I was born in the south. I live in the south and will die in the south. This is only a small part of the memories I share.
Where shall she dwell, oh, fearless phantom, girls so pure?
I crave one glimpse of her eyelashes, word, and silk.
Bow to golden hair and caress her gentle hands endured.
Weeping muted tears, spilling servant’s priceless milk.
She, the few southern girls, southern women, clasp the sun,
Smiles upon the waves of country lake so still
Now only with crying daughter, seeking one son.
But she walks, falls, and crawls on mankind’s hill.
Oh, such beauty is in her eyes and charm is in her eyes,
No words spoken, just fewest words said . . .
She had rather face silent lips, frozen lips, silent cries.
Lay her silently in darkness of clothing, a mother’s bed.
Dances are but few, but the actors work so slight,
Labors as girls, the true girls, sacrfice, sew, and sing.
Not many of “her” girls lift hands to work, neither fight.
But give her gifts to the poor, love she takes to bring.
It’s been said, quoted, and whispered time and again
Girls are girls wearing hair in buns or curls,
Girls can also show their beauty in feast or thin.
It’s surely the best place, it’s said the best place for girls.
When these beauties walk, a silence among men falls,
The sun bows in total-respect, the clouds waste their rain.
Girls own homes, cars, and have photos of their walls.
Pretty girls also act a certain public way covering their very pain.
Stand boldly, beautiful southern girls so fair,
Seek the “beast” of empty slurs evil and harsh.
Just gently smile, wave your amber lashes into the air,
Fall gently laughing as they die quietly in darkened marsh.
© 2020 Kenneth Avery