by H.D. Whatley From Charleston we drove south on I-95 Through the state of Georgia, where Mr. Allman ate a peach. And just past the Florida border Is a little place called Fernandina Beach
by Kevin Heaton Bass bullfrog croakers, join green tree frog tenors, in pine bough choir lofts, over swamp wrinkled cyprus feet. I lay me down on mossy pillows, in peaceful: forgotten, backwater places, and dream of Tupelo Honey. Kevin Heaton lives and writes in South Carolina. His latest chapbook, “Measured Days,” was recently released from Heavy Hands Ink Press, and his work has appeared in Foliate Oak, Elimae, Hanging Moss Journal, Pirene’s Fountain and many others. He is listed as a notable poet at KansasPoets.com. To read more of his work, click here.
by Kevin Heaton Levitating apparitions hover in misty vapor, troubling the face of cypress waters; suspended between rapture and mortality, concealing wispy souls of southern sons not yet at peace. They seek their general, mounted on a ghost stallion snorting humid gunpowder haze, charging at victory; his sword casting lunar reflections into Yankee eyes. Troop remnants mark cadence on gator, and snapper backs; scouting front lines long ago fallen, and battles; long since lost. Kevin Heaton lives and writes in South Carolina. His latest chapbook, "Measured Days," was recently released from Heavy Hands Ink Press, and his work has appeared in Foliate Oak, Elimae, Hanging Moss Journal, Pirene's Fountain and many others. He is listed as a notable poet at KansasPoets.com. To read more of his work, click here.
by Kevin Heaton Grandpa was born in 1896, and could play just about anything with strings attached. What pulled most at his heart, was an old fiddle that he kept on top of a china cabinet in the corner near his rocking chair; where he fell asleep every night listening to Georgia Bulldog games on a Philco dial radio He worked part-time for the highway department setting out kerosene warning flares that looked like bowling balls without holes. During the 20’s, and throughout Depression Era days, he set great store in playing that fiddle at barn raisings, and harvest dances; where neighbors could find brief, and welcome respite from hardship, in simple food and fellowship. Civil War ditties frequented the menu; passed down to him by the same fingers that first plucked his fiddle. When his lame shoulder wasn’t throbbing, and I asked him just right; he’d take her down off the china cabinet, rosin up the bow, and with a work boot conducting: take us down dusty, forgotten pikes lined with blue, and gray soldiers; singing, marking cadence on the road to awakening: Ride a Scotch horse to Danbury cross, see an old woman upon a white horse. Rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes— she shall have music wherever she goes, and goes