Pontotoc:
In the land of the Choctaw's hanging grapes, With nary a shoe nor sock
We wore to tread hill and dale In the county of Pontotoc.
We worked and played, ran and swam And often ran amok
Across the fields of fresh mown hay, In the county of Pontotoc.
A place where homes, trucks and sheds Have never needed a lock
You can trust neighbors with your very life In the county of Pontotoc.
Early Saturday and Sunday morns May come a welcome knock
As friends stop by for coffee and chat In the county of Pontotoc.
More now work for Ashley's and Coopers Than labor to make a crop,
But many do both to make their way In the county of Pontotoc.
Gardens are more than hobbies here, It's a tradition that never will stop.
We grow peas and beans and greens In the county of Pontotoc.
At last when put in the cold cold ground They close the rose draped top
We return to the earth as meant to be In the county of Pontotoc.
and extry verse:
This last stanza, an afterthought Dreamt while cooking with a wok
Is only here to provide another: Rhyme for Pontotoc.
Itawamba:
I first saw the light of day Nine months after my parents' rumba'ed
And learned to live and love and work In the county of Itawamba.
It was this very place old folk say The place they all kum b'yah.
They still call this red clay home In the county of Itawamba.
A poet can be a lay about Waiting for the words to come t'ya.
But even the muse can find her way To the county of Itawamba.
Musicians have their own muse From tweet to blare to oompah.
Erato has come to help this poet In the county of Itawamba.
But muses have their own limits And are seldom here seen, yeah!
In Ittabena, and Oktibbeha, Noxube and Issaquena.
Carl Wayne
Bookmarks
Share
Print
Save