Green and white stripes line the 100 by 100 foot yards. Mailbox after mailbox painted a matte black. Aggregate concrete driveways leading to two door garages.
4-way stop signs at Key Drive and East Moran. American flags hanging from square porch columns. Rows of white pines border the common spaces.
A large swimming pool lies in the center. Baseball fields and tennis courts run up on backyards.
Bounded by the highway and the Bend, Railroad roaring at night, Tucked away from most of the bustle Of high schools and retail stores
The yard is adorned With grass either yellow or green With trees, branches one color or many The mulch is always brown, The rocks in the corner before the gate always white and tan
From her post in the garden St. Therese sees it all Fluctuate and stay constant Day to day, year to year
As it all happens behind, the house from the tradition of Williamsburg Sits and awaits Our return
Everyday I walk The lengthy circle of Horseshoe Bend. As I ascend Polo Club road, A hard and unforgiving concrete camel, Ms. Higgins slows and waves, Her suburban making impossible time. I raise my hand in acknowledgment, But, as always, too late.
I scale the first hump, And take notice of the Fletcher’s house. Next to it, the Glassford’s is clinging to the side, Only the second floor visible. As the land dips, I huff in relief. Sweat has discolored my shirt. The constant humidity, A result of living next to the Harpeth, Has caused the ends of my hair to curl.
Soon, I am again climbing. Atop the hill I see the Galivan’s house. Oh, how I hate that house, Sitting so peacefully While I struggle to push forward. After a century the ground levels. In the distance I see the hills, Like a heap of peacocks, Never growing closer.
I pass a metal disk leading To pipes underground, Flinch at the sharp sound of Tires speeding over it. I smile tentatively at the bikers, Make polite conversation with the dog walkers, Wave to the lawnmowers, Nod to indistinct faces behind tinted windows.
I pass the Rothenburg’s house, The Campbell’s house, The Piana’s house; I pass houses I don’t know the owners of, But like to look at nonetheless. My favorite is the one Backed up against the cornfield - The one that keeps its blinds open So that I can envy the art studio On its second floor.
Eventually I return To Briarwood Crest. My street. I work up a jog, For this is the last hill I have to conquer. Sweat is dripping, My calves are tight, But I push past The Treadwell’s house, I see Rachel’s car Sitting feet Away from mine, Know that I’m almost there, Just a few More seconds And I will reach Our lush Green yard,
Which looks exactly Like the hundreds of others, But right now Looks more inviting than any of them. I sprint up the driveway, Up the three steps it takes to meet my door, And enter the cool confines of my house. I’m out of breath, But again I’ve done it: Made the difficult trek to Vaughn Road and back. It’s a hard journey, But a beautiful one.
Is there a security guard in that house? No; reverse. Enter pound, four numbers, voila. Take a left, a sharp right, and stumble upon the rows of red bricks topped with a charcoal triangle.
Bright blooms and inch cut grass await, but no backyard to play. Doors always locked with security alarm. No slipping out, or the chime will sound.
Enclosed in gates, protected and shielded Inside this safe haven A kitchen dressed in roosters, Providing one time together. Once four now three; Sometimes empty, but never alone.
Two stone pillars, no gate in between Leads to a long black driveway Covered by trees
At the top of the hill A big stone home is found A place where bunnies and deer Frolic upon the ground
A tall black gate lets no one around To a dark water pool where all worries are drowned all different colors from all types of flowers where I often watch the rain drops in the springtime showers
A tetherball court, a place of high competition where family arrives None without a mission And nearby lies the volleyball court Those who challenge may just realize Zimmerman’s don’t lose in sports
A long rope swing hangs from a tree A push from my father And immediately I am carefree Across the way is the old sandbox Where my grandfather would watch me play Holding a whiskey on the rocks
This home was made by a loving family There whenever we needed one another And always will be
Welcome to Music City Overrun by fathers, mothers, and children— Notice the incessant SUVs and carefree soccer moms. You’ll get used to it.
The people are the backbone of the city. With their Southern manners And their homogeneity, it’s no wonder everyone gets along.
