Poetry by Joe Cottonwood

    Vivek Jena CC




My Song Americana

I come to you barefoot
I chew bluegrass, drink corn
My rain is muddy water

My hands are raw from picking cotton
My lungs are black with coal
My farm is dust

I follow rivers by raft, 
herd longhorns by horseback, 
ride boxcars over endless plain

I killed the native and the buffalo
I regret
I sing of what remains

I am outlaw—I seek justice
I celebrate love—I betray it
I despise the rich—I want riches

I raise children in rags 
They outgrow my front porch, 
my tumbledown shack
I shame them with my twang, 
my holler of blues

My children trade tractors for Teslas
They bring the south north
They take the west east

My children return with fresh children 
who throw off shoes, who paddle kayaks, 
who dive into muddy water 
and come up clean



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Joe Cottonwood repairs homes and writes poems in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest books of poetry are Foggy Dog and Random Saints.
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