Late day, darkened sky, rumble in the west.
Humidity, high, sweaty, nigh to ninety at it's best.
Thunder, steam, the tree frog's scream, harkens what comes next.
Shirt removed, britches too, and then remove the rest.
Here it comes, a flash, a crack, turn to face the wind.
A drip, a splat, a pit, a pat, soon it will begin.
A dribble, drop, a spit, a plop, a drizzle gust and then.
The deluge sheets, the ozone reaks, as thick replaces thin.
It roars upon me, blows beyond me, cast down in a gale.
Pounding, pummeling, hounding, rumbling, a beat I know so well.
Pouring streams, lightning, reams of gray just short of hail.
Hissing, pissing, caressing, kissing, the storm begins to wail.
On me now it coats my brow, my ears, my nose, my lips.
Pours down my neck, my nipples, back, rivulets on my hips.
Arms outstretched, palms wretched, reaching, nothing skipped.
Toes, thighs, calves, eyes, even the smooth pink tip.
Soaring now, some way, somehow, my soul seeps from within.
Oozing, healing, coating, feeling like a second skin.
It mixes with sweet heaven's rain and prompts a watery grin.
Ablution starts, and cares depart like lightning roasted sins.
Dancing, skipping, splashing, sipping, spinning in a daze.
Slipping, hopping, dripping, sopping, eyes in upward gaze.
Laughter mixes with the roar, for a time that seems like days.
I stand alone, cleansed to the bone, part of the dense gray haze.
Wind goes past, tiring at last, entertained by me no more.
Passing over the pine, the clover, to wash some distant shore.
I watch it leave, almost bereaved, but know it must go forth.
To cleanse the souls of everything that reaches for it's force.
There it goes, me in it's wake, fluttering in the breeze.
A drip, a splat, a pit, a pat, falling from the trees.
The treefrog screams, pavement steams, mudholes ripple free.
Sun comes out and warms the skin as I rise from my knees.
In the east it's golden now, I gaze way past this home.
The peacock calls out to his mate, mighty colors shown.
I gather up my thoughts and things, still soaking to the bone.
And feel my soul still on my skin as I set out alone.
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Fishin' with Boog at Hurley's pond.
A Native Son of the North Carolina Piedmont
My name is Rocky Hall. I live in the central piedmont of North Carolina. This blog was created out of a need to write and tell a story.
I was born to good fortune. As a small child my days were spent in the shade of white oak and hickory with family as strong as those trees. Water came from a bucket drawn at the well, and we drank from a dipper that hung on a rusty nail driven in the side of the well post. We had a coal stove and an out house. No phone. We didn't need one. But we did have a TV.
We had wonderful neighbors. Folks you could count on. Among them were tobacco farmers, mill workers and mechanics. Old women wore sun bonnets and children were taught to mind their elders.
Summers were spent in the tobacco fields. Or if you were too young to prime you worked at the barn. When we weren't working we romped through the countryside with siblings and cousins, went fishing, swam in ponds, caught crawfish in the spring branch and swang on the porch swing. My shadow would often be cast long at night as I played by the spark of Grandpa's stick welder making repairs for neighbors.
Sunday was for church and visiting.
My parents had me young. We lived with my Grandpa at first, Mama's Daddy. Mama was pretty and Daddy was strong. I can still recall the smell of him as I sat on his lap after he got home from work. Sweat, oil and gasoline were badges of honor for a young mechanic. Around the supper table there was talk of family, neighbors and work. Everyone laughed and sang while Earnest Tubb crackled on the radio. On weekends Grandpa would go out and sit in his old Chevy and read for hours. He loved to read. I can see him now in that faded old car, head just above the window's beltline, eyes looking downward in concentration, fedora pushed back on his head.
That was a magic time. Un-hurried. Even the sunlight was different then.
So now you see. I was indeed born to good fortune.
I was born to good fortune. As a small child my days were spent in the shade of white oak and hickory with family as strong as those trees. Water came from a bucket drawn at the well, and we drank from a dipper that hung on a rusty nail driven in the side of the well post. We had a coal stove and an out house. No phone. We didn't need one. But we did have a TV.
We had wonderful neighbors. Folks you could count on. Among them were tobacco farmers, mill workers and mechanics. Old women wore sun bonnets and children were taught to mind their elders.
Summers were spent in the tobacco fields. Or if you were too young to prime you worked at the barn. When we weren't working we romped through the countryside with siblings and cousins, went fishing, swam in ponds, caught crawfish in the spring branch and swang on the porch swing. My shadow would often be cast long at night as I played by the spark of Grandpa's stick welder making repairs for neighbors.
Sunday was for church and visiting.
My parents had me young. We lived with my Grandpa at first, Mama's Daddy. Mama was pretty and Daddy was strong. I can still recall the smell of him as I sat on his lap after he got home from work. Sweat, oil and gasoline were badges of honor for a young mechanic. Around the supper table there was talk of family, neighbors and work. Everyone laughed and sang while Earnest Tubb crackled on the radio. On weekends Grandpa would go out and sit in his old Chevy and read for hours. He loved to read. I can see him now in that faded old car, head just above the window's beltline, eyes looking downward in concentration, fedora pushed back on his head.
That was a magic time. Un-hurried. Even the sunlight was different then.
So now you see. I was indeed born to good fortune.
Fishin' with Boog at Hurley's pond.
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