if the shelves of hell are lined
with all the books
that should have been written
please know
there’s a big gaudy ass pink satiny lace volume
of poetry i didn’t write about you
sitting quietly in the
damn, but didn’t we have fun
section
Category: Art
Categories
activism Americana Art cemeteries childhood chronology crime death destruction digital photography epidemeology Europe family geneology history muse non-fiction religion reproductive rights rituals shooting stars society Southern Gothic The British Royal Crown theatre travel writing Urban Legends war weddings
Pocahontas
Categories
Americana Art astrolabe astronomy baseball writing beauty belief biology books cartography cemeteries childhood Christmas chronology civility comfort communication confections corsets dance death digital art digital photography divinity Europe fairy tales family fashion fauna feminism festivities fucking funerals geneology geography gratitude happiness history holidays human behavior humanity iconography journalism Kentucky life literature local color love love poetry mindfulness mourning muse Music mythology non-fiction Ohio ornithology painting Paris photography poetic theory poetry pop culture publishing punk relationship studies relationships religion rituals romance seasons self-love sexuality shooting stars society sociology Southern Gothic technology thanatology The British Royal Crown theology tomes traditions travel writing Uncategorized Urban Legends
Y’all, we’re gettin’ hitched proper this time!
Categories
your mudda
Kentucky thoroughbred
wild flower covered
rose wreathed
bluegrass hills
day lilies praying to face the sun
white horse fences on Derby Day
mint julep
drinking celebrities
wearing too much makeup and cloying colognes
spectator hats
pastel bow ties, open toed
espadrille intentions painted perfectly
round pen prancing
such breeding,
& the horses are pedigreed too.
The world of Man O’ War and
My uncle,
Etheridge Spaw,
my family’s last great horseman
elder statesman
until we got a jockey and horsewoman
in my niece, a true princess.
Etheridge had a voice like thunder
booming across a valley
melodic, bellicose, bass baritone
a cowboy hat the size of god
and a cherry wood pipe to match
stories of blood relations
unfurling in his pipe smoke
soothsayer
prince of our family
your memory I cherish
thoughts of you, on a faraway farm
just this side of a Kentucky heaven.
Bless and keep us through the days to come, uncle,
and thank you, kindly.
Categories
Abelard and Heloise activism affectation Americana Anne Boleyn Art astrolabe astronomy atheism baseball writing battle beauty belief books California cartography cemeteries childhood Christmas chronology cinema civility coffee comedy comfort communication confections crime criminal behavior dance death desserts destruction deviance digital art digital photography divinity domestic violence ecology education electoral process English epicuriosity epidemeology Europe fairy tales feminism festivities film forensics fucking funerals furniture geneology geography girl stuff good reads government government and a lack thereof gratitude happiness health Hell history holidays horror human behavior humanity humor Hunter S. Thompson iconography infidelity insects Jazz journalism Kentucky kindness kinetics Lent life literature local color love love poetry mindfulness mortuary sciences mourning muse mythology nature nightmares non-fiction ornithology pandemics papyrus parenting Paris performance photography physics poetic theory poetry politics pop culture produce psychology public broadcasting publishing punk puppies reading red hair in the morning, fucker grab a cab relationship studies relationships religion religious studies reproductive rights rituals romance science science writing self-care self-love sex sexism sexuality shitty shit shooting stars Short Stories slang society sociology Southern Gothic Southern Living suicide technology thanatology the arts The British Royal Crown theatre theism theology tomes traditions travel writing Uncategorized Urban Legends vice war waste weddings womens studies words writing
Ha!! Me, too…
in death
our ribs remain skyward
like hands
cast to heaven
in prayer