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