Venture on down Belle Meade Boulevard See the runners—But stay out of the left lane. Keep going all the way to Percy Warner Park, and walk the trails with a myriad of colors lining every inch.
In the middle of town a house stands on a hill with a young girl looking out her windowsill. Large oak trees line the drive outside; It's almost as if someone is trying to hide. A woman walks her dog down the street, and curses the car that decided to speed. She cries to the car, "small kids at play!" but they don't hear-they are too far away. A moving van stops at the house next door, but as soon as they do, the rain starts to pour. The movers are happy, they get to take a break, but the woman is mad, her straight blonder hair is fake.
At the cul-de-sac on Buckland Abbey behind closed gates reside the five of us.
One. The maple that erupts in a ruby- red splendor of leaves, unprecedented in the world outside the brick walls, welcomes even strangers inside Northumberland, just as Mrs. Julie and Mr. Tax would. “Mouton on Guard” calls the sad-eyed basset hound in the driveway where the “Barbie” car once sat. Smells of a fire burning and jambalaya waft from the chimney, recalling shared recipes and needle point lessons.
Two. Two fluffy poodles stand on their hind legs at the foot of the driveway as Mrs. Zeitlin calls “Hey girls.”
Three. Granmarty and Sonny invite us in their gingerbread house for cookies.
Four. Up the elevator to the golden glimpse of the past of the man in the wheelchair.
Five Buckland Abbey. Three multicolored labs greet cars pulling in. The manicured crepe myrtles frame the driveway leading down to the rock wall, where I had become Mary Poppins in flight with an umbrella, or a knight defending the walls of a castle.
After new neighbors moved into Three and then Four, after Mr. Tax no longer waited in the living room to play cards and the cul-de-sac on Buckland Abbey experienced life’s round-a-bout course of hardships and recovery, One, Two, Three, Four, and Five still sit side by side at the dead of end of Buckland Abbey.
Chicago You are my home No matter where I go No matter where I stay I hope you always know
The lights of soldier field The cheers that flare from Wrigley All resonate through my veins A feeling that is never ending The thrills of Navy Pier Deep-dish pizza that can’t be beaten Add to the countless wonders Of the three million people that inhabit your city Wealthy or homeless Lawyers or cashier workers All are united in your arms Like a family of brothers and sisters The shores of Lake Michigan The wind that inspires your name Had you never entered my life Oh, what a shame From Maxwell to Michigan From blues to endless shopping Your love inspires everyone A love that’s never stopping
Chicago You are my home No matter where I go No matter where I stay I hope you always know
The motto of the trip? Budapest sucks. Pillow fights leading to a broken lamp A mix of dental floss, gum and Aquaphor Trying to stick it back together.
Budapest sucks. Too much marzipan About forty dollars of various flavors Little of which I ever ate Who eats coconut marzipan anyhow?
Budapest sucks. Water trailing from my purse A drowned iphone A drowned cell phone A wallet, which had to be blow-dried And one very thirsty girl.
Budapest sucks. Haggling with vendors Over hand sewn tops we never wore anyway While eating an overpriced sandwich With the girl who Always complained.
Budapest sucks. The only good thing Was the pack of cards I bought With a pretty picture of the city Which I now can’t even stand to look at.
So goodbye Budapest I’ll never see you again Because I still think you suck.
Left off the highway by the Exxon station. Right into Soleil.
Indistinguishable bird houses – blue, tan, mustard, green. Ah, green – that one’s mine.
The home of the long-lost furniture. That dresser – it was Mamaw’s. The couch and chairs – our old den set. My bed creaks. The walls are thin.
It is the gathering place. Win or lose, old and new friends mix. Hotty Toddy is the common thread. The boys are at the grill; the girls scuttle in the kitchen.
Y’all is spoken here. After all, this is Mississippi.
Amber yells, I have to leave now to make it Back by dark. I pop my earbuds in, A perfect hundred and sixty beats per minute, Instant motivation.
I glance back Before I round the first bend, Of my driveway. Leaving everything as it should be. Leaving everything as I always picture it, Leaving everything as if it is the last time.
