Kentucky Home

A home in my heart, not so far … far away, 

Though I sleep in the subtropics, most nights these days,

And whether I am standing on any busy street corner, 

Or within any concrete jungle,

Having stood In Shanghai, Tokyo, Paris, and Amsterdam, 

They do not feel the same to me, for in my heart,

I will always be a proud - Kentucky son,

So, all I need do … to take me home, 
Is just close my hazel colored eyes,

And I am at dawn, 
Warmed by a vibrant springtime yellow sun,    
To reveal a rolling blue-green hued grass carpet,

As if a forever highway back home … so I stroll on,

Beyond me, from the morning mists of a genteel past,
Emerge, haunted four-plank, winter-white fence ghosts,

Early this morn, at the blacktopped roads end, 
Within a clapboarded horse palace stall,
The fresh heart of a champion, 
Thumps - within a wobbly Colt,

I breathe in the clean scents of honorable farming,
I touch the golden hair tipped stalks of Sweet Corn,
I walk between row and row of pale green Burley tobacco,

Then, a Red Cardinal glides past me, 
Across a crumpled hayfield,

To hide within a grove of Yellow Tulip Poplars,

Surrounded by plumes of Golden Rods,

As Happy Viceroy Butterfly’s, 
Conspire to steal fresh nectar,

Outside my old elementary school,

A jagged line of protected limestone rock walls,

I place my hands on the rough edges, 
Master crafted without mortar,

I contemplate the dignity of terrified slaves, 

Who built them for their antebellum masters,

As I stroll on, remembering home … 
Inside a silent tobacco temple,
The Tung-in-groove floor boards ... 
Moan me back in time,

Vibrate, under my feet, like a rocking, 
Rolling clipper ships wooden fittings,

The aged Burley leaf fragrance hangs witness in the air,

Off thick, red brick walls, 
Reverberations of an auctioneer’s cadence –

Price agreed … another bundle taken away,

A generational farming family lasts - maybe another year,

As the sport of a king’s thunders past me along the rail,

I feel my heart pound, as hooves crush the brown soil,

Fierce competition with brave riders up in stirrups,
As a vibrant kaleidoscope, 
Of ownership silks stride toward Her Majesty,   

I gaze at a summer pageant, 
I marvel as they jump in unison over a barrier,

Silk top hat, polished, black leather knee high boots,
As formal riders dance within an orchestrated horse ballet,

For the lucky one, a blue ribbon corsage, 
… for winning the day,

From English mares and Arabian traced blood lines, 

After the encouraged union of their precious DNA,
A yearling auctioned … one hot September day,

An angel share wisps around me, 
From row and row, French oak, 
Barrels, charred, fire glazed, 
Within purity liquid sealed for a distance day,

To when an auburn ambrosia revealed,

Distilled by father time’s timeless dance, 

I sip hints of molasses, brown sugar -- tradition,

Standing atop a natural rock bridge,
A crystal clear fall afternoon, I can see heaven above, 
Immense orange, red, yellow blended beauty, 
I behold mile-after-rolling mile … 

As leaves turn toward winter,

A soulful Warbler serenades me, 
Hidden deep within the lush,
Kudzu’d Appalachian forest, 
And the tears I shed, invisible to our reality,
The children born, to, the southeast’s constant poverty,

The once honorable coal miner ... 
Replaced by the dynamite blast,
A mountain top removed, progress to some … I guess,

But I grin at the mountain cloggin' dance, banjo music,

Master folk art craftsmen,

I can taste my grandfather’s blackberry jam,

I savor my mother’s flaky cornbread, 
Baked in her ancient caste iron pan,

The perfection of the land between the lakes, 

The fight with a Spotted Bass on a fishermen’s line,

Mach 1 down I-75, a brand new Corvette blasts past me,

Driven by a gorgeous Kentucky girl, 
Bumper music to my eyes,  

As a ‘GO CATS’ sticker screams past, 

But nothing moves my mortal soul,    
Like the memory of a people,
It is, the simple southern hospitality to a stranger,
It is, the clannish nature of the hillbilly friend,
It is, the fire-and-brimstone Fundamentalist minister,
The meetin's on the mountain, 
The beats of an old time Baptist chant,

It is, the now silent Shaker Village, 
Bread pudding, Wooden seed boxes ...
Formed by experienced hands,
It is, the heartfelt songs of Bluegrass,

The dulcimer plucker, the mandolin picker, 

For all these truths form a whole, 
And if you are lucky enough,
To be born from this fertile reddish-brown soil, 

Be you rich, or be you poor, 
You will always at one with our whole,

For it is within our minds border, we stand,
Holding virtual hands, Within an invisible circle, 

United we are ... Where ever we are,

Regardless if it’s in the subtropics, 

Shanghai, Tokyo, Paris, or Amsterdam,

Or any busy city street corner,

For our dream will never divide and fall, 

As long as we can close our eyes,

And dream of our - Kentucky Home.