May your neighbors respect you, trouble neglect you, the Angels protect you, and Heaven accept you!

This poem was written about a family who is very dear to me, and suffered the loss of many of their family members. They found refuge and peace when out on the sea.....on the Nancy III. The Nancy III She was a worthy born vessel She floated and rocked with the sea With a life of her own, and the memories she nestled They called her, The Nancy III (three) She weathered the storms Like a mother who coddles her young Granting them peace that allowed them to mourn In the wake of the waters their weary cries forlorn Sorrows evaporated like the sea spray At the head of The Nancy’s helm As she shimmered and shook them Till their souls became free With every swell of the sea The Nancy buffered their pain Giving them an escape Of their reality, their bane A destination not needed Under The Nancy’s protection So they drank and they laughed And they emerged from her mast She was much more then a vessel With a bow and a stern She was their friend And they called her The Nancy III (three) She was their friend And they called her The Nancy Three (three) Rosie Powell August 6 2009

Country Night My blue jean shorts; Are frayed just right. As I head out the door; For a country night. The guys in their hats; And their blue jeans tight. I prowl like the cats For a country night. My cowboy boots; They feel so light. My heels start to tap ; For a country night. With hand s in the air; And my mood so right. I wiggle on the floor For a country night The band hits that chord; And yells, ‘ARE YOU AL-RIGHT?’ I shout with a hoot ‘For a country night!’ A country night.....lets have a country night! A country night.......oh a country night A country night.....lets have a country night! A country night......oh a country night Rosie Clare Powell June 5, 2009

MIRRORS OF LIFE The mirrors reflection, can make me cringe. But looking at Mothers, her rosy red cheeks. My eyes see her story, wonderful memories to keep. Each fold in her skin, each brittle small bone. They tell of her journey, her mark in the stone. I see all her beauty, it's more than just skin. A bouquet of wisdom, soft kindness within. My Mother is special, where a mirror cannot see. And I cherish her love, and her love for me. The mirrors of life, reflections I'm told. Only touch our surface, only see the old. The mirrors of life, reflections I'm told. They don't see our beauty, they don't see our mold. The mirrors reflection can make me cringe. But when I look at my Mothers, I see deep within. They tell of her glories, her tracks in the sand. Her soft ways of showing, her breath in the wind. The mirrors reflection, can make me cringe. I can't see beneath, my owns skins fringe. But Mothers is clear, it's clean, and bright. I see in hers love, a love for life. The mirrors of life, reflections I'm told. Only touch our surface, only see the old. The mirrors of life, reflections I'm told. They don't see our beauty, they don't see our mold. Rosie Powell Mother's Day 2009 xo

Cornbread and Cobbler In black iron skillets Work boots and dungarees Hung by the door A rusty old pick up With torn leather lining Inside lays messy With smells of fresh hay Memories and mountains of mellow lost ways Memories and mountains of mellow lost ways I see the mountains And they take me right back To my home in the hills Down the holler a ways With smells of Maws cookin’ Paws dirty ole ashtrays Its homey, it’s earthy It’s much simpler days A river rock chimney Is lined with the birds They soak up some warmth Of the crack-ling fire-wood I poke the logs quickly Watch sparks rise to heaven Soft billowing smoke floats Like old spirits; lost and stray Memories and mountains of mellow lost ways Memories and mountains of mellow lost ways Fried chicken for breakfast Early chores in the cold My Paw worked so hard His hands strong and bold We hoed and we tilled We ground the corn mill The silo’s not empty There’s food for our fill On Sunday we follow The white river birch We walk up the steps Of the small village church The ladies brought picnics To share and to serve The men brought their fiddles Told stories with verve Memories and mountains of mellow lost ways Memories and mountains of mellow lost ways Cornbread and Cobbler In black iron skillets Work boots and dungarees Hung by the door A rusty old pick up With torn leather lining Inside lays messy With smells of fresh hay Memories and mountains of mellow lost ways Memories and mountains of mellow lost ways Rosie Clare Powell Nov 2008