Stories From Ott Street

Up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where Ott Street meets Market Lane,

I have stories buried in a cemetery.

Stories I’ve never heard and stories I wish I hadn’t.

I thought I left them there, sealed up with pillows and roses,

But they sank low, low, into the limestone and that fresh underground

Mountain water.

And down they came.

Sinking into these salty marshes

Where they found me.

Soaking in through my soles,

They stacked straight through my spine

And burst into the base of my skull.

Just visiting, I’m sure. But how did they find me?

They’ve come such a long, long way.

They don’t even like it here.

But maybe it’s me

That they want.

I stop. And think. They stick thick to my heart.

Pausing a beat. Panicking me.

So I dig in the backyard, to put them back where they belong.

With dirt and dust.

Closing my eyes.

Laying in bed.

Breathing in deep.

But those stories from Ott Street keep following me.


This is a poem that I have already shared on my blog but thought that I’d re-share it for my new followers. This poem has a very special place and meaning for me. Many of my family and ancestors are buried in the mountains of Virginia and I often felt called to their peaks.

 

Advertisements

4 thoughts on “Stories From Ott Street

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s