Love Song A.M.


In The Morning So Fair,
Towards My Love (w/classical guitar, osmanthus incense)
In the morning
you were fair
I felt towards you
this love
this day

(there’s a voice only version one as well

Screw it, nothing shared in a while, silence and me, and please for all spirit if you have hate to share then silence please. Sad people tend to think me mad, then read John Donne and say what is. I only want to share this love, gently, oddly only towards the angel of my sleep (share if you wish), really are not that many I feel close enough to to share beyond here but also that’s more work that the work,the art, the life of an artist singing good morning, that’s all. Sharing is a good thing. Please share. I fear raising the ire of too many again. I don’t mean like “screw it'” to you all here in lovely Word Press land. I have been in WP a long time and FINALLY more fearless poets and scammers are showing up It is heartening to read as many good and hopefully good poems as I have in the past month.  Peace and Art on my companions. In Arr I love you all.

Please share

oops, towards the save for timeline later or straight to delete, and it is cool, it really is, live John Donne, Waltlvi Whitman, Saint John Perse, Novalis, Stefan Georg, Ambrose Bierce, Richard Brautagen, Kazantzakis, Hesse, Shelly, Keats, Byron, Tom Robbins, Patti Smith, Sylvia Plath, writings of Milarepa, Jim Harrison. I will not name all because they are vainly skipped across a lake while most having read and felt maybe two poems but hey, it’s all who are what they are, I’ve been called mad/crazy/weird since I was nine so what does it mean to me today, just more of the same from people who don’t try to read or understand, much less open the buried box of pain, but do try and they just cannot see my heart beating when the words strike and hurt or give me power, come, wave the wand and climb some climb walls to say 3 words, or leap from a second story window afterwards, yes I am guilty of all. We who are touched upon the forehead at birth have no control but to do our very best to create Love in and as Art. Yes Jason Biggers, I write a lot but I am also a fan of your work, your bloodless big brother, so what does that say my beloved one?. I have stood for your work many times. And will stand again in the future, no matter what. I applaud your brave ventures and the process of becoming. I wish more did.

Chromebook Facebook hates me and just deleted all I wrote for the FIFTH damn them! So if you received repeats hI aate the machine not me, though I know many just enjoy the man hoohaaa.

Coyote, Today the Sun Itself Howled and Yipped


This is a piano and High Lonesome vocal from a poem titled Coyote. You can find the poem itself here in Word Press. One my most frequently published and noted poems, so no doubt it will bring derision and repulsion here as it is FB, or it may be liked, I really don’t know. I never know. I write and play in darkness, sleep through the day, the summer sun hurts, my green eyes burn, and the holy find me to be an animal, so: Coyote. The song style is High Lonesome so don’t be put off by the vocal style as it is a style, southern Appalachian. Seems it is becoming lost today. So, I try to do as many as I can in this form, that of being in the low hills, fog eating up the elms and pines, of walking down to the empty and even more lonesome town just past midnight……not a soul in site just me and the street lights downtown cowtown 1 a.m.

Coyote Prince Today


Song from a poem I sent through dozens of rewrites. It became my most published poem, maybe; I stopped making notes on publications when it hit 600. I love poetry. When I move it to music the same thing comes out, my voice.
Now, this is a rebellious song, sick of the moments that pretend to be, the people behind those moments, so the soul of Coyote prince runs deeper into hiding to be spirit guide for those driven to extinction.
The headstone is a six foot tall granite piece, smooth as can be. My dearest friend Dan had died when his twin engine beechcraft exploded on takeoff, mere seconds in the air. I waited for hours at the air port but rules are rules so that could not tell me. I found out the next day. So, they asked me to write a headstone poem, and donated a bench overlooking one of the Delaware battlefields with a two line part from another poem on brotherhood. Dan was like a brother to me. They keep dying a lot lately. It has me scared.