I pick up the pace when I see the mailbox, Tapping it as I run by. 805 Curtiswood Lane. Three numbers fourteen letters My house, My home, My sanctuary.
I look up, And the setting sun glares back. It tells me I have thirty minutes To the church, And home again.
North Curtiswood turns into South As I arrive at the Governor’s residence Marked by the intimidating iron gates. I wave to my friend the security guard, Living inside the giant eye that stares at me Running past.
Ms. Diehl waves from the drivers seat Of her white Range Rover. As she pulls out of her driveway. Leaving everything she loves, In the nanny’s careful care. She glances back at me before I become an ant in her rearview. But I don’t feel her eyes on me, I’m too busy watching her now-lonely house, Like a scene from the all too familiar Movie of my childhood.
A couple strolls slowly a few feet ahead, Dressed in sweatpants and t-shirts. It’s as if They don’t care If anyone is watching them Or what the passersby Think of their appearance. I guess they’re new to the neighborhood.
The houses become smaller, And the streetlights become fewer, Leaving everything familiar, As I weave through back roads I couldn’t even tell you the names of. The hills become steeper, And the sky becomes darker, And I picture Amber pacing, Staring at the kitchen clock.
The last hundred yards Are my favorite part. I try to leave everything left in me On Curtiswood Lane. I give the mailbox its usual tap And start the hike up the familiar hill, Knowing my favorite place in the world Is only a few twists and turns away.
When I finally see it, My breath gets trapped Somewhere in my chest. My house My home My sanctuary, Glows in the dim lighting, As if it is magic, In some ways it is.
Part of me thinks, If I stare at this image long enough, It will never leave me, Or maybe I will never leave it.
I take in what I can From the large glass windows. The pink and green Blares from my room, My daddy’s silhouette Pours a glass of wine at the bar. The piano calls me from the library, Camouflaged behind the huge curtains, That were always my favorite hiding spot, In my favorite childhood game.
I have to grow up, I have to leave everything. Not now, but soon. Leave all the things I can see now, And all the things I can’t, All the things that are hidden But I know exist inside those walls.
Leaving Curtiswood Lane Seems impossible now, But I have time to prepare. Time to pack up the things, That my family has taught me, My house has provided me, And Curtiswood has given me.
When I open my suitcase, Wherever I end up, I’ll find inside everything I thought I left. All the good things, And some of the bad, So I can create my new Curtiswood My house My home My sanctuary.
Nine feet deep, Outside my window as I sleep. Stars reflect And make me recollect, The days of young age, Still viewing life through a cage. Like a canary on her perch, Just beginning her endless search. The deep, dark depths lurking with mysteries, Shadows casted from the trees, All the while the blue bird sings, Until suddenly, I’m woken by a ring.
Sparsely any Green Hills left, except for my hill. Deterred away by a graffiti ridden Dead End, Cars roll by and wonder if it false. Three steeples (dominating the coons and the Believers) guard my century old brickwork from the busy Borough Road connecting my town to my city. On my hill dogs walk and bark, children play and scream, Teens party and annoy the neighbors. But, there ain’t gonna be no complaint ‘cause my antebellum upbringin’ provides amnesty – But we need discipline! Flood waters flow down past the safety of homes to drown the foxes and the unlucky travelers who look for the cut through. But they won’t find it; there is still green on my hill, Untouched.
An urban lifestyle is one of chaos. With 4-40 zooming past the brick wall outside my house, The buzz of cars rarely stops. A blackish smog rises from the tired streets. The deer fight to outrun the oncoming lights.
Although eyes have time to rest, they open to find crowded schedules. Not even a moment to notice the dropping temperatures. The farmers market down the street disappears, hiding until the next warmth.
Without proper timing, a simple trip through Green Hills can leave you compacted on all sides. With no escape, one’s mind wonders.. Why are so many drawn to such chaos?
Up and down West End Avenue Houses line the streets Music is everywhere Green Hills, Franklin, and Brentwood, there is all kinds of music. Downtown on Broadway, only Country music. The Ryman Auditorium, old, tattered, pew filled venue. The Bridgestone Arena, fit for 20,000 screaming fans.
