“‘Men say mill folks are rotten / an’ mean down to the core, / But if you seen your chillern starve, / wouldn’t you ask fer more?’” While doing research on textiles during the Great Depression, I found this poem about Ella May Wiggins on the March 8, 1932 editorial page of the Greensboro Daily »
“For fifty years I sweat my dues, / wept salt liquor from the blues. / This story I tell wherever I go.” I never had the chance to stay in school.My daddy said “work,” and his word was rule.This story I tell wherever I go.
“He played the barn vents at curing time like the stops of an instrument, and went on, cupping his hands around the life he’d inherited as if it were a flame.” He clucked his tongue, slapped the bull’s rump, and turneda herd of Angus, single file, through the narrow gapin the fence to the bar »
“Behind all those overspilling clouds, the moon catches light still and sends it to you, unbidden, but you would know to ask for it if it never came . . .” Let the past have its dominion tonight,let the winded rain blow in and shakewindows loose in their softening frames,
I could not bring myself to warn Joe,doing so would cause his legs to give out,his heart collapse: you told me every life is sacred. Army of the CumberlandFebruary 5, 1862, cold and snowing Dear Father,More pitiful than packs of feral catsthe horde staggered into camp,their black faces smothered in clay,arthritic fingers mangled with dirt,echoes »
“A commission! I thought. My big break, at last! And then I went off to sober up.” I’ve always enjoyed giving poetry readings. To me, each one is a literary entertainment, a chance to hold the attention of listeners in a hospitable way, an opportunity to engage and delight them with some well-chosen language. It »