Wallowin’ in The Feels

po’try callers the po’st of ‘em all wallowin’ in the feels crawlin’ down the trauma laden holler on swole knuckle hands and knees with ink-stained britches and a pen ‘hind the listenen’ ear scribblin’ for a wordy supper haunted by the haints of granddaddies fate

just scrapin’ by onna cloud uh sundees coalescin’ inna egg fryin’ sun cain’t scrape off a single one ‘cause ya forgot to lube ‘em up now, alls yer best ideas stuck on the C’ment getting et up by the gulls

takin’ swings at em never touchin’ a one ‘till alls yer hard work gone, fizzled out in the miday sun

goin’ home a fixin to coun-ch-er pocket air scribin’ all-day but yous po’er than before ya done set foot outside the door

K.B. Silver

My grandfather, a man I usually speak of in a very different context, spoke of his life history as having “grown up” in New Mexico, forged his own life in California, and later, due to changing circumstances, moved to Missouri.

The odd thing is I distinctly remember him as having a softened Appalachian accent and using Appalachian vernacular regularly. I didn’t think anything of it as a child. If you went southerly enough in Missouri to get around into the Ozarks, you found folks that spoke similarly anyway.

As I age and gain memories back, in some cases, I find I have more questions than I am getting answers. Questions I know I will never find any answers to. This poem is written in the American English Appalachian vernacular, or at least my best interpretation of it.