Eleven years lived in eastern Kentucky.
Eleven long years where the sun flickers light.
Encompassed by mountains, that reach to the heavens.
Gazing up, thru a portal of stars in the night.
Where trash bags and milk jugs float down the Tug River,
and the coal smoke from chimneys add soot to the rain.
There’s no warmth in the hollows, no hope for the miner,
and the floods and the forest fires make known their claim.
Man’s not meant to live there, corn grows on the hillside,
and they gather the ears to the bins by the stills.
Then they turn it to whiskey, and give it to family,
who drink to forget all their troubles and ills.
I am blessed to have lived there, and I’ve learned a great lesson.
Never walk thru this life, with a longing for gold.
Be grateful for sunshine, be grateful for breakfast.
And remember the place, whence this story is told.