The Bootlegger's House

Sat back from the paved two lane
Road snaking through prime tobacco
Fields on either side; asphalt surface
Worn, it stretched lonely and gray.

With crawlspace exposed the weathered
Old house rested on concrete blocks
Stacked beneath like tiny Atlas’ each
Holding up an equal portion of the weight.

Chickens scratched beneath the house
Hunting bugs out of the afternoon heat.
Dog days and August; sun lapping at the
Dry heart of Carolina and daddy’s parched

Tongue, so we stopped for tall beer warm in can
And with a rusted church key released the gusto.

Mama’s Yo-yo

She played yo-yo with him for
Ten years before her string broke.
Then alone she struggled to
Feed and clothe her four children

She survived and so did the children.
But not without scars and raw areas
Chaffed from neglect and human want.
Rubbed red from insults and abuse

And some of us still ride that string
Up and down to the ebb and flow of
An internal rhythm, which surges in
Perfect time to memories sweet haunts

Rocking our cradle of recollections spinning endless
And still walking this old dog around a troubled world.

Nathan is a carpenter/poet living in the mountains of Tennessee.
His poetry has appeared at Red River Review, Tamafyhr Mountain
Poetry, Lily, Underground Window, Zafusy, and Blue House.

© 2007 Underground Voices