A poem inspired by Dylan Thomas

Do Not Go Lonely Into That Coming Night

Do not go lonely into that coming night,
A soul should seek company at close of day;
The way alone is the darkest of ways.

Though worldly wise then know that way is right,
Yet, their homegrown wisdom has no sight, they'll say:
The way alone is the darkest of ways.

Good folks, their deeds in scales bouncing, ever slight
Flawed deeds hold little weight on that day, they'll say:
The way alone is the darkest of ways.

Wild ones, who merry made in sunny day light,
They learn, alas, they wasted life in delay, they'll say:
The way alone is the darkest of ways.

Grave souls, near death, who see with blinded sight
Blind eyes, missed the Blaze, Torch of Days, they'll say:
The way alone is the darkest of ways.

And you, my belov'd, there in dark vale's gate,
Call, bless me now with your broken tears, I pray.
Do not go lonely into the coming night.
The way alone is the darkest of ways.


(This poem was inspired by Dylan Thomas. Thomas was a hard-drinking writer, and his intent was to express his desire that his father not regret death. My view of the world is quite different than Thomas' and consequently, my fears for those who die depart from his, though my poem's form is the same)

Fall Creek

(A poem about my visit with my Grandfather, Arvis Tuggle, to the location of his childhood home in Wayne County, Ky., which was covered with the waters of Lake Cumberland in 1950).

Your hand in mine, we shuffled down shaley banks,
The water lapped quietly, the sun shone down;
Bathed in memories of your past here,
Clearly I saw your youth cleft down amongst the ridgelines:
The river coursing briskly, rolling from faraway hollows,
Rolling past leafy hemp fields in Cumberland lowland,
Garden herbs and vegetables, beside a three room home.
Morning dew, on crushed grass, beneath a child’s print.
The midsummer dry dust and evening light,
Dancing together beneath the tires of an old Schwinn cycle.
Low lowing of cattle, grazing in the green bottom,
Children shouting, running into the green shallows or hollows,
Or the plop of a bobber in the ceaseless currents,
After the spring floods as the Mockingbird cried.
Meeting the Ferryman kinsman for a river ride,
To the other side, over to Oak Grove south of Nancy.
And the little church there, shaded by poplar, oak, and maple,
Gospel strains flowed from the house of God at eventide,
Echoed in the last pinks and purples of a Sunday sun,
And the fiery Word of Ancient Days,
Thundering through the night, darkness embraced by Light.
In the deepening shadows of late youth, mail on the wooden table,
Warnings of the Flood and pilgrimage forced.
The dissembling of life young, portrayed in:
A house taken down, board and nail,
A barn and henhouse removed,
Wood carried away on a flatbed Chevy,
The land laid bare and burned clear,
Memorials erased, only memories,
And the empty brown, where once life grew,
Soon to be under the Deep, hidden from view.
Your hand in mine, we stared out over the sloshing water,
It lapped quietly, the sun shone down;
Bathed in the sunlight of the day,
Clearly I saw your youth cleft, in your face’s lines.

Under Sun long ago, we sinned,
The ground was overspread with thorns,
For our crime.

A cloud of doubt darkened the sky;
The presence of God: fear.
For our crime.

And Suns many afterward,
Our Hero bore these thorns,
For our crime.

A cloud of judgment darkened the sky;
The presence of God: fear.
For our crime.

And in the Sun three days past this;

He rose up pierced of thorns but whole,
For our life sublime.