Pen and ink drawing of Rowan Oak in Oxford, Mississippi. It was nobel prize winner William Faulkner's home before his death in 1962.
Hear the clack of typwriter
And smell the puff of pipe
An empty chair's a rockin'
By window viewing south
Yoknaptawpha to observe,
Ponder upon and define
Apparition you may see
Wandering head down
Thinking deep, between
The cedars that line
The brick walk leading
To his columned porch
Just smile and be aware
Our master of letters
Is still on duty, unlike some
He never left his native soil
For the so called purer places
Over the line Mason Dixon
He was wise enough to know
That fields here are green
They just required a little till
A little time, and teaching skill
It was with his coveted pen
He plowed and turned soil
The fertile fields of Mi'sip
Till the dank dark under loam
Was aired to the light of day
And he's doing so today
Are we not still a' readin'
Understandin' and believin'?
His words always declared
That there was hope
For all folk to prevail
Not merely to survive
Why assume he'd ever
End pursuits with death
That would never become
Him what wrote this:
"The past is never dead.
It's not even the past."
The ghost of Rowan Oak
Still walks among his cedars
Writes upon his walls
Humbly towers over all
Who seek to shine a light
On Southern souls so fraught
With conflicts of the heart,
Man against man, moreso
Man against himself
Kelly