Coyote
COYOTE (2014)
Yeah, and the night limped around like it was trying to go somewhere,
like out of Carrol County, but it didn’t and neither did I…
so it’s just me and the street lamps downtown cowtown 1 a.m.
Not a star in sight and nothing’s open all night but there’s some
eggs at Casa Huddle, been waiting all day by the week-old bacon
by the grease geyser and a tarnished Maxwell pump.
Home is sounding better by the minute, out there, self bound,
out there by the pines where the stars always shine
and the insects call and chant to the night.
Yeah, like this never happened before and the phone rings on time.
Let the darkness rain down on the rascals and rogues, on the land,
on the caverns of the coyote prince; I have tasted the clay,
chewed upon the sunrise in a dozen cities and found nothing
so sweet as the southern summer moon.
As though baptisms were not pure ritual,
as though I’ve lived this course in southern mysticism past,
yet past the prime of indecision into action and desire.
Me, alone with my solipsism and a thousand constellations,
where animal heart is an echo growing stronger in my lungs,
growing out of the chronic dreams of misalliance and master races,
seeds sown in the groves of neophytes and fisher kings, suicide kings
where the world is nothing but reflections and fear…fear…
yeah, fear keep’em all from climbing.
In the black hour those owl wise swoop down on the bell ropes
and burn in the light of the dying mirror sun. Better to burn on
the wing than stooped upon the ladder with some Moloch prince
in a three piece suit, better to screech in the storms
with a new vision of life, alive with all that lives in the treetops
and shadows, in gulf stream and prairie, forest and hill, yeah,
dreams of the beasts on the edge of extinction, they come.
They cry. Dreams of the coyote prince seconds before the snare snaps.
Naturalist, rattling the cages of a language that’s forgotten salvation,
when animal rhythm passes so shall we,
asphalt concrete glass and steel…poof! memories of the land…
a getaway from the lights, from engines’ rhythms, blood in the sand
for a moment before the buildings rise and it’s all just city,
but never open all night. . .And the dirt roads shine.
Well, the night limps around kinda faded and gone,
bird calls in the dawn and the distant combustion howls,
cities rise and fall in the dust, but out here,
out here in the back roads, my heart, all red clay, pines and spring fed
really is open all night, is the one direction unadorned with death.
Loving the land and the hammer that nails it down.
Loving the Rising when our own mortality strains,
pulls upon the bell ropes and finally begs for mercy.

High Lonesome Sound of A Bad Son Trying to Be a Good Son


This is a simple yet complicated hillbilly kind of thing, High Lonesome if you will. I was surprised to find few knew the history of poetry, narrative, stories, singing around a fire, or just the singing that overlaps and develops through repitition and changes in pitch and range. As an overeducated redneck who frequelty seems to say, “look, I have over 600 published works and taught master classes in poetry during Pablo Neruda Literature Conference”; and sometimes I feel bad saying it. I feel like I am putting the other person down when all I want is to say speak freely, please, I starve for articstic conversation, for knowledge and exchange of experiment of idea and method. Some of us write and publish in the same style to the moment of death. I change stylyes and technique as a way of keeping from off the cliiff’s edge. So, this said, I am limiting to whom it is sent but am posting to FB anyway. If you have a pulse and there is venom within it please stay away. This ballad is in as ancient a style as I can possible reference. There is no older way of history, of religion, of sharing our lives than in those songs and stories we tell with FRIENDS. Back when life was different it was one of the favorite things a group of us would do which was to sit out at night with weed and a jug of Mountain Red Burgandy, and make up songs or expand with new lyrics our favorite Dylan or Young. It was a way of communication, and it was for me a way of developing poetry which I would later publish. Today we think of High Lonesome as a strictly Appalacahian thing with our Scotland and Nordic heritage in the hills. I like to sing it all the time. So, lately I have been recording them. Hate or love, or indifference, it’s cool. Everyone has a theory and each of us has a “thing”. It is just that for me I find this thing limitless and am at my struggling happiest when taking on new projects in the Arts and different forms of music. Yesterday I spent 20 hours on Klaus Schulze inspired Dark Side of the Moog, Michael Shrieve type drums, I was mad with intensity as I tried to get the changes because the style was out side my range. Today, was a hard day of too much money had to be spent, mine, credit, family, and it really tore me up. The loneliness of devotion is often tossed off as being weak in faith. OK, fine. But we all have feelings and if we do not have feelings then I guess we are dead. This High Lonseome ballad in three parts is all me cause no one will endeavor such a horrid act as collaboration with me. The horror is that I understand. This song is about prayer, devotion and love. 3 things surely to scare away any art and Catholic friends who remain. PLease if you dig on American music going back to first man and woman relating their day over a steak mammoth and fern grill, then you’ll know what I am doing. I feel bad gogn to such length to explain a work in progress, but I change styles on things so often it confuses people and they become agitated. I have changed my publishing poetic style 3 times since I was 16 when I first began publishing, each change came about from discussions and criticisms from my editors and regular ol’ life changes. Yesterday I spent 20 hours on a Klaus Schulze and Michael Shrieve style of early techno using Logic Pro X, an Akai MPD32 and my midi grand piano.
It was fun but wow was that taxing trying to maintain straight chord changes and beat progressions. I am a modern classical composer in the world of Arve Part, Reich, Cage, the evil Philip Glass, Brian Eno and Krautrock of course. Yet still in the classical range and as a pianist the setting it all up into various instrumentations for a symphony is an amazing and tedious experience I recommend to any and all who love the challenges our world of art offers each day. I live in praise of THE Buddha and his Saints as Mahayana Buddhism is a religion and I was devoted for all my life up until 6 or 7 years ago when I had THE Jesus Christ experience of being spoken to from the Cross. It was strange and unexpected. I knew in that momen, a Saul to Paul type scene, that Christ was hurt as I hated him and his religions so much, but the more I returned to my youthful studies in Alan Watts and his gang of world religion to Lacan and his gang of Post Freudians I began to understand exactly what was happening and it relates to Thomas Merton. That’s all. For anyone bold enough to try to make it through my often turgid prose and even more thick music, I thank you. As a Poet, my primary source of Being, it is an adventure that language turns into clouds and waves, earth blooming and earth dying, so when I go into the unknown I expect people to express some pretty serious hatreds, yet all I hope is that we love.

