lincoln-Logan Line

                                    when I die take me back there

                                    leave the flatlands far behind

                                    Blast a hole inside the mountain

                                    tell my friends I’m doing fine

                                    drop me down inside the bedrock

                                    on the Lincoln-Logan Line

           

                                    Let me lie inside the mountain

                                    tell the Lord that I decline

                                    ‘cause I’ve found my piece of heaven

                                    on the Lincoln-Logan Line

Stones

Stones

Heavy, smooth, egg shaped

the size of an apple

thrust to the temple

Am I my brother’s keeper?

Five water worn stones

from the Jordan River

one for Goliath

four for his four brothers

Then a woman caught in the very act

angry hands, knuckles white

rough and cragged stones

pieces from the temple

piled up in a heap

He said, “Stop!”

Now this stone

rolled over the opening

to keep Him in and us out

on the third day

God rolled the stone away

Compulsion

Compulsion

                                                Every morning before daybreak

                                                it's the same routine

                                                me driving to work

                                                down the gravel driveway

                                                a slip of cold white smoke

                                                that falls out of the woods

                                                curving along the fog banked creek

                                                to the distant highway

                                                   

                                                The skunk travels his appointed path

                                                down to the black mirror pond

                                                on his way to fetch water

                                                he slips beneath the rail fence

                                                waddles across my drive

                                                on my way to fetch the vapor

                                                we call life

                                                I cross his path

                                                We share the same compulsion

                                                seek to sustain

                                                the same miracle

                                                Life

chicken in the rain

                                                 




                                                   chickens in the rain

                                                 chickens in the rain
                                                 running in a fenced lot

                                                 under a dark sky
                                                 digging in the dirt

                                                 fighting for a piece of corn
                                                 pecking at sparkles

                                                 waiting for the grim farmer
                                                 with the sharp ax

Red Tail Hawk

Red Tail Hawk

                                                      

                                                      He sits like a king

                                                      on the other side of the lake

                                                      on a high limb

                                                      of a leafless sycamore tree

                                                      brown body, white bark

                                                      facing west, gray chest puffed out

                                                      soaking in the warmth

                                                      of the low afternoon sun

I have seen him three times

the first time flying low level

seeking solitude beneath the canopy

dodging tree trunks, hickory and oak

clutching a baby crow

chased by a great flock of wailing black birds

He flew over my head just out of reach

a forlorn look on his face

Another time he was high

in the hot summer sky

gliding on air currents

hunting a mouse or squirrel

then he dove straight down

swished the grass

wings spread, tail flared, talons extended

came up empty handed

One time I saw him fluttering in mid-air

like a flag on a flagpole

held in place by a strong westerly wind

I heard his high whistle

trying to flush a rabbit

or attract a mate

then he rolled left

like a P 51 Mustang

leveled off and flew

out of sight!