Deep within my soul I sometimes go to
a place where my life began, I take an
emotional journey, from time to time.
Memories with or without images of
those days are like a thunderstorms’
distance echo, you cannot see it, but
you know that it was there.
A furrowed road, wild honeysuckle; a
crumbled chimney beneath the kudzu
vines, the remnant memories of that life
and dim images never change. The cotton
fields surrounding the old weathered shack
where we lived that stole my father’s
In the warm red dirt life sprung from the
blood and sweat that nurtured the white
gold called cotton, it broke spirits, and
hardened souls. In memory, the image
from the past holds but one old leathered
face; my fathers.
Life goes by quickly, places and people vanish
without a trace, time and progress erases the
landscape of our lives, but…the memories is
how I survive. In the shadows of the mind is a
time of how life use to be; with only a thought
I can recall those sweet honeysuckle memories.
Note: The poetry book “Honeysuckle Memories” was taken from this poem. ajm
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