A Writhing Beauty

A Writhing Beauty

Christopher S. Rozema

The South will rise again,


Despite Her own best efforts.

Knowing what  She now knows,

would Water Spider still bring the flame to man?

My lovely home,

my birthright,

my refuge.

The Cherokee Treblinka,

place where two spear points meet,

A place of owls now,

Forgets what her own name means.

Look close at any gastro-pub.

The walls bear bullet holes.

The mortars mixed with blood.

The Grand Histories once had voices all theiir own,

but they don’t read the way they once did,

worn after all these years collecting dust.

Despite Sequoya’s magic &

the Phoenix risen from the ashes of Her burnt forest.

The South will rise again,

floods and flames be damned.

The Turuoise birthright of the Seven-Nations continues to expand.

The South will rise again,

some dare utter flurling Stars & Bars.

How right they are,

The mud remembers the Place of Blood

the battlefield, the chains.

And haints continue in their midnight charges through the sky.

Macabre cadavre snatchers diggging up the slaves.

But master & servant have exactly the same fate.

The hills remember, the valleys too,

The hickory and honeysuckle.

Mother Earth will devour us all in time
The South will rise again, forever.

To spite the pain.

Each time stronger than the last.

Flayed and broken men, unburnt

usher forth from mines.

Hard-ass world.

Damn dirty life:

to not give two whits to bird-call…

until all of the sudden it quits.

But beneath the mountain no one cares what tongue you speak or what color your face,

just put your back into it.

And heed the words of Mother Jones whose aim’s to take the haints away –

a fair days pay instead of scrip, imagine it –

And so around the hollers towns are built.
The South will rise again.


Each time more fecund than before.

And sho’ nuff, By GOD,

She will celebrate.

The music & the moonshine,

once we crawl again from muck,

Means it’s safe to breathe again.

But if the South’s to shimmy

then the Earth’s to quake.

And once again Mother Eartth & daughter Appalachia will once more lose their feet.

The earnest trembling of new birth,

this time fed by again by dead,

comes at the cost of children burning live in churches

and pastors shot by cowards as they greet the sun from balconies.

How’s that for irony?

But that’s the doings of the moon more than the hand of man,

working hard  on lunatics.
The South will rise again,


Short life of trouble,

but our mothers know these trifles pass.

So bring the floods of our own damns.

Crow will come again,

raise the dead as dancing spirits

as she once rose the furrows of the Land from Sea.


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