Epilogue, For Lori: Elephants and Seahorses, a waystation to the Heaven


Mendocino Blues Poetry


A set of songs and poems, thoughts and food articles. I hope you enjoy.

Peace. Love. Faith.

(this photo against brick walls is from my lean years)

2 Catholic Poems of Faith and Discovery: Dialogue In Fever, In Scripture, My Lord Speaks; and Fire in the Soul, Ongoing


Dialogue in Fever, in Scripture, My Lord Speaks
“Have you told the sun to rise?
Have you commanded rivers to flow?
Do the trees call your name when
The many winds blow?
Would you be so bold? How were you born?
I am now and after when there was Nothing.
I will Be when the last waves collapse
and the final fires sing.”

-How am I no more a servant?
But in finding You I see my heart
Open wide outside my chest, for me it stops,
for You, My Lord, I feel it start.
Sense my blood rush in artery and vein,
Yet still I suffer, I wear this chain
And feel my flesh decay; only the Crucifix
And white bones remain.-

“Did your breath move across the waters?
Build Adam’s lungs and give him voice?
Was it you or Is it Me who looks upon
Eve and grants her choice?
My prodigal, my son, go my wandering child,
All there is of this beautiful land is yours to build,
And know also it is yours to destroy, to bury,
Remember to cherish what is mine and wild.”

-Awake! all is Yours I came to say at dawn
Today while we talked, and I listened, underneath
Your glory, your patience, as Autumn was drawn
Across this South, and I was glad.-

-When you kneeled and pressed your palms together,
Turned your face skyward, then to the ground, and up,
You Said,- “This is the way we pray from here forever.
Say our Father, who art in Heaven…
The words of Job, of David, of Isaiah and Jeremiah
Must be your power, inspiration and your drive.
Of Me you ought to comprehend that of My idea,
My Sophia, all that is, is within me.”

-What more wisdom, more Gospel, must be felt?
How of Luke, Matthew and Ezekiel? May I live when
The lost is found and what is solid must never melt?
Peace, you command, and speak: we Live.-
“Your prayers, intentions and actions are all alive,
I will never leave you alone again, keep close these words
Of Love, Hope and Faith, know what you make and derive
Of Me is cherished, as Paul wrote: here is your Glory.”