Belmont, Vanderbilt, Lipscomb All options of where to continue the journey. Ensworth, Harpeth Hall, MBA, All stepping-stones in the journey.
Berry Hill, Lauderdale Up and down West End Avenue Marcus, Jackson, Evan, Stephen. These streets feel endless. Of a city full of life. And the ones that inhabit it.
Here are the small bags, The red and black glass, The road less traveled.
When I speak, I speak of broken things. Of front bumpers Of jaw bones The notion that events and occurrences happen for a reason.
Galatin Road, take a right on Stratford Ave. and you'll find my neighborhood. Where my hispanic vecinos are across the street along with David, Benjamin, and Jordan next to them. Trees all aligned up perfectly and a random under-construction house lies in between two other houses-one new and one not so new. Up the street there is a gas station and down the street are the schools Maplewood 9th grade academy and Stratford High. Shelby Park is in biking distance and about 3 miles away you'll find Opry Mills Mall. Inglewood, East Nashville, My Home A place where the street had rain on one side and sunshine on the other. The place I live; My HOME SWEET HOME.
Green and white stripes
ReplyDeleteline the 100 by 100 foot yards.
Mailbox after mailbox
painted a matte black.
Aggregate concrete driveways
leading to two door garages.
4-way stop signs at
Key Drive and East Moran.
American flags hanging from
square porch columns.
Rows of white pines
border the common spaces.
A large swimming pool
lies in the center.
Baseball fields and tennis courts
run up on backyards.
Welcome, to the
American Dream.
Bounded by the highway and the Bend,
ReplyDeleteRailroad roaring at night,
Tucked away from most of the bustle
Of high schools and retail stores
The yard is adorned
With grass either yellow or green
With trees, branches one color or many
The mulch is always brown,
The rocks in the corner before the gate always white and tan
From her post in the garden
St. Therese sees it all
Fluctuate and stay constant
Day to day, year to year
As it all happens behind, the house from the tradition of Williamsburg
Sits and awaits
Our return
Everyday I walk
ReplyDeleteThe lengthy circle of Horseshoe Bend.
As I ascend Polo Club road,
A hard and unforgiving concrete camel,
Ms. Higgins slows and waves,
Her suburban making impossible time.
I raise my hand in acknowledgment,
But, as always, too late.
I scale the first hump,
And take notice of the Fletcher’s house.
Next to it, the Glassford’s is clinging to the side,
Only the second floor visible.
As the land dips,
I huff in relief.
Sweat has discolored my shirt.
The constant humidity,
A result of living next to the Harpeth,
Has caused the ends of my hair to curl.
Soon, I am again climbing.
Atop the hill I see the Galivan’s house.
Oh, how I hate that house,
Sitting so peacefully
While I struggle to push forward.
After a century the ground levels.
In the distance I see the hills,
Like a heap of peacocks,
Never growing closer.
I pass a metal disk leading
To pipes underground,
Flinch at the sharp sound of
Tires speeding over it.
I smile tentatively at the bikers,
Make polite conversation with the dog walkers,
Wave to the lawnmowers,
Nod to indistinct faces behind tinted windows.
I pass the Rothenburg’s house,
The Campbell’s house,
The Piana’s house;
I pass houses I don’t know the owners of,
But like to look at nonetheless.
My favorite is the one
Backed up against the cornfield -
The one that keeps its blinds open
So that I can envy the art studio
On its second floor.
Eventually I return
To Briarwood Crest.
My street.
I work up a jog,
For this is the last hill
I have to conquer.
Sweat is dripping,
My calves are tight,
But I push past
The Treadwell’s house,
I see Rachel’s car
Sitting feet
Away from mine,
Know that
I’m almost there,
Just a few
More seconds
And I will reach
Our lush
Green yard,
Which looks exactly
Like the hundreds of others,
But right now
Looks more inviting than any of them.
I sprint up the driveway,
Up the three steps it takes to meet my door,
And enter the cool confines of my house.
I’m out of breath,
But again I’ve done it:
Made the difficult trek to Vaughn Road and back.
It’s a hard journey,
But a beautiful one.
Is there a security guard in that house?
ReplyDeleteNo; reverse.
