The Music Said I Could (1/2 – Hour 2)

Michellia Wilson
Poetry Marathon 2021 – Hour 2 of 12


The knurled round knob proved to be easier to turn than I imagined.
The dial with a red pointer oscillating left, then right…
and then it happened…
The sadness I had bottled up for weeks ignited when the drum riffs began…
Over old scratchy speakers…
Old music player..
Old music,
Old person listening…
I am one of those people who will make it necessary to ban weapons from all the mentally ill…
’cause those songs create my own insane brand of checks and balances;
the outcome is always –
I am less than equal.
In an equally insane society, the weak must be eradicated.
Ask the painfully thin humans
Issues blue striped pajamas,
They we’re deemed less than…
I am ready. The music told me so.

The Tender Season

Hour 1 – 2021 Poetry Half Marathon


The light rolls in like thunder
on a night when crows rest
nervously on electric wires
just below the tree lines.

I look west – the direction of the sun plummeting into an envelope
of spring vegetation
and early darkness.

As expected, the trees are lined up
like soldiers beyond the clearing,
meeting this fresh spring sunset
in it’s tendrils climbing toward sunshine.

The weather is already teasing us
with daytime warmth,
though the nights are painted on a cool,
sometimes damp tapestry.

Soon, the shoots, sparsely bursting
through gnarled limbs and brush,
will turn into leaves unfurling
in the tender spring sunshine.


My name is Michellia Wilson and I live in northwest Tennessee.  I am 55 years old, disabled and live alone. I’ve been writing poetry since age 11.

Before I became disabled,  I worked many years as a computer technician.  I enjoyed this occupation very much. I haven’t kept up with the technology, so I consider myself retired.

I’m registered for the half marathon.  I have participated in the past in the 24 (full) marathon. I’m looking forward to this year’s challenge.


Alas, alas,

I bid you adieu,

’till next year,

with poetry a new,

we go our separate ways,

into our separate days,

alas, alas,

I bow to you!


Michellia Wilson 8/14/2016



I was ten years old,
weather was finally warm and my sister
and I began talkin’ about things really deep;
God and heaven and hell and dyin’,
where we would go if we did die and
would we be in heaven with Great Grandma –
Those were the days God entered my heart
and has never left,
only grown into the spirit that keeps me right
in a combustible world.
Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016


box 27 to be exact,
on a road also called Old 31,
I lived there happily for more than
twelve years –
until my Grandfather decided to retire from
the police department and move South;
I was never so upset as to be uprooted from
everything I knew to move two states South,
where people had a drawl that I could barely
almost like moving to a new country;
my Grandmother was not happy to uproot her
Hoosier self and move to Tennessee where the
dirt was red and moved like balls of clay;
nothing smelled better than Indiana dirt.
The move was shock,
but we adjusted and it wasn’t long until our new
life was acclimated and churched.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/14/2015


he had a name –
Arnold, from the TV show, Green Acres;
he was a black and white pig that just came
walkin’ on our place when I was about
nine years old;
my Grandparents built him a pen and
fed him every day,
things that smelled bad but that pig
would gobble up that slop that
made me want to puke.

He grew. He matured. We were poor.
Hog killin’ day came and I remember
going to Arnold’s pen early the morning
of his death –
I talked to him like he was my best friend…
the next thing I remember is the red puddle
left where he used to live and my family
processing this sow into winter provisions.
I couldn’t eat pork for two years, fearing I may
consume some part of Arnold.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/14/2016


the prettiest flowers in our yard
grew in a row against the first shed;
light purples and long green stalks,
we kids would pick them and make
flower dolls with the Hollyhock skirts
adorning the delicate knobby head.

I’ve not been blessed to see a Hollyhock
since childhood, but I remember well
their unique foliage, tender flowering pods and
light smell.
Michellia D. Wilson 8/14/2016


on the back side of our property was a fence row,
and on the other side of that row was a railroad track;
berries grew on the fence and my Grandmother would
drag us back there to help her pluck those precious fruits
each season;
sometimes we would climb the fence and walk the rails –
picking u p spikes for our collection,
sometime my Grandmother,
always keen,
would know that danger loomed and scurry us
back over the fence,
then minutes later a train would clunk over the track
and toot a lonely toot for dirty children waving
on the fence line.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/14/2016


my least favorite garden garnishment
to harvest;
unlike pecans which just fall from the tree ready to crack,
black walnuts grow in thick green coats,
that turn black when mature;
the only way to harvest the delectable snack is to
peel that dark, staining coat off the nut.

My hands turned black and it was as permanent as
thick tar or black paint and just as unpleasant as anything
I can recall as I think over all the things we harvested;

but nothing can replace the memories of the great desserts
that showcased these nutty fruits.
Michellia D. Wilson 8/14/2016