Fire In The Soul, Ongoing….

Found my way in by a cracked and solemn weeping willow stump,
Straight into the woods of Oglethorpe County, straight into a cluster
Of wildlife singing, briars tearing into my arms, bleeding,
Bleeding through thin skin, these blue veins growl,
Andi t reaches in, this “IT”, it tears my soul from my body,
Hangs it in leaves among the water oak trees along the banks
Of this tiny river in the woods, where I knew right then…
What it was like to have spiritual crisis blues.
Standing on a foundation, white clay and red maple mulch,
Spongy earth bouncing. Strangely colored crickets start to gather,
Jump and disappear, but not too far cause I hear their legs strumming
A gipsy chorus for lost loves in the forest.
Me,in this walk alone into the wood. A stroll into my own unknown.
A full sun burns blue down, down into this haunted stream,
Turning muddy waters clear and clean. Crisp they say, it’s OK.
I have the Blues no one wants to hear, and not a friend is near,
Forget family, forget Church, they just back away and say: “it’s yours”,
But I don’t want it, not again, not this splitting soul from bone,
So I dig my hands deep into the blue sands and mud,
Bathe in this clinging soil, and then color this body
With lavender and thistle, blue of my hill people dozens of centuries ago
Fighting Rome and then fighting the King; and finally fighting
The One… alone, trying to draw near, reaching to pull
The trees lower, and lower so I can grab a bit of the spirit
I lost a few days ago, a few days ago this Crucified was just a memory.
Gone. A haint, jumps up, chasing me through groves of dogwood and pecan,
Naw, it would not let go, it would not let me go, this banshee
Screaming my spiritual blues, a blues clutching like Death to my breath
Like there was no letting go, I tried, I ran, I doused my hair with lemon,
Stuffed pepper up my nose and salt in my shoes, begged Lord come back, please.
Expecting something different, something different at least this time…
But the spiritual blues came, wrapped around my body, and I was alone.
I asked the priest, I asked the friend, I asked the family and then no one,
It didn’t matter, they figured these shadows were mine to claim,
They knew this time the spiritual blues won, but what they knew was wrong,
I just wanted to sing, I wanted to purge doubt, doubt like black sulfur water.
Bring down the cypress and water oak trees, find the clean springs
So I can live again, so these screaming doubts between love of the flesh
And love of the mind and love of the soul I thought was mine
Would stop, and turn and go away. Would find itself flowing…from these springs.
These spiritual blues are never easy, and one day someone will listen
And understand, understand, that my soul is at stake and I am tired,
And I am a man: Alive with God. I am this man. I am this man.
The bark and hunting howl of His hounds on my trail,
And I know I quit running and hiding in the hills, it is between the Lord and I,
A man trying, a person, trying to make peace with Trinity and self,
with all that is here and even more…Peace…Can we make peace?

Green Waters Here Eleven AM Today Forever (a poem)


Green Waters Here Eleven AM Today Forever

Midmorning in the woods where the sunrise first spoke,
Riding together in a green aluminum 3 seat boat, sweetly
Sliding across the mirror slick surface of a Georgia pond,
Radar paced ringlets whisper, gesture, circle back into the rising paddle,
Into my hands as we move through the waters, one shore to the next,
Schools of crappie idle about in fallen pines, in lake grass, in dark waters,
And I tie in the rubbery spine of a tiny Yamamoto worm, cast about,
Cast about, 9 foot leader sailing, drift and float, sinking slightly shoreward,
Cold pulling it down, fluttering by a sunlit shallow, brushing the nose
Of a dozing spot bass…Twitch awake! and sped straight into a dazzling fight,
A Southern bass hungry in chill waters, power, crazy 3 pounds of muscle
Whipping the fly rod tip down bend flex and over back again, loose
Then running towards deep green shadows of a rotting locust trunk,
And I lowered the line down below the water just enough to wear pond scum
On my face from pulling up so fast, setting the hook, guaranteeing
That tonight we eat, we share life back and forth with our corner of the lake.
That’s right, we give and we take, and try to keep it that way,
Like, why destroy what we love or poison what gives us life?
It’s so much easier, and better overall, just to float along from time to time,
Catch what we can eat and pass over all the rest.