Enter pound, four numbers, voila.
Take a left, a sharp right,
and stumble upon the rows of red bricks
topped with a charcoal triangle.
Bright blooms and inch cut grass await,
but no backyard to play.
Doors always locked with security alarm.
No slipping out, or the chime will sound.
Enclosed in gates, protected and shielded
Inside this safe haven
A kitchen dressed in roosters,
Providing one time together.
Once four now three;
Sometimes empty, but never alone.
Two stone pillars, no gate in between
ReplyDeleteLeads to a long black driveway
Covered by trees
At the top of the hill
A big stone home is found
A place where bunnies and deer
Frolic upon the ground
A tall black gate lets no one around
To a dark water pool
where all worries are drowned
all different colors from all types of flowers
where I often watch the rain drops in the
springtime showers
A tetherball court, a place of high competition
where family arrives
None without a mission
And nearby lies the volleyball court
Those who challenge may just realize
Zimmerman’s don’t lose in sports
A long rope swing hangs from a tree
A push from my father
And immediately I am carefree
Across the way is the old sandbox
Where my grandfather would watch me play
Holding a whiskey on the rocks
This home was made by a loving family
There whenever we needed one another
And always will be
Welcome to Music City
ReplyDeleteOverrun by fathers, mothers, and children—
Notice the incessant SUVs and carefree soccer moms.
You’ll get used to it.
The people are the backbone of the city.
With their Southern manners
And their homogeneity,
it’s no wonder everyone gets along.
Venture on down Belle Meade Boulevard
See the runners—But stay out of the left lane.
Keep going all the way to Percy Warner Park,
and walk the trails with a myriad of colors lining every inch.
In the middle of town a house stands on a hill
ReplyDeletewith a young girl looking out her windowsill.
Large oak trees line the drive outside;
It's almost as if someone is trying to hide.
A woman walks her dog down the street,
and curses the car that decided to speed.
She cries to the car, "small kids at play!"
but they don't hear-they are too far away.
A moving van stops at the house next door,
but as soon as they do, the rain starts to pour.
The movers are happy, they get to take a break,
but the woman is mad, her straight blonder hair is fake.
At the cul-de-sac on Buckland Abbey
ReplyDeletebehind closed gates
reside the five of us.
One.
The maple that erupts in a ruby- red splendor of leaves,
unprecedented in the world outside the brick walls,
welcomes even strangers inside Northumberland,
just as Mrs. Julie and Mr. Tax would.
“Mouton on Guard” calls the sad-eyed basset hound in the driveway
where the “Barbie” car once sat.
Smells of a fire burning and jambalaya
waft from the chimney,
recalling shared recipes and needle point lessons.
Two.
Two fluffy poodles stand
on their hind legs
at the foot of the driveway
as Mrs. Zeitlin calls “Hey girls.”
Three.
Granmarty and Sonny
invite us in their gingerbread house
for cookies.
Four.
Up the elevator
to the golden glimpse of the past
of the man in the wheelchair.
Five Buckland Abbey.
Three multicolored labs greet cars pulling in.
The manicured crepe myrtles frame
the driveway leading
down to the
rock wall, where I had become
Mary Poppins in flight with an umbrella, or
a knight defending the walls of a castle.
After new neighbors moved into
Three
and then Four,
after Mr. Tax no longer
waited in the living room to play cards and
the cul-de-sac on Buckland Abbey
experienced life’s round-a-bout
course of hardships and recovery,
One, Two, Three, Four, and Five
still sit side by side
at the dead of end of Buckland Abbey.
Chicago
ReplyDeleteYou are my home
No matter where I go
No matter where I stay
I hope you always know
The lights of soldier field
The cheers that flare from Wrigley
All resonate through my veins
A feeling that is never ending
The thrills of Navy Pier
Deep-dish pizza that can’t be beaten
Add to the countless wonders
Of the three million people that inhabit your city
Wealthy or homeless
Lawyers or cashier workers
All are united in your arms
Like a family of brothers and sisters
The shores of Lake Michigan
The wind that inspires your name
Had you never entered my life
Oh, what a shame
From Maxwell to Michigan
From blues to endless shopping
Your love inspires everyone
A love that’s never stopping
Chicago
You are my home
No matter where I go
No matter where I stay
I hope you always know
The motto of the trip?
