“Appalachian Mud”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-24)

 

 

Indigenous blood

And the Appalachian mud

Flow freely where I lay my head

I have given up thinking

About things other than coffee drinking

And meals of red beans and cornbread

 

Once upon a time

I stood long in the bloodline

Trying hard to shape myself like a stone

But that carving of me

Represented a fallacy

A trick to keep me wandering far from home

 

I realize now

That the sweat on my brow

Is a blessing bestowed by the maker

When I work hard and repent

Of time foolishly spent

Then I become a humble giver, not a taker

 

My parents spoke their worth

Of damnation and dirt

And rewards for the righteous who pray

But I have often found this

That the stealthy, Judas kiss

Comes dancing with the Devil’s ballet

 

Grown up from the ground

This is the truth I have found

A philosophy of common folk on the porch

Singing hymns written years ago

A faith foundation put in escrow

Until it could offer us young’uns support

 

I am that inheritor

Sat outside the screen door

With grandma’s poems on my mind

Her voice still tickles my ears

It protects me from fear

In eternity she lingers for all time

 

I will never travel beyond

The spiritual pond

That offered a drink when I needed it most

Though backward I may slide

Into selfishness and pride

That baptism remains from the Holy Ghost

 

I can’t make the claim

To be righteous in name

But in my heart beats a tide of crimson

It began on a mountain top

In a place where they tend the crops

With a hoe in a vertical position

 

Up and down the hillsides

Old tractors and bromides

Which do not offend the listener, by hearing

Though commonly said

And often echoing in my head

They help me to keep plowing and steering

 

I’ll work the soil as a metaphor

My typewriter behind the barn door

A place that might seem somewhat reclusive

But in that crude setting

With my Carhartt and mosquito netting

I’ll spin a yarn both witty and elusive

 

It’s in my veins, friend

Wordsmithing right to the end

An occupation I took on from my sire

I reckon that it is best

To hold this medal to my chest

Like a Model A Ford rim, and tire

 

An odd combination, maybe

For a budding, bold baby

Who came from the womb with a pen in hand

But when viewed in hindsight

Like a mirror gleaming sunlight

That disposition formed the flesh of a man

 

Now grown tall and strong

Still humming those church songs

Learned at a young age, and remembered

They still bring me a smile

Because all the while

They summon the messages I heard

 

Promises of hope declared

Trust in the true and the fair

A foundation that Appalachian mud provided

It has never washed away

Only hardened like clay

To bolster this house, undivided

 

Loving labor is a chore

That the wise use to restore

Their worth as prime pebbles of prophecy

Sustained by the daily bread

Of folklore and scriptures, read

By gray-headed souls, from their memory

 

Amen is my creed

I kneel with the seed

First planted by ancestors from the old lands

Native chieftains and pilgrims

We stand here as their children

With bowed heads and callused, folded hands