Poem: On A Blueberry Plain


On A Blueberry Plain
Thick, bramble and blackberry, rhododendron, scrub pine,
A line of wisteria holding it fast to the vines from tree to tree,
Broken Cherokee rose limbs reach back to hold onto barb wire,
To touch the ever present tall grasses from fence post to fence post,
Walking the tree line, looking deeper and deeper among it all,
Maypops and dandelions brush leaves together,
Muscadines attach to the wisteria tightrope and grab onto anything
That will hold them high, and so grow our first crops. Together in groves
And small forests that pop up between highways and suburbs,
In the back yards of 1940s warehouses and busted down barns,
Lining the state lines of Tennessee and North Carolina
Beside marshes and run off blueberries tangle along the way into every
Thicket, onto flat fields and rich red lands, the blueberry
Towers in it’s lack of elevation, pine scented and dark blue,
From sweet to tart sour, fresh jelly jam sauce and frozen snack,
Decoration, delicious and power rich with no alteration
From Chemists and Shadows, just this perfect little
Dark diamond up against them all, up against old cotton pastures
Until it has become our beautiful darling, our new super berry,
Super fruit growing stronger than the Georgia peach,
Stronger than all the sweet corn, soy, wheat and peanuts
You can find, stronger as it is still pure, it is still alive
In spite of the Doctorates and deeply plowed DNA,
At least there is something we can still hold, eat,
And declare it is ours, it is the body, good old blueberry,
Muscadine and wild Rose, you keep my heart alive,
You give us here a bit of hope. You give life while asking nothing
But to grow and to leave their essence alone.

Post Roast and Yeast Rolls Rambling in October


AUTUMN OVENS AND A STYLE OF ROLLS
Rains in the early morning have a kind of gastronomic compass quick at work. It’s like a persuasion of sorts, this rain. I can practically see the colors change across the hardwood tree canopy in this last bastion of woods in Clarke County. Turning over and looking at a lone rose in my backyard, a rabidly budding rose hips bush gives it’s wild best to keep me in citrus-y tea all winter.
But that’s just the start of a great morning. The flavors of a classic Sunday beef pot roast and yeast rolls shakes me out of bed. You and I both know it builds a pretty strong case to get in the kitchen early.
The cut of beef is the rump roast which is above the round on the haunches of beef cattle. It is a tough cut of meat that tenderizes in the Dutch oven as it roasts with the vegetables, stock, seasonings and vinegar or wine. You can use an iron Dutch oven or clay. I like both but am using the cast iron version as it is closest to what my Mother used to make hers, and I am personally more comfortable with iron. Giving the secret to her recipe was part of my brother’s requirement for my sister in law when he married. He loves it that much, we all do, actually. Fresh pearl onions are key. This is not her exact recipe.
The yeast rolls were intoxicating. They would sit in front of heater vents with cheese cloth laid over the top like a blanket of mist. The timing for the rise perfectly matched our return from Church. Come home, change cloths, wait for Mamaw and any other guests to arrive, then it was time for pot roast, gravy, mashed potatoes, English peas, yeast rolls and sweet tea. This was Sunday in Autumn. This is a purely American meal with nods to the West African and French culinary sources that permeated the South during her formative years.

Depending on the corn, peas or beans in season we would shuck them all week off and on while sitting on the front porch, waving at neighbors, my buddies on their 3 speed bikes with banana seats and butterfly handlebars, watching my sister’s boyfriends drive by and give a honk of any number of Mustang Fastback, Camero, Firebird, Cutlass 396, Shelby Cobra, Ford Torino Cobra, Mercury Montego MX, Buick GSX, Dodge Super Bee, ‘66 Corvette, Plymouth Hemi ‘Cuda, Pontiac GTO, or Dodge Challenger, muscle car set of wheels that would make any kid drool with excitement over these gas guzzling wonders of the back roads, Plymouth Road Runners spinning out doing doughnuts at the ball park, her eventual husband driving up in a Oldsmobile 442 ragtop, my brother running off to pitching practice, me just running off, our crazy beagle/fox terrier dog Bob chasing every single car that turned onto our street, Mother talking about her sisters and the history of our town. “Just what is the other side of the tracks?” Yeah, this was sitting on the front porch as it was meant to be, shelling peas for supper and watching the coolest cars in Tucker stream on by through the warm autumn afternoons. Slow Food? We lived it then and we can live it today. The easiest place to start is with local produce, the flavors will send most memories into family meals and occasions free of discord or time. That was our home during the twilight of sleepy neighborhoods, scenes that we alone have the power to continue and evolve.