ReplyDeleteBudapest sucks.
Pillow fights leading to a broken lamp
A mix of dental floss, gum and Aquaphor
Trying to stick it back together.
Budapest sucks.
Too much marzipan
About forty dollars of various flavors
Little of which I ever ate
Who eats coconut marzipan anyhow?
Budapest sucks.
Water trailing from my purse
A drowned iphone
A drowned cell phone
A wallet, which had to be blow-dried
And one very thirsty girl.
Budapest sucks.
Haggling with vendors
Over hand sewn tops we never wore anyway
While eating an overpriced sandwich
With the girl who
Always complained.
Budapest sucks.
The only good thing
Was the pack of cards I bought
With a pretty picture of the city
Which I now can’t even stand to look at.
So goodbye Budapest
I’ll never see you again
Because I still think you suck.
Left off the highway by the Exxon station.
ReplyDeleteRight into Soleil.
Indistinguishable bird houses – blue, tan, mustard, green.
Ah, green – that one’s mine.
The home of the long-lost furniture.
That dresser – it was Mamaw’s.
The couch and chairs – our old den set.
My bed creaks. The walls are thin.
It is the gathering place.
Win or lose, old and new friends mix.
Hotty Toddy is the common thread.
The boys are at the grill; the girls scuttle in the kitchen.
Y’all is spoken here.
After all, this is Mississippi.
Amber yells,
ReplyDeleteI have to leave now to make it
Back by dark.
I pop my earbuds in,
A perfect hundred and sixty beats per minute,
Instant motivation.
I glance back
Before I round the first bend,
Of my driveway.
Leaving everything as it should be.
Leaving everything as I always picture it,
Leaving everything as if it is the last time.
I pick up the pace when I see the mailbox,
Tapping it as I run by.
805 Curtiswood Lane.
Three numbers fourteen letters
My house,
My home,
My sanctuary.
I look up,
And the setting sun glares back.
It tells me I have thirty minutes
To the church,
And home again.
North Curtiswood turns into South
As I arrive at the Governor’s residence
Marked by the intimidating iron gates.
I wave to my friend the security guard,
Living inside the giant eye that stares at me
Running past.
Ms. Diehl waves from the drivers seat
Of her white Range Rover.
As she pulls out of her driveway.
Leaving everything she loves,
In the nanny’s careful care.
She glances back at me before
I become an ant in her rearview.
But I don’t feel her eyes on me,
I’m too busy watching her now-lonely house,
Like a scene from the all too familiar
Movie of my childhood.
A couple strolls slowly a few feet ahead,
Dressed in sweatpants and t-shirts.
It’s as if
They don’t care
If anyone is watching them
Or what the passersby
Think of their appearance.
I guess they’re new to the neighborhood.
The houses become smaller,
And the streetlights become fewer,
Leaving everything familiar,
As I weave through back roads
I couldn’t even tell you the names of.
The hills become steeper,
And the sky becomes darker,
And I picture Amber pacing,
Staring at the kitchen clock.
The last hundred yards
Are my favorite part.
I try to leave everything left in me
On Curtiswood Lane.
I give the mailbox its usual tap
And start the hike up the familiar hill,
Knowing my favorite place in the world
Is only a few twists and turns away.
When I finally see it,
My breath gets trapped
Somewhere in my chest.
My house
My home
My sanctuary,
Glows in the dim lighting,
As if it is magic,
In some ways it is.
Part of me thinks,
If I stare at this image long enough,
It will never leave me,
Or maybe I will never leave it.
I take in what I can
From the large glass windows.
The pink and green
Blares from my room,
My daddy’s silhouette
Pours a glass of wine at the bar.
The piano calls me from the library,
Camouflaged behind the huge curtains,
That were always my favorite hiding spot,
In my favorite childhood game.
I have to grow up,
I have to leave everything.
Not now, but soon.
Leave all the things I can see now,
And all the things I can’t,
All the things that are hidden
But I know exist inside those walls.
