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Marie Parsons never wandered far from the land of her birth in Pike County, Kentucky. She started her career as a high school English teacher and ended it as a college professor. A few years after retiring, she began writing short stories, which gradually morphed into a novel (The Devil’s Back, 2015). Recently, she turned from fiction to poetry, producing the poems in this volume. Parsons currently resides in Winchester, Kentucky, where she enjoys the lazy pace of retirement and writes for fun when the muse comes calling.
Parsons’ poems truly are echoes—reflections of sound and memory of blackberry vines and redbud petals, of tobacco farms and big full moons, of everything that calls us back to the forgotten and faded away. ~Denton Loving, Crimes Against Birds
Words, says Marie Parsons, “are true masters of our fate.” In this melodic collection, words evoke places and times–lost love, a rising moon, the sound of a midnight train. They show us past via the life of a sharecropper farmer; they show us a possible future, via melting ice caps and vanishing coral reefs. The poems in An Echo in the Wind are a celebration for the ear and the singing heart. ~Karen Salyer McElmurray
These quiet calming poems from Marie Parsons seem to exist independent of and despite the clamor of our present world. They reaffirm one of the principal reasons why we need poetry in the first place, to seal, to capture and preserve what may appear to be lost or gone forever. Through all the confusion of our day Parsons quietly implores “Oh, come back to the hill with me, / Come back to the hill.” ~Steven R. Cope (Wa-Hita, The Furrbawl Poems)
An Echo in the Wind
They come into the poet’s mind,
These little embryonic lines,
Like pollen carried on the wind
To budding flowers within the glen.
They seek a place to germinate,
Warm ground in which to incubate.
They never linger very long,
In a heartbeat, they are gone
Like yesterday’s forgotten song,
An echo in the wind.
They flicker briefly,
Then they fade,
Like tender youth or fairest maid,
Or like the little flash of light
Of fireflies on a summer night.
Their stay never lasts for long,
Turn around and they’ll be gone,
Like yesterday’s forgotten song,
An echo in the wind.
Restless and unsettled, they,
If not penned quickly,
Soon they’ll stray,
Like hummingbirds,
Just flit away.
So, while they hover still around,
Please make haste
And write them down.
If you don’t,
You’ll find them gone,
Like yesterday’s forgotten song,
An echo in the wind.
Pickin’ Time
The hill above my childhood home,
Once was a favorite spot to roam;
Up among blackberry vines,
In early spring I liked to climb,
And couldn’t wait till pickin’ time,
Couldn’t wait to feel the thrill
Of pickin’ blackberries on the hill,
Pickin’ berries on the hill,
In May, I saw how Father Time
Would resurrect those berry vines,
Bring those dead vines back to life,
Fill them with blossoms overnight.
Ah, what a very lovely sight!
It always filled me with delight
And made me eager for the thrill
Of pickin’ blackberries on the hill,
Pickin’ berries on the hill,
On summer morns in hot July,
Up the hill, I’d hurry.
With me I took a pail and hoe,
Of reptiles I was wary.
Though fear of snakes gave me a chill,
I had a stronger longing still
To taste those berries on the hill,
Sweet blackberries from the vine,
Berries ripe at pickin’ time,
Berries ripe at pickin’ time.
I’d take my hoe and part those vines,
Make sure within no snake reclined,
If none were found,
I’d eat my fill,
Of sweet blackberries on the hill.
The taste of them, it lingers still,
The taste of berries from the vine,
Juicy sweet at pickin’ time,
Juicy sweet at pickin’ time.
Before heading home,
My pail I’d fill
With those sweet berries from the hill,
By dinnertime
I knew they’d make
A delicious cobbler, pie, or cake,
Whichever one was no bad fate
For those sweet berries from the vine,
Berries ripe at pickin’ time,
Berries ripe at pickin’ time.
Before too long, it will be my fate,
To meet St. Peter at the gate,
I’m hoping he will be inclined
To offer me a glass of wine,
And with a warm, inviting grin, say,
Sweetheart Dear, Just come on in! I have a hill for you to climb, Covered in blackberry vines,
And tomorrow’s pickin’ time,
And tomorrow’s pickin’ time.
Far from Home
October’s end is drawing near,
A time when restless ghosts appear;
Tired of pretending to be dead,
They arise and shake their heads.
They rub the sleep out of their eyes
And give their brittle bones a try.
Then they set out,
They start to roam,
Like children in a woods alone,
Like children lost and far from home.
They seek the ones that held them dear,
Before they moved away from here,
The ones who carved upon their stones
Sweet words,
Then left them all alone,
Like children lost and far from home.
They make their way, with fear and dread,
Through fog that’s thick around their heads,
What they seek,
They cannot find,
Their loved ones are a state of mind,
A joy felt in another time,
Elusive as a child’s delight
Or magic on a moonlit night.
If you see them, do not fear,
They’re all about this time of year,
Poor restless souls,
They’re doomed to roam,
Like children in a woods alone,
Like children lost and far from home.
Marie Parsons never wandered far from the land of her birth in Pike County, Kentucky. She started her career as a high school English teacher and ended it as a college professor. A few years after retiring, she began writing short stories, which gradually morphed into a novel (The Devil’s Back, 2015). Recently, she turned from fiction to poetry, producing the poems in this volume. Parsons currently resides in Winchester, Kentucky, where she enjoys the lazy pace of retirement and writes for fun when the muse comes calling.