SOUTHERN POT ROAST (because I just cannot call it Yankee)
Use a 3 pound round, chuck or rump roast for this dish. Cooking time is approximately 2 ½ hours start to finish. Cook in 300 degree oven, allowing 12 minutes per pound. Start on stove top. You can use either iron or clay Dutch Oven, this recipe is for cast iron. If you cannot find pearl onions then use cipollini onions which are flatter than round. They are perfect for roasting and I like them both equally but have used the cipollini more professionally than the pearl variety.
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, high quality here
5 strips Bacon or guanciale (smoked/cured jowl)
3 to 4 pound Boneless round
12 Black peppercorns
24 Pearl onions, peeled, whole
2 Bell peppers, seeded, diced
1 1/2 cups Butternut squash, peeled, 1 inch dice
1 1/2 cups Pumpkin, peeled, 1 inch dice
2 cups Red potatoes, 1 inch dice
4 large Tomatoes, chopped
1 pint Beef stock
1 cup Burgundy or balsamic/red vinegar blend
1/3 cup Dale’s Marinade
1 tablespoon Rosemary, fresh
1 ½ teaspoon Thyme, dried
5 Bay leaves
6 cloves Garlic, smashed
3 tablespoons Leaf parsley, chopped, washed
3 tablespoons Cane or Date molasses
3 ounces European Butter

Everything takes place in the Dutch oven.
Heat the olive oil and bacon together over medium high heat. When the bacon is rendered remove it from the pan and add the beef. Brown it on all sides.
Add the potatoes, pumpkin and bell peppers, cook two minutes. Add squash, onion and tomatoes, cook three minutes and then add rest of ingredients except the butter. Cover and simmer for 10 minutes. This will be roughly 20 minutes on the stove top. Baste the roast before putting in oven. Put bacon on top of roast. Cover and cook for 60 minutes at 300 degrees. Remove. Keep covered for 10 minutes. Check tenderness and temperature. This will not be rare or even medium rare, it is a pot roast which means it will be cooked completely in the juices and vegetables held in by the design of the Dutch oven.
Remove meat and vegetables. Skim fat. Add butter and stir into the liquids. Stir in 1 tablespoon flour to thicken into consistency of a gravy. Serve in gravy boat at the table during supper.
YEAST ROLLS
Yeast rolls are exactly what they sound like, rolls made with yeast as the ingredient to give it rise and body. Biscuits use baking soda and baking powder for this effect but is not as light or flaky as can be found in yeast rolls. Yeast rolls take time, a bit of work and an accurate oven. There are dozens of recipes and techniques. I am using a recipe that best approximates that of my youth.
A few words on yeast: we have dry active, fast active, compressed fresh yeast cakes, and brewers yeast. Yeast dies over 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Brewers yeast is used for the nutritive benefits as ingredient, gravy and for brewing beer. Dry yeast keeps a long time in the pantry and requires about 20 minutes to foam and rise in warm water. Fast acting dry yeast has very small grains, can be added to flour when warm water is later added to mix or will rise within minutes when mixed into warm water. Yeast is a living thing. Salt inhibits yeast. High heat kills yeast after it has risen and holds the flours in tight or big bubbles for rolls, pizza and various bread doughs. When making basic yeast breads you need to have your yeast mixed into 80 to 100 degree Fahrenheit water for 15 minutes or until it has doubled, even tripled in size but not much more than that as it will become too loose and will not have enough binding molecules.
Yeast is a single cell organism. A pound of yeast has 32, 000,000,000 cells of fermented sugar cells known as yeast. Yeast requires bread so it is not gluten free. Recall that the glutens given to intolerance in some individuals are wheat, barley and malt. Some people are sensitive to oats as well but in general oats are safe for those who are gluten intolerant.
Makes 20+/- rolls. Use a 9 x 13 pan. 375 degree oven, cook 15 minutes.
1 cup whole milk
1/2 cup butter
1/4 cup sugar/baking stevia
2 eggs (large)
1 teaspoon salt
4 cup bread flour (finer and higher gluten content than all purpose style)
2 1/4 teaspoon yeast
Warm the milk to between 90 and 110 degrees F.