Leaving Curtiswood Lane
Seems impossible now,
But I have time to prepare.
Time to pack up the things,
That my family has taught me,
My house has provided me,
And Curtiswood has given me.
When I open my suitcase,
Wherever I end up,
I’ll find inside everything I thought I left.
All the good things,
And some of the bad,
So I can create my new Curtiswood
My house
My home
My sanctuary.
Nine feet deep,
ReplyDeleteOutside my window as I sleep.
Stars reflect
And make me recollect,
The days of young age,
Still viewing life through a cage.
Like a canary on her perch,
Just beginning her endless search.
The deep, dark depths lurking with mysteries,
Shadows casted from the trees,
All the while the blue bird sings,
Until suddenly, I’m woken by a ring.
Sparsely any Green Hills left, except for my hill.
ReplyDeleteDeterred away by a graffiti ridden Dead End,
Cars roll by and wonder if it false.
Three steeples
(dominating the coons and the Believers)
guard my century old brickwork
from the busy Borough Road connecting my town
to my city.
On my hill dogs walk and bark,
children play and scream,
Teens party and annoy
the neighbors.
But, there ain’t gonna be no complaint ‘cause my antebellum upbringin’ provides
amnesty –
But we need discipline!
Flood waters flow down past the safety of homes to drown the foxes and the unlucky travelers who look for the cut through.
But they won’t find it; there is still green on my hill,
Untouched.
An urban lifestyle is one of chaos.
ReplyDeleteWith 4-40 zooming past
the brick wall outside my house,
The buzz of cars rarely stops.
A blackish smog rises from the tired streets.
The deer fight to outrun the oncoming lights.
Although eyes have time to rest,
they open to find crowded schedules.
Not even a moment to notice the dropping temperatures.
The farmers market down the street disappears,
hiding until the next warmth.
Without proper timing,
a simple trip through Green Hills
can leave you compacted on all sides.
With no escape,
one’s mind wonders..
Why are so many drawn to such chaos?
“Home”
ReplyDeleteI live in the rolling hills,
Off a windy road,
Through the windblown trees.
Off of Old Hickory Boulevard,
Down the street from Publix,
Past seemingly dozens of churches,
Take a left on to Derby Glen Lane.
See the neighbors on the road,
See the children in the yard,
Pass the brick houses
And brick mailboxes.
Keep going
Till you are at the bottom
Of the hill.
There is my house on the left.
Four white columns.
Flowers in the middle
Of the driveway circle.
Hear the barking dogs.
Feel the grass beneath your feet.
Smell the freshly cut grass.
Taste the home-cooked meals.
You are home.
Up and down West End Avenue
ReplyDeleteHouses line the streets
Music is everywhere
Green Hills, Franklin, and Brentwood, there is all kinds of music.
Downtown on Broadway, only Country music.
The Ryman Auditorium, old, tattered, pew filled venue.
The Bridgestone Arena, fit for 20,000 screaming fans.
Belmont, Vanderbilt, Lipscomb
All options of where to continue the journey.
Ensworth, Harpeth Hall, MBA,
All stepping-stones in the journey.
Berry Hill, Lauderdale
Up and down West End Avenue
Marcus, Jackson, Evan, Stephen.
These streets feel endless.
Of a city full of life.
And the ones that inhabit it.
Here are the small bags,
The red and black glass,
The road less traveled.
When I speak, I speak of broken things.
Of front bumpers
Of jaw bones
The notion that events and occurrences happen for a reason.
Galatin Road, take a right on
ReplyDeleteStratford Ave. and you'll find my neighborhood.
Where my hispanic vecinos are across the
street along with David, Benjamin, and Jordan
next to them.
Trees all aligned up perfectly and a random
under-construction house lies in between two other houses-one new and one not so new. Up the street there is a gas station and down the street are the schools Maplewood 9th grade academy and Stratford High. Shelby Park is in biking distance and about 3 miles away you'll find Opry Mills Mall.
Inglewood, East Nashville, My Home
A place where the street had rain on one side and sunshine on the other. The place I live; My HOME SWEET HOME.