In general my writing is not autobiographical, but based on observation, fact, fiction and my own thoughts, some wonderful, some weird, and others that get mixed up in the process of writing that sometimes I don't understand them. I do hope you find some enjoyment from reading my work and thankyou for spending your valuable time here.
I took these photos whilst holidaying in North Carolina. Above is the entrance to the Indian reservation in the Great Smokey Mountains in North Carolina, life is shown as it was before the Indian removal act was signed into law by President Andrew Jackson on May 28, 1830.
Below is one of the rivers flowing through the mountains.
White Cherokee Rose found on the trail of tears,
this image is from the internet,
The following poem was inspired by the persecution of the Cherokee Nation by the white settlers. They were displaced from their own lands and had to walk approximately 2200 miles from here, and neighbouring areas such as Georgia, to Oklahoma. This became known as the trail of tears where many died.
Note to poem:
Reflecting on years gone by when young hearts experimented with romance. I remember in a hazy daze of pulling white petals from a daisy, saying with each petal,
* she loves me?….. she loves me not….. she loves me?
elle m’aime? … elle m’aime ne pas… elle m’aime?
* oui, elle a chanté je t’aime, je t’aime.
Yes, she sang, I love you, I love you
And then I got to thinking, why should only the young enjoy these pleasures?
Why not those who have shared long lives together?
*Elle m’aime? softly to his wife of thirty years wed
From gnarled fingers slipped a petal of soft rose red
And so serenely floating down to gently rest
On semi naked skin of crinkled velvet breast,
Her young beauty still lay within, on silken bed.
Elle m’aime ne pas, he whispered full of tenderness
Knowing each intimate want with confident caress
Soft music and fine wine with his charm she’s entranced
Oh to the song of his moist lips her nipple danced; Elle m’aime? he said his voice full of romantic stress.
Elle m’aime? . . . Elle m’aime ne pas, . . . Elle m’aime?
Bathed in sunlight, petals of red and virgin white *Oohh la la oui, elle a chanté je t’aime, je t’aime. Posted for Poets United mid week motif, the song of a single word