My Hometown Poem by Gary Bryson

Where I am from
Old oil wells rise,
Green pastures, green hills,
And solemn grey sky.

Snow in the winter,
And mud in the spring,
Warm summers with bugs,
Crisp fall air that stings.

Blackberries, briars,
And bushes abound;
With places to hide,
And woods all around.

Dirt roads to the farms,
And old roughneck sites.
Country bridges to cross,
And miles on your bike.

The small town in the valley,
Where creeks all run through,
Old churches, and shade trees,
And a skating rink too.

And a railroad and trolley,
From oil well times;
An old school, an old playground,
And a mineshaft to find.

And there are people and friends,
Though most of them old,
And old men from a war,
With their stories they told.

There was seldom a stranger
In our valley so fair,
Like birds we all huddled,
From the unknown out there.

And the people, the places,
The sounds and the sights,
Are fond memories at best,
But can keep you from flight.

And fly yes you must,
From where oil wells rise,
From green pastures, green hills,
And from solemn grey sky.

2001