Kudzu Cantos Part IV
Jun ’25
It’s Bear on the sidelines, under his houndstooth hat,
Or Landry in Dallas, his fedora marking time.
It’s a backwoods hoop hung on a tree in Kentucky’s mountains,
An old moonshiner tuning a carb in North Carolina.
It’s a Petty on the beach, racing Daytona’s sands,
Or Bill at Talladega, chasing speed’s wild call.
It’s Dale cursing restrictor plates, defiant and bold,
And winning everything, a legend standing tall.
It’s Bo leaping over the top in the Iron Bowl’s clash,
A kick-six miracle, or that Duke shot’s cruel sting.
It’s banners in the rafters at Rupp, Kentucky’s pride,
Where UK and Duke, Bama and Auburn fiercely sing.
It’s a Baron in Birmingham, a bull in Durham’s heart,
Dizzy in Arkansas, Ty in Georgia’s red-clay dirt.
It’s Hank homering again, threats ignored,
Atlanta hand of aces, pitching galore.
It’s Jackie breaking the barrier,
It’s Jesse Owens embarrassing Hitler, his Nazi race a lie.
It’s thirty million for a college locker room’s gleam,
The highest-paid official a coach, a state’s dream.
It’s Wildcat roars, War Eagle’s flight, a Gator’s bite,
A sacred Saturday, a tailgate sermon’s light.
It's Secretariat running for the roses in under two minutes.
It’s dove hunts after brunch, under autumn’s golden glow,
Bass in Florida’s flats, trout in mountain streams that flow.
It’s cheerleading in Kentucky, spirit bright and loud,
“Hook ’em Horns,” “War Eagle,” or “Roll Tide” from the crowd.
It’s the wrath of a god, an architect of 222–0,
Some coach named Heisman, whose name none now know.
She watches it all, hanging on every play,
She is the South, and this is her way.
Kudzu Cantos Part V
Jun ’25
She walks the Delta.
Wades the mountain stream.
She climbed a knob in Kentucky.
The granite monoliths in the Georgia mountains.
A dark mountain holler.
She rolls a boat through the low country of the Carolinas, the air filled with a smell all its own.
Her boat moves through the knees and alligators of the bayou.
She watches the elk on the prairie in Kentucky.
She hangs from live oaks like Spanish moss.
She's bulldozed and paved over under Atlanta's growth.
She yields to fire ants and kudzu.
She shakes in the Bootheel at New Madrid,
And the Mississippi flows backward.
She smiles under the heat and humidity.
Her bluegrass, filled with minerals, grows the horse strong.
Her caves, so immense, no rival.
From barn roofs, she yells,
Mammoth and Ruby Falls too.
She, the rivers, great and small, American natural highways.
She swims the Intracoastal.
Paused at Hatteras, the Atlantic's graveyard.
She strode across it all.
She smells of jasmine and honeysuckle,
Magnolia in her hair.
This land is her; it's the South.
Kudzu Cantos Part VI
Jun ’25
She weaves her hands, skilled,
In the low country, baskets made grand.
She sits on a porch in the mountain,
And craves a fiddle, her action
Preserved in the foxfire for the world.
The Kentucky clay, wet, yields
Under her hand on the potter's wheel.
She watches a brush paint American.
She sweeps the wood chips in Berea.
She weaves a seat on a Brumby.
She sits in her parlor and sews a quilt,
Bound for Paducah.
She sits at a loom.
She hammers a forge,
And she blows at the glass, molten and hot.
She stacks old tires in a yard show’s light,
Paints tales of freedom’s enduring fight,
Carves a cross where rivers meet.
She’s an artist; she’s the South.
Kudzu Interlude II
Jun ’25
Coke,
White Lily Flour,
Moonpie,
Goo Goo Clusters,
RC Cola,
Duke’s Mayo—
Southern, one and all,
In every pantry.