Southron Call……

O Where are you my Southron Son
Past far from the echoed Ancients
Trapped in the offense of yesterday
Forever imprisoned in soulish descents
Will you rise to save what's yours
By birth and blood freely shed
Or will the echoes from the past
Ring empty in your head
O where are you my Southron Daughter
Now made to play the harlots role
Graced in  all beauty like no other
Ever asked to dance and lose your soul
Will you rise up to save what's yours
By birth to grow a nation
Or will the care of vanity
Give life to your enemies sensation
Bring back to all that Southron Pride
Which ruled in simpler days
Repented of what made her weak
Restored to gracious and beautiful ways

She calls for me……

She calls for me on sand she lays
From an old light house in stary gaze
Tall sailing ships with sturdy mast
Warriors shouts who's fate was cast
She calls for me from way back when
Tabby forts and rivers bend
Bare foot boys on hot sandy ground
Boyhood friends all gathered round
She calls for me from childish past
Sandy beaches and wire grass
Blue crabs caught on a single string
Up from the bottom shiney and clean
She calls for me in my mind today
Rescues me from world gone astray
Spanish moss on ancient oak trees
She beckons me my "Low Country"
Just a little thought about my chidhood in Beaufort S.C.
What a beautiful place to be a child....

 file:///Users/chapmanscott/Desktop/july41939.jpg

end of day….

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

 The struggles of today behind us and the anticipation of the wonder of tomorrow we say goodbye to the last bit of light and gently close the gateway to reality as we long for the dreams that give us hope for those things which we dare not speak to those who would only snatch them away in order to rob us in jealous regret for their own lack of imagination.....

Opposites

The saint and sinner

Entwined are the two

One is the other

The other is you

 

The mature and  child

Both inside and outs

One knows very little

The other knowledge shouts

 

The truthful and liar

Contained both the same

One speaks with honey

The other knows no shame

 

The large and small

Ideas from the mind

One brings great profit

The other did not find

 

The black and white

True shades of the others

One is so different

The other ,both are brothers

 

The opposite and the same

A comparison in echo

One life's lost key          ( musical "key")

The other is crescendo

 

 

Ten years in the Low Country

With the crescent moon and a single star,the clear wisp of a summer Southern breeze. My mind is taken back on a more restful journey, where a decade was the total of a little boy's lifetime.Palm trees affixed in the bend , the movement of air reminding and inspiring one to move forward. Hot sand between my toes and the sting of salt on sun soaked skin was still the least concern of one who was afforded the oceans excitement. From the "Lighthouse" , through the dunes ,   my friends and I raced to escape the burning sand and be the first to immerse in the other world of cool wetness.We would cone our hands to the shape of binoculars, or maybe a pirates spy-glass, hoping in pretend to catch the distant sails of  a tall sailing ship once used to break the Yankee blockade on our sweet Southern home.

Then to the forest we would find ourselves , and  to the edge to a river" Broad".There we raised our guns and shot musket balls at  the passing  Yankee  fleet of "ironclads",safe and secure behind the walls of " tabby forts" . Battlements left by brave men ,those who never considered that they would be the playground for their progeny.

Oh, this was a great place to be a boy, where unfenced yards were the path to another unbridled adventure. My furry brown " Shadow" and I , both unleashed into a world just prepared for our appetites. Here a fishing pole and casting net could be the providers of a bountiful feast, or just the vehicle of which an unfettered imagination would spend the day preparing the world for it's enviable future.

Yes, there were those of a more gentle nature in my playground, and my eyes viewed the dawn  of adolescence, as I considered the allurement of blond curls, blue eyes, and a bright summer dress that greeted me every Sunday from  across the empty street were I lived.

Could there be a more perfect time to be, a more perfect place , where large oaks older than time and covered in Spanish moss restfully cooled me on hot humid days. What more perfect place for the delight of a young boy than the dearest land I know, my "Low Country".No  more amazing world thanthis sandy wooded land prepared just for pleasant memories from my boyhood home , ancestral resting place. This timeless place covering me in peacefulness to calm me in the more restless decades of life.

 

 

One Blue Tear Drop

All the hope you can find

Inside yourself and passed through your mind

Over the instinct of all you knew

Falling to pieces as it comes in view

 

No one smiles through such a threshold

Entering this door after they've been told

An act of mercy to all passers by

Not to be cheerful , not one joyful sigh

 

In a place where arrival is empty armed

Expecting to leave full of those never harmed

Heartache and tears that never will stop

Exit through the door painted with a blue tear drop........

 

A prayer of Edward...

