I feel that the large houses look sinister

Even under the bright sun

The people here are very welcoming

As long as you are passing through

Although lyrical a distinct sense of menace

Can still can be felt under the surface

The Civil War was never lost

The recession was the fault of others

It is only a hundred years

Since they lynched niggers

For imagined crimes

Your great grandfather

If you look very closely

Can still be seen in those grainy photographs

The women are different down here

Some are fading before they reach womanhood

Whereas others sit in the failing fields

Regretting the dust and thinking of gold

The small schoolhouses always welcome Jesus

As if he was a local boy born of generations

In the vacancy of the unseen winds

The slight windmills stand alone hardly moving

I have always considered this confusing wilderness

To be the last resting place of poets

Diary Notes

June – August 2023