Shaconage (The Smoky Mountains)

I lift up my eyes unto the hills.

Beneath the blue sky, they quietly lay

Rolling into the distance soft and still

The mountains called Shaconage.

Ancient long before man found them here

One can feel how much the years do weigh

How the ages come and disappear

Yet remains primeval Shaconage.

I see your forests coat your gentle slopes

A canopy that blocks each golden ray.

And shades in mystery the grounds below

And the dim-lit paths through Shaconage

The waters spring up in its hollowed hills

To gurgle and flow down their shining way

They water the valleys below as on they spill

Through the land they call Shaconage

The moon shines full on valley, ridge, and Dale

The land is haunted, dark, black and grey

By memories misty, thin, and frail

Of ages past here in Shaconage

The Ancient hills and valleys roll away

the smoky haze across this land does lay

My thoughts come here any time they stray

My heart belongs to Shaconage

(c) James L. Frady April 15th 2021

 The name “Smoky Mountains” is derived from the Cherokee word “Shaconage” (Sha-Kon-O-Hey), which means “land of the blue smoke”.

 

I Want to Go

I want to go somewhere wild

Somewhere men don't often go

I want to see the empty land

In a silent sunset glow

I want to see a million stars

Undimmed by city lights

I want to feel the edge of fear

In a dark and silent night

I want to roam the broken hills 

As old as time and more

The high and lonesome ridges

So close to the heavens' door

I want to breathe the frigid air

That blows down from the heights

Of snow capped rugged mountains

Beneath the star-filled night

I want to walk on ancient paths

Forgotten in the mists of time

And talk to the forgotten gods of men

Who trod them, then left them behind

I want to go and not look back

I want to find my soul

I want to find what was lost and left

On civilization's rocky shoal

I want to live and breathe again

The air of freedom so fresh

I want to try my strength and skill

Against nature's untamed best

I want to go somewhere wild

Somewhere men so seldom go

I want to be in solitude

Myself to find and know.

© James L. Frady

February 2, 2021

Building a Full Wolf Moon

Building a Full Wolf Moon

Dreary and cold
wet and dark
the year begins
in melancholy mists
deep dark evenings
deeper nights
frozen breezes
and fog that drifts

Bitter cold
velvet skies
diamond stars
scattered across
Milky Way
a misty band
of frozen stars
loosely tossed

Winds that blow
through baren trees
limbs that rattle
a boney tune
Far out in
the dark of night
an old hoot owl
calls for the moon

The moon wanes
and fades away
and disappears
from earthly view
lost to night
hid by day
It can't be seen
when it's called new

But days roll
and Earth turns
the moon goes round
its eternal path
it waxes Cresent
it quarters once
the gibbous follows
then full at last

the January
Full Wolf Moon
mounted high
in the frozen night
it shines intense
and lights the land
casting shadows
with cold hard light

Deep in a hollow
the old owl hoots
and coyotes howl
in pure delight
The light is pale
and gives no heat
the Full Wolf Moon
rules the night

(c) January 13, 2021
James L. Frady

Morning Rain

The mountains are ghosts

Distant in the rain

The trees, like bones

Rattle in their pain

The morning is grey

The sky is flat and plain 

The raindrops fall

A monotonous refrain.

Forlorn and downcast 

The day comes around 

The falling of raindrops

And wind, are the sounds

That drift about softly

With the mist across the ground 

Which hides it all thinly

A wafting translucent gown.

Clouds overhead

Are featureless and flat

Unbroken, a blanket 

An endless grey matte

Pouring forth rain 

A million dripping splats

Washing over the land

And dripping off my hat

I take the morning in

I soak in the lonely flavor

The solitude is delicious 

These moments that I savor

These mornings in the wild

I count a special favor

I wander off into the mist

No thought to turn or waver.

© James L Frady November 12, 2020

Late Summer Crickets

Sing Crickets!

Sing Crickets!

Play your bucolic symphony to the night

Play your dark-fall music to the stars

Raise your cacophony toward their dim light

Sing to the misty moon and even Mars

Sing Crickets!

Play a lively tune as if to say

You have forever to live and chirp till dawn

That summer isn’t soon to fade away

And winter comes as hard and cold as stone

Sing Crickets!

Make your song fill up the cool dark air

Stopping only when you see a movement pass

Far from view you think you have no care

Hiding in the green and dew-damp grass.

Sing Crickets!

Sing as the whippoorwills fall quiet.

And the last few lightning bugs go quietly dim

Sing into a deeper, longer night

Your slowly fading last-uplifted hymn

Sing Cricket!

I hear you as you make your final song

And, as solo, in a hidden place you play

Taps, to the summer nights all dead and gone

You face alone the chilly autumn days.

You sing a song of hope for future Spring

And to that final song you sleep and cling.

 

© James L. Frady Sept 14^th 2020. 

Working the Beans

Working the Beans

In the rows between the plants,

I work the dirt with care

to dig away the weeds and grass

getting started there.

Weeds creep in and grow so fast

in a day they're popping out

it's very soon they're growing tall

and spreading all about

They start so small, just speck

of green against the dirt

but neglecting them for very long

is always to your hurt

for just a little slothful time

is all the time they need

to form a foothold hard to break

and choke your crop with weeds

So mind your garden every day

use your hoe discreetly

kill each weed as soon as you can

and grow your garden neatly

For when the harvest comes at last

and you have plenty to store

you'll be glad for all that work

though it seemed a heavy chore.

In the garden of your life

sow good seed and care

and let that life when you are judged

be rich with a harvest to share.

(c) James L. Frady,  May 2020

May Hay

It was cool and crisp the first week of May
and frost fell heavy on the land.
but the grass was up and thick in every field
The fescue was waist high on every hand.
Though the air was cool, it was still time
to tend to the fields and mow the hay.
All the farmers around these ancient hills,
were on their tractors on each sunny day.
With hay mows mounted, circling to the center
clockwise, so as not to flatten grass,
running only on what had been cut
they laid it over quicker with each pass.
The mown grass lay and dried for just a while
to reach the state where it would safely store
then back the farmer came with a rake mounted
to make a spiral round the field once more.
Raked in rows like furrows newly plowed
the hay lay rearranged upon the ground
but not for long, the farmer soon returns
with a baler on to make another round.
Most farmers now bale hay in big tight rolls
that weigh too much for any man to try
they have to move them on a tractor pole
with hydraulics that can stack them up three high.
A few old men still use the smaller bales
like dominoes they spit out big and square
and all the hands that can turn out to help
load them on a trailer waiting there.
It's work, hard and long to put up hay,
and the payoff doesn't come for oh so long
until some far-off cold and wintery day
when the stock needs it to keeps them fed and strong.
So tip your hat to the farmers as they bale,
or at least give them a wave and a friendly smile.
Let them know you understand their labor.
It may be you he's feeding in a while.

(c) James L. Frady,  May 10, 2020