November marches on: 3 new poems, each unique, beautiful and capture “Where I’m From” so eloquently.

I Am From

   By Angela Mason Lowe

Pegasus Poets and Foothills Writers Guild

I am from South Carolina’s breath-taking 

            waterfalls and rippling streams

From Oconee’s cloud covered mountains,

            cool and crisp.

I am from a family of bohemians,

             wanderers who paint life in colors

From shades of blue, green, yellow and red.

I am from musical instruments,

            a four-string fiddle and ukulele

From piano keys and guitars

            played by ear.

I am from the rhythm of the drums 

             words of a song

From the healing balm of music.

I’m from the strong and the brave, 

            secure in faith.

From patriots and rebels, 

            immigrants and natives.

I am from the stories behind  

            pictures hung on the wall

From the soldiers of the red, white and blue.

I am from the richness of the dirt 

            plowed by the farmer

From a seed planted, watered, 

            weeded and nurtured.

I am from two hands used for work 

            and gentle caresses

From cotton mill workers and entrepreneurs.

I am from the lessons in life

            taught through hardships and trials.

From sprinkled with laughter,

            smile through the tears.

I am from the lines of a lyrical poem,

            a shy actor on a stage

From rhyme and reason.

Digging

Angela Rigby Doble

I plunge my fork into the black soil,

and lift, and turn, and beat it to fragments,

pulling out horsetail roots. Back-breaking toil.

The sulky earth, disturbed, reveals and then conceals

partying worms of various pink and erotic shades,

making our cultivation possible in secret. 

The fork may spear one, but they are made

to join and divide in strange ways; it will become other worms.

I bend, thrust in the fork, lift, turn and bash the earth,

I, the King’s youngest and most beautiful daughter,

disguised as a peasant-woman, labouring against my birth,

the ancient rules to be broken only by magic.

The ground I am thrashing into shape doesn’t care

who owns it, would yield its fertility

just as gladly to buttercups and knotweed as to the bare

purity of straight lines, parsnips, criss-crossed onions or leeks.

Here in the spell-bound garden invisible birds sing

in the high hedges of thorn, the first bees are seduced 

out into the sunshine. Deep and hard goes the fork, but nothing

else is clear, whether I really am 

that magical daughter who breaks the spell

and wins the kingdom and begins a new reign of peace.

It may even be that another has come, how can I tell,

charming even now the old king and queen to their knees?

Where I’m From

Crystal Rowe

I’m from Georgia red clay;

kudzu creeping over the barren land.

Where towering magnolias 

overwhelm the air with their perfume.

I am from catfish in the backyard pond.

(But please don’t make me touch 

the worms 

that squiggle and squish in my fingers

and smell like dry mud.)

I am from fried okra and peach pie;

potluck jello salads at church picnics.

Left unattended,

warmed by the summer sun.

From Grandma’s homemade cookies 

fresh out of the oven,

dripping with chocolate chips.

I may wear Oxner genes,

(from my dad), 

but I am essentially a Beverage

(like my mom)—

sometimes hot;

sometimes icy cold.

I am a branch of Verla. And Francis too. 

Midwest farmers;

New England coopers;

Tossed together like dry tumbleweeds 

in the wind.

I am from He walks with me 

in the dew-filled garden;

hummed melodies while performing chores.

I’m from Laurel. And Jay. Paula, Amy, April too.

We-can-do-it-on-our-own women; 

Never-rely-on-anyone-but-each-other women.

Women made strong from the consuming 

fires of life.

Where I’m from inspires;

it reminds, and shapes, and forms.

But it does not define.

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