Jeff Road

A boy whose face is innocence
Crouched warming, low, I see;
A painted flag on paper lined…
Support, he gave to me.

An angel, born with father’s eyes,
Beauty with charm-school grace;
A mother’s heart, her mother’s curls,
Whose wit kept me in place.

Big brown eyes and will to fight,
Young brother, standing tall;
Middle child with dreams of wild,
My friend, surpassing all.

Mama’s in the kitchen (always),
Ne’er a chance to rest;
Mama’s love is with me (always),
Ne’er a son so blessed.

I set my watch by Daddy, breakfast
Time and dinner, too;
I drew my strength from Daddy, for
His will would get me through.

Green grass borders circled drive
And back to pond behind;
Pine trees grow, three hundred strong,
From frosty roots they climb.

Brick and mortar, wood and glass,
A homestead built to last;
Inside, hear patters, little feet,
And whispers from my past.

Old world dies, as cotton pickers
Sing last hymn below;
New South thrives, as shakers move
To chase orbs ‘cross Jeff Road.

— BDaddy, Many years ago

Advertisements

The Burial of Gal

Dolores Shirley, Gal | Lummie Shirley, Big Daddy
Grandaddy died – I hardly cried;
Harsh judgment passed back then.
His biscuits fine, his smile divine,
I’d trade my life for his.

Granny passed and I – an ass –
Lacked means to honor show.
For just like Gal, her love was all
You need to carry on.

Big Daddy was all a mortal man
Could ever hope to be.
I saw him last with tainted breath –
A shame I cannot flee.

Dolores – ‘Gal’ – survived them all –
With ‘help’ from some I hear;
But who among the living now
Can claim perfection here?

When Gal died – ‘at last’, some sighed –
A thousand miles I rode;
Determined that respect long-earned
For once, by me, would be showed.

As grandson and pallbearer, I
Lined up behind the hearse;
Expecting the unbearable –
Dumbfounded by much worse:

The final tie that binded all
We now would lay below
In a tin-can coffin – roughshod rolled –
To a eulogy from “unknown”.

I may burn in Hell for reasons
More than here I’ve shown.
I have no doubt, however,
That I will not burn alone.

— BDaddy, December 2013

Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Be Double-Promoted

Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Bikers
Babies aren’t easy to raise, but they’re precious to hold;
To you, they’re worth much more than all the world’s silver and gold.
Grabbing your finger while stealing your heart –
Each arrival defines a new day;
But no matter how hard you try to protect them,
One day they must find their own way.

Mamas, don’t let your babies be double-promoted;
Don’t dress’em in sailor pants, Lord knows that sucks –
Let’em wear blue jeans and t-shirts and such.
Mamas, don’t let your babies be double-promoted;
‘Cause smaller but smarter leaves something to prove
Their late-coming growth spurt makes worse.

Babies – like monkeys – will mimic whatever you show them;
Your love is reflected – just as is your anger and fright.
God never taught’em to lie, steal or murder –
Or that besting their brother is cool;
So if you raise them to eat – or if not – to be eaten
Remember they just might eat you…

Mamas, don’t let your babies be double-promoted;
Don’t dress’em like Mini-Me’s, Lord knows that sucks –
Let’em wear blue jeans and t-shirts and such.
Mamas, don’t let your babies be double-promoted;
‘Cause smarter but younger leaves something to prove
Their lack of maturity makes worse.

– BDaddy, March 2014

Christmas on the Farm

The Boy's Colony Partlow State Farm is now Munny Sokol Park
Frosty Tullahoma morning,
Second time awake:
First to see what Santa brought,
And then a trip to take.

Electra 2-2-5 is filled
With presents from the tree;
Wade climbs in rear window,
Matt and Tammy sit with me.

Three hours’ ride, 31, 69,
Bug Tussle … Oakman … more,
To finally Watermelon Road
And past the little store.

Right between brick columns
Then a short ride up the hill,
To Gal’s house, where Big Daddy waits
Our hearts with joy to fill.

One by one, the brothers come
In cars red, white and blue:
Robert in Corvair, Big Tim’s Impala,
Then Jerry’s crew.

The small house fills with laughter
And the smell of smoke and ham,
Dad starts passing out the gifts
As round the tree we jam.

Dolls and soldiers, games and guns,
Gift paper’s everywhere,
As Gal cooks in the kitchen and
Big Daddy smiles from chair.

Then to round dining table for
The men and larger lads,
As Mom and all the women
Serve a feast a king should have:

Black-eyed peas, fried chicken,
Mashed potatoes and okra too,
Pecan pies and chocolate cake,
Tea and coffee, freshly brewed.

Our sated clan then separates–
Men and women, girls and boys–
The grown-ups gab and gossip as
We youngsters play with toys.

Then all to soon it’s time to go,
We gather up our things,
But not before Gal’s serenade
Of “Cruising…” from the swing.

Those days are gone, just memories now,
Of feeling safe and warm,
Of family’s unconditional love,
And Christmas on the Farm.

–by BDaddy, 12/26/2010

One Long Journey. One Last Stop.

Click to Play: Texas (When I Die) by Ed Bruce

I left Texas 15 years ago and I’ve been homesick ever since. Wings of fate in a flurry of hate carried me to South Florida, where I’ve hung my skull cap for over 13 years.

It’s been a long, hard run. Now the run’s almost done. It’s time for me to go home. Like Ed Bruce says:

“My body’s here, but my soul’s in San Antone…”

)(

TEXAS (WHEN I DIE)

When I die, I may not go to heaven;
I don’t know if they let cowboys in.
If they don’t, just let me go to Texas;
‘Cause Texas is as close as I’ve been.

New York couldn’t hold my attention;
Detroit City could not sing my song.
If tomorrow finds me busted flat in Dallas;
I won’t care, ’cause at least I’ll know I’m home.

When I die, I may not go to heaven;
I don’t know if they let cowboys in.
If they don’t, just let me go to Texas;
‘Cause Texas is as close as I’ve been.

I’d ride through all of Hell and half of Texas,
Just to hear some steel guitar and a cowboy song.
The beer just ain’t as cold in old Milwaukee;
My body’s here, but my soul’s in San Antone.

When I die, I may not go to heaven;
I don’t know if they let cowboys in.
If they don’t, just let me go to Texas;
‘Cause Texas is as close as I’ve been.

— Ed Bruce

)(

ONE LONG JOURNEY. ONE LAST STOP.