southern thoughts

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  • Life

    southern thoughts

    if you hear me whistling

    on some long lost Dixie road

    I’m looking for the place

    that my childhood used to know

    where the sweet clear water flows

    where the tall magnolia grows

    where the evening southern dew

    nourished a long lost Dixie soul

    where all my young friends

    ran barefoot in the sun

    and in our carefree hearts

    there was room for everyone

    where once we all sat

    on the limbs of the live oak tree

    talking just to talk

    living to be free

    in memory we join hands again

    all of my young friends and me

    whistling down some Dixie road

    living to be free

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    meatloaf commented on southern thoughts

    03-08-2011

    And here I wondered about your rhyming.Turns out you do dabble in it. But it never distracts from the work itself. After all, nothing rhymes with "orange" and it's a good fruit and a passable color( just not for hair)
    Reply to Comment

    Teardrops commented on southern thoughts

    03-03-2011

    I so remember this and love catching fire flies and listening to the frogs singing as we said . Thanks Lane this really touched my heart Marie
    Reply to Comment

    train64

    03/03/2011

    Thanks..I forgot about the fire flys frogs..i hear the frogs at the house at night still..Fireflys are getting scarce anymore for some reason.. We have 2 big hootowls..Got my cats a few years ago...Pretty gruesome.. They swoop through the yard and sit in the trees..

    Teardrops

    03/04/2011

    I have a barn owl told him as long as he left me alone i would do the same and my dog was off limits but think my lab can take him lol. The fireflies remember DDT thats why they are not seen much any more Marie

    FranzJ commented on southern thoughts

    03-03-2011

    thoughts of your youth in a different time - thanks for sharing
    Reply to Comment

    In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite.

    Franz Kafka (1883-1924) Czech writer.

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