Daily Independent (Ashland, KY)


March 9, 2014

03/09/2014 — Regional poetry


If I were to choose just one word,

To depict the meaning of life and my being,

If I had to decide upon just one word,

Without an explanation, or even a meaning.

The one word that I would readily choose,

That would convey my feelings and my belief,

Without any explanation the word that I would use,

Of course that word it would be, “piece.”

Long ago, I had a piece of a dream,

Then I once had a piece of a pie,

At one time I was a piece of a team,

Then I once had a piece of a sigh;

There was once a puzzle piece that I found,

Then once before I shared a piece of a goal,

My father is buried in a piece of the ground,

And I once shared a piece of my soul.

“Piece”, that one word it reflects my own belief,

From what I had and also from what I wanted,

In times it has given me both strength and relief,

And it's power, I have used and I have flaunted;

And then and if my world changes once again,

Hopefully the pain and the turmoil in my soul will cease,

Then a homonym of my chosen word I will use again,

The word with the new meaning still would be, “Peace.”

Randy L. McClave

An Invitation To A Memory

Today as I sat by my window

And watched the snow come down

My thoughts went back to my childhood

Way back in my hometown.

I could see the old farm house

And the pine trees in the lane.

I could see the barn on the hill

I could see them all so plain

I could see the sled that I once used

It was made for me by my dad.

It was made of just plain rough boards

Or what ever scraps he had.

It looked as though the top of the hill touched the sky

When snow covered the farm

It felt like you could sleigh a mile

On the hill down from the barn.

I could hear my mother calling from the back porch

Telling me dinner time had come

I’d slide down the hill, hop off of my sled

Then off to the house I would run.

After dinner time was over

I could hear my mother say

It has turned much colder outside

You had better stay in the rest of the day.

But there was something outside inviting me

to hurry back out to play,

Just like the invitation to a memory

That I encountered today.

Joyce Potter

The Ballad of Latisa and Amos

They grew up together

Before the Civil War.

Rocked by the same nanny,

Who couldn’t love them more.

Amos watched her grow into

A Maiden fair and young.

Watched her riding horses,

Playing in the sun.

He always love Latisa

But watched her from afar.

If master knew he looked at her,

He’d plater him with tar.

Latisa’s skin was white,

White as creamy milk.

Her lips were cherry red,

She wore the finest silk.

Amos’s skin was black as night,

Him mammy cared for her.

But dating each other back then

Just never did occur.

The master could bed a servant girl,

That was a different thing.

No black could touch white.

She was treated as a queen.

So through the years Amos watched

And loved Latisa silently.

The feeling was mutual,

It was so plain to see.

Plain for mammy to see

But to the world they had to hide.

One day brave Latisa

Asked Amos for a ride.

He knew he shouldn’t let her

But it was such a great temptation

He put her on the horse with him

And they rode from the plantation.

Now Henry was Latisa’s beau

He spied them in the woods,

He hurried to her house,

Riding as fast as he could.

He told her dad what he had seen

His face grew red with anger,

He called his men together,

He thought his daughter was in danger.

They chased him down and grabbed poor Amos

Dragged him from his horse.

Latisa screamed and begged to them,

It didn’t help of course.

They hung him from the nearest tree,

And left a sign that read,

“Let this be a lesson to the black man,

If you touch a white you’re dead.”

Latisa mourned for many years,

She felt she was to blame,

For asking Amos to let her ride,

Her heart was filled with shame.

She visits his grave every year,

On this same fatal day.

And places on his barren grave,

A red and white bouquet.

Helen L. Hunt

The Silent Hero, Dwayne Douglas Price, Johnson County Sherrif, Badge No. 1, Paintsville

There goes our policeman.

He is handsome as he can be.

Every time he pins his badge,

He lays down his life for me.

He picked up his assignments,

He is ready to be on his way.

A warrant for a murderer

is first order of the day.

A motorist is caught speeding.

She is clocked at ninety five,

This policeman has to slow her down,

She’s lucky to be alive.

There’s a raid, today, on a meth lab,

He needs to wear his vest.

They’ll take the major players out

And clean up all the rest.

It’s lunchtime, there is a robbery

Located at Beacon Street,

Our policeman has to speed away,

There will be no time to eat.

God, go with our Policeman,

In the shadows dark and gray.

Keep him ever under your wing,

When he is in Harm’s way.

When his lie is finished,

And his duties are complete.

Save him a place in Heaven,

Close to the Master’s feet.

Frances A. Cantrell

We’re Almost There

Long ago on that road to Calv’ry,

With a cross too heavy to bear.

They compelled a man called Simon

Said you’ll help Him carry it there.

Then He took up the cross to help Jesus

To take the weight of the cross to share.

I wonder if then, Simon told Him

That we’re almost there.

When in days you feel defeated

And it seems that know one cares.

Just look up, let Jesus help you

He will answer your prayers.

But you need to stay in His presence

For your redemption draweth nigh.

And continue looking up for Jesus

Cause He is the reason why.

We read all the signs in the Bible

Of the things that have come to pass.

We’re surely getting closer

For time, it’s passing fast.

We’re daily getting much nearer

Late in the eleventh hour

A time to be looking for Jesus

Cause friend, we’re almost there.

John F. Enyart and

Donald R. Nelson

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