The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

For nearly a decade on the fourth Thursday of the eleventh month I set free a brief prose of thoughts, ramblings, rants and self-medicating key strokes to family, friends and future foes. As the Bard of Avon helped me to understand, “joy’s soul lies in the doing,” and for me the doing is writing. The printed verse captures thoughts my tongue struggles to craft into coherent streams. My words are an attempt to express hallelujah while consuming passion’s buffet. This personalized trip in the now for me is like a child’s wide-eyed amazement of the majesty of life’s center stage performance. Not a mere love note, but a tribute to my lust for life; a simple celebration of drowning out unearned pessimism, which is known as The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner.

Born into the river, with a flow that has always been, and no known end. We gained entrance at the irrefutable moment after our own kind, as the temperature and speed of the river unknown the starter’s gun announces our unique journey. Toward the end all beings set pace, closely in the river we’re this dispensations Human race. Canyon walls colored with a fallen source, on loan to keep veins pulsing and beautifying the terrestrial splendor of this spaceship’s skin. Before the Sheppard’s crook snags me and Mother Earth summons this glove back to dust, the acted upon should’ve fulfilled the added upon.

Even though my lineage lives and dies in another state, my posterity gazes nightly across a field of mismatched dinner plates. How sweet family is to the plan. The early dawn’s eastern sky is never uninvited, signaling to this lost southerner that blood binds across rivers and roads. As the trivial matters ever consume the world, while negativity cranks up needless noise, oh angelic is the magnetic voice of the one from Galilee balancing out the universal order with a soft answer to eternal truths.

When the seraphim flies near with a live coal in his hand, taken with the tongs of the earthly alter set your eyes to the celestial ceiling. Lose yourself by staring down into space, where direction is completely lost. Just as the twinkle of those stars that burnt out millions of years before; their light debuts in an old movie with none of the actors still radiating. The still small voice of eternity’s round can sweep us up, away from the fear of tomorrow’s unknown. How important it becomes to shed the uniform littered on by a natural man, even for a brief spell, allowing the distant sounds of our thoughts to swing from broken trees. May peace know us all.
This year I am thankful for the love of my wife, the health of my children, and the support of my family. The cherished friends east in the land of the Great Smokies I miss you all and wait in anticipation to when we can break bread again. And to those west of the Rockies known as the Sons of Scarlet, may the black line always guide us to prosperity.

Be pro-choice, always choose life.

Jarvis