Preface:  This poem contains memories of mine, from childhood in the South.
To hate to love To love to hate
I think that everyone can relate
The stars above up in the sky
They travel through mind and through mine eye
With bars of light they reach up top
just like a bully; harassing cop
who asks, why for then did you stop
and writes a ticket so square.

I glide from left and then to right
I stay up late into the night
I hope to love and love to hate
and despite my thought processes I ain’t

a woman, intelligent, young and fair
with kindly voice, and far off stare
I ponder yonder with dreams in tow
upon a glassy sandy shore
I ask for a friendly helping hand
to find my fingers’ve been blown away
a whomping stump with pet firecrackers
done blown my brains out

Cement staircases and an old porcelain toilet
they sit and stare at me as I get eaten
the fire ants, they burn like needles
Great Aunt Ora and Great Aunt Eulean
Youth and Age, and all in between
they sat upon the top of Aunt hill
They sat upon their swing

They told their stories, with rickety voices,
with trembling hands and sad worn faces
They sang songs in my dreams
songs of their youth, with the birth of electricity
With automobiles and store bought dresses

These are the women of my heart.

Women whose pride comes from hand work and field work,
along side the men, to feed your kin
where black coffee and cigarettes were a pleasure
Where watching the sun come up in quite
was worth more than walls made of real wood.

I yearn for roaming chickens, coarse grass, heat and humidity
I miss the south.
I miss the kiss of humidity on my shoulders
and bullfrogs croaking as the fireflies flew.
The sounds of my uncle arguing with his girlfriend when drunk
sounds that made more sense to me than making sure to be successful at work.
Sounds that remind me of home.