Mix all of the ingredients either with electric mixer dough hook or by hand.
If it is dry add a tablespoon of warm water or warm milk.

Knead until it is smooth and pliable, elastic and not sticking to your hands.
Place the dough in a lightly oiled metal bowl, cover with a damp towel and place in a warm area to rise for an hour or so.Butter the pan.
Split the dough in half, then into 4 equal parts. Divide again, then divide into 3 balls. Cut into 24 pieces. To form rolls, hold a small dough ball inside both hands, cup with opening between index finger and thumb, squeeze into a ball as it emerges from your hands. Sort of like playing but with great results. You are making little balls with just enough air introduced by the gentle squeeze so that they will rise into smooth rolls. Line them up in the greased casserole or baking pan so that they are barely touching, at best not at all. Cover with warm, damp towel. Dough will rise by half before they are ready to bake.
Remove cloth, bake 15 minutes. Very light tan. Brush with softened butter. Serve warm.
Morning rain on the gutters,
Poplars and elm, waterfall
Rattling attic fans and me.
Morning rain rumbles cloud-side down,
Each drop chasing the other,
Faster and faster into lawn and waterway,
Into deep aquifers and the starving Oconee,
A thunder clap snaps Polaroids
Of me awake into one dream in the 8 a.m.
World alive, there is more than this.
Red Mule grits swimming on the stove,
Pale white Vesuvius ready to blow.
The smell of turkey sausage
And French red hen eggs,
A touch of curry
And I’m ready to go….
Go where? Go here?
Already now the day is clearing,
Footfall in the pines so light and steady,
Rosehips, acorns, mushrooms
And sweet peas line the trail,
Trails down river where darters and perch
Fight for water time with catfish
And snapping turtles.
This is morning. My morning here.
A beautiful Georgia morning
In the land of the Creek and Cherokee.

proletaria

politics philosophy phenomena

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"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3

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Immature poet imitate...but the mature one steal from the depth of the heart

hotfox63

IN MEMORY EVERYTHING SEEMS TO HAPPEN TO MUSIC - Tennessee Williams

Lordess

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Discobar Bizar

Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!

the poet's billow

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proletaria

politics philosophy phenomena

Poems for Warriors

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3

LUNA

Pen to paper

Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

Musings and books from a grunty overthinker

Eclipsed Words

Aspire To Inspire

susansflowers

garden ponderings

RhYmOpeDia

Immature poet imitate...but the mature one steal from the depth of the heart

hotfox63

IN MEMORY EVERYTHING SEEMS TO HAPPEN TO MUSIC - Tennessee Williams

Lordess

Welcome to my world.

Discobar Bizar

Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!

the poet's billow

a resource for moving poetry

MY TROUBLED MIND

confessions are self-serving

D.H. Glass

Author. Poet.

Sketches from Berlin (& Parts Beyond)

Poetry, Fiction, Essays & Art by M.P. Powers

proletaria

politics philosophy phenomena

Poems for Warriors

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3

LUNA

Pen to paper

Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

Musings and books from a grunty overthinker

Eclipsed Words

Aspire To Inspire

susansflowers

garden ponderings

RhYmOpeDia

Immature poet imitate...but the mature one steal from the depth of the heart

hotfox63

IN MEMORY EVERYTHING SEEMS TO HAPPEN TO MUSIC - Tennessee Williams

Lordess

Welcome to my world.

Discobar Bizar

Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!

the poet's billow

a resource for moving poetry

MY TROUBLED MIND

confessions are self-serving

D.H. Glass

Author. Poet.

Sketches from Berlin (& Parts Beyond)

Poetry, Fiction, Essays & Art by M.P. Powers