 

As David of old

I write my psalm

To a tight held fist

Or to an open palm

 

A  door cracked open

to invite me in

A God of mercy

Or one to condemn

 

If we question the answer

Is it faith much less

Or an expectation

Of His love confess

 

In obvious imperfection

We are all ..minus Two

Now the first is not me

And the second not you

 

We are not empty

And we are not so full

As to push from Your table

When we think You are cruel

 

This prose is a prayer

To the God of all "one's"

Individuals you've created

Lost daughter's and son's

 

Bring us all in

And bring me back too

To creation's first charge

Made perfect in You

 

Field of Folly

 

Today I walked along a path
Barefoot beside a wall of holly
And came upon an open gate
Then walked into a "Field of Folly"

 

Upon the grass that grew inside
Were flowers most beautiful and rare
Catching the fragrant color of their blooms
The hours passing by as I did stare

 

Not only were the blossoms there
But in taller grass, well hidden
To keep the lookers and passers by
From a box which was forbidden

 

What could be in this well crafted cube
With hinges and lock of a golden treasure
And dare I break the silver chorded seal
To reveal it's often sought for pleasure

 

Now who could resist such a temptation 
Finding contents of worth ,so true
Heart bounding anxiously I broke the lock
And hoped for this treasure brand new

 

But in the box to my surprise
Was a treasure that few had ever taken 
A simple request on common paper
That "The Dreamer must awaken"

 

My town.......Franklin TN

On the most perfect of summer nights in my town, my home, a not so sleepy place. I spent the greater part of two hours  just reclining in a chair on the main street running through my small Southern town. It is what it is supposed to be, what was almost lost in the progression to become much bigger. A Southern town for what should always be, a place where tradition  is not willfully ignored. Each street beautifully framed in the steeple of a not forgotten church, a sanctuary of what and who we were and are, ever gently kneeling in homage to our ancients.

There in my relaxation I see the lovely people pass through from  the round-a-bout to the streets end at the First Presbyterian Church,  wondering if they realize the timelessness of what is before them. Cemeteries persevered in the places where they were planted, giving the place of honor and remembrance to those who have passed. Memorials to those who had fallen in our great struggle, canonized as they should.

So many here do not share our distinct and wonderful heritage, but their children will. It is inescapable that our Southern charm and gentility will be their fonder memories.To the disdain of their Yankee fathers, their beautiful little girls  speaking with the most peaceful southern draw, will learn to say "y'all". I have to grin in the puzzlement that must bring as their progeny embraces another culture. All to the good and the wonder,providence smiles in unison with me.

Sitting there on my little corner  to the right of me a church , beyond that another, and though hidden past my vision, by vibrate commercial  enterprises,to the left of me still another. These are not empty buildings as so many are, but steady and alive  as the anchors of our community. Five streets connected together in a star , each an artery to another town that longs to be what we are and are becoming. The older folk passing by remember the shops that use to reside where newer ones now habitat. They can't believe the change, but it has always been this way. It is progress, but not such as to destroy what was past. Just think back and see if you can recall many places where a person  can walk downtown , at night and enjoy a coffee, an ice cream cone, or perhaps a refreshing adult beverage , without the feeling of mortal peril, or the least slightest of apprehensions.

I am still amazed as I gaze upon the marvelous beauty of stained glass, lit from behind, illuminating this enchanting passage through my home, my town. No glaring neon signs, not that there is no place for that , though searchingly and for some reason it is refreshing  for a downtown to be captivated by a more holy light. 

Maybe all this is the preservation of a fanciful fiction of our memories of yesterday.Well then, so be it. These are the pictures , the possible illusions which we choose to preserve and it is my belief , my conviction ,that in so doing we are a more noble of people......

 

Quest to be free

I am not like you

I am just the same

In permanent obscurity

Object of invisible fame

 

Across the plain of emptiness

Through the mountains of full

Into the sea of all that is

Moved by winds of push and pull

 

 

You are just like me

Each different in closed eyes

In translucent solidity

The constant of endless rhymes

 

On the path of the prudent

Into the land of the what's right

Passing through constant reasoning

Into the future of the bright

 

All of us are one but not

This is the way it should be

The course and action of pursuit

In the quest to be set free

Across all time....

Across all time

Through whispering pines

The wind relays her voice

To call to mind

A more ancient time

When she spoke at a slower pace

When these she touched

Enjoyed her more

In the cool ,or a warm spring breeze

No forward notice

To her arrival at all

Just the comfort of the release she brings

More gentler times

Knew the taller pines

For they have been more frequently so

Touched by her breath

Calmed by her voice

Loved when so gently she kissed.....

Half Hearted

To the one with half a heart

Perhaps, maybe smaller pieces

Those who've given some to all

With aching , that never decreases

Once to live with only one

convinced of no one other

Now the pain of conscience split

With two , and one another

Why to test , what was rare

A love that was so pure

Fragments now, of broken hearts

Scattered and shattered for sure

Is there a remedy , meant to heal

To quench and release this sorrow

Well, maybe hearts are meant to break

And love a gift to borrow......

The Minstrel

The minstrel played,

 to gather a crowd

But no one came ,

 so he played very loud

Why did they not come,

 he thought to himself

He pondered the thought ,

 to place his lute on the shelf

Then he had another,

 a thought to think beyond

Maybe it was the tune,

 that the people frowned upon

So, he changed his tune,

 in hopes they would hear 

But no one cared to listen ,

so here's the moral my dear

If you play to the crowd, 

then to them you belong

And the crowd is always fickle,

 so they won't stay very long

But , if you play for the beauty ,

 of the tune in your heart

No matter if there is a crowd,

 the music will not depart