A Poem about Hugh Miller's Porch

In Lexington, North Carolina, Hugh Miller built a farmhouse in the 1850s, which is where my grandfather lives now, and one of many places I grew up.

Looking out from a seat on the porch,

A sea of dark green, pristine trees

And the gunshot crack of a bottle of coke

As it’s opened and tipped

Down the old man’s throat

A summer breeze rolls in from the east,

The nervous hairs on my fingers rise

While the old man shivers and says,

“My head’s cold damnit,”

He picks up the banjo and starts to play

His ancient leather fingers hammer the strings,

A single, stomping boot provides rhythm,

His voice is drawn out steady and slow,

Scarred from the Winston cigarettes

He doesn’t smoke anymore

Looking out from Hugh Miller’s porch,

A rolling forty green acres clothed with daises,

Wild and white, and the buckskin horses

Casting far-reaching shadows,

The old man’s twilight creeping toward us.

Reviews

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

A most nostalgic piece that greats the reader and lights a camp fire to tell, well done, good read.

[The Twin Arenas]

This is great. nice work, man.

[Mason Lipman]

Thanks, I appreciate it! This is a semi-true account.

[The Twin Arenas]

oh yeah? Yeah, I really liked it. This poem had a taste.