we’ll always love you
thank you, dolly,
for all the good you
put into this world;
every day it is hard
to wake up and pour
myself a cup of
ambition but you inspired
me to never give up
on my dreams—
you made something
of yourself but never let it
go to your head,
and gave so much of your
wealth away that you were
never a billionaire;
you're the only sort of rich
person i could ever
Respect—
i hope you rest easy,
your impact will never be
Forgotten;
we”ll always love you.
© linda m. crate (Meadville, PA )
Tanka for Dolly Parton
with Dolly gone
we need to be kind
to each other
and save ourselves
from the dark
© marie c lecrivain (Los Angeles, CA)
Little Tiny Tasseltop
When Dolly was a little girl
She had a dolly of her own.
Her mother made the doll from a corncob
And Dolly named her Little Tiny Tassletop.
She wrote a song about her doll.
She couldn’t write yet but her mother wrote it down.
She was only five but she could write and sing a song
And her family knew she’d be singing for years to come.
She would grow up and make money from her singing
And from that money, she’d make things grow.
Like her nephew said, she was a farmer’s daughter
And a farmer herself. She grew
Many things with that money. She made sure
Kids everywhere could learn to read and write
She believed in kindness and she spent
Her money wisely, wherever money could grow things for
People who needed help.
A little ear of corn grew out of a cornfield
Never suspecting she’d become a doll.
A girl grew out of the fields
And sang until the world was a rosier place.
There’s a place where corn and roses grow
Entwined, nourished by a song
To bring a little bit of heaven to earth.
© Lynn Bronstein (Van Nuys, CA)
Her Holiness of the Torch
Medusa de Dolly Lama has some big old sutras, daddy.
and spools of poisonous albino cobras for hair. A curling
mass of steamy snow bled snipers at her scalp. Draped
in crimson robes, she takes her place on fourteen carat
cushions spun from the tossed jewels of greater gods
and lesser goddess, she seats herself on a raised pallet
in perfect lotus posture. Standing in front, you might catch
a glint of her rhinestone panties—if you hold real still with
your deserving intact and incongruencies noted. Look how
she sings so serene, fingers rested in mudras around the mic,
her spirit sailing on unsalted seas, from 9-5, with that wild mane
of serpents spinning incantations, seeking next prey, entwining
infantries on advance, while Medusa de Dolly, waits for her next message.
Under the weight of her white mane, she lowers her register to sing
once more, till it raises the hair on all our hopes. And… I … E…
I… will always love you.
© Peggy Dobreer (Long Beach,, CA)
I Don’t Mourn Celebrities Who Die: Today Was the Exception
This afternoon, I took a break from life as I am apt to do and took a walk to do a bit of reading. I do most of my reading while in motion because it helps to ground my attention, keeping me focused on what’s in front of me. I am prone to distractions, and today was no different. During my walk, I paused in a local park to record a video for social media. When I opened the app to upload it, I came across a post stating that Dolly Parton had died. Not trusting anything I read on social media, I googled it, and learned the information was correct. I don’t cry when celebrities die. I don’t grieve the deaths of people I don’t know, but Dolly’s death, apparently, was different.
When I was a kid, I listened to her music—some of it. My friend Libby was a Kenny Rogers fan, and it was at her house, on her radio, that I heard Parton and Rogers singing “Islands in the Stream.” Like many songs the two of us fell in love with, we listened to it repeatedly. It was because of my early interest in Dolly that I started listening to, and eventually liking country music. Yes, I am a lesbian from New York City and country music is one of my preferred music genres. This surprises people. They tend to look at me with a rather funny look in their eye when I admit it. Country music tends to be popular in places that aren’t exactly accepting of queer people—people like me. I’m speaking from experience. Those are the states where I’m often looking over my shoulder and wearing a hat to hide my short hair.But Dolly, unlike other country artists—or people who listen to country music—didn’t adhere to bigotry. On many occasions she was known to express her acceptance and love of the LGBTQ community. She may have been Christian, but her brand of Christianity did not condone hate.
Not only did Dolly refuse to condemn or judge others who were different, she embodied the love that for many Christians seems elusive. Instead of hoarding her wealth, or spending it on frivolous endeavors as many rich people do, she famously supported numerous charities. I never understood the whole concept of tax breaks for the wealthy. I was in high school (in the late 1980s), the first time a teacher explained trickle down economics to me. Now, I am terrible when it comes to money. I am incredibly comfortable in the world of words, but numbers confuse me. So, when Mr. Cronin explained why rich people should be excused from paying taxes, it didn’t make much sense to me. He said the more money people have, the more they will spend it in ways that benefit others. But at fourteen-years-old, I looked out at the world, and what I saw did not confirm his declaration. Rich people spend money indulging themselves. How did this ease the lives of others? It didn’t. But Dolly Parton was different. She invested her money in people and animals—yes, animals as well; she built a sanctuary for bald eagles—improving lives wherever she saw the need.
Not only did Dolly refuse to condemn or judge others who were different, she embodied the love that for Education, especially, was important to her. The ability to read is an essential skill, and she wanted to ensure that all children had a path to literacy. As a former teacher, as someone who is passionate about books, I can appreciate this. Dolly’s Imagination Library put books in the hands of thousands of children, children who otherwise might not have had the opportunity to own books.
I didn’t know Dolly. I had no personal connection to her, but her donation to Vanderbilt University for research felt somewhat personal. COVID killed my father. I wrote extensively about his death and the callousness of the government at that time. As I watched the news, the rising death toll, I hoped that science would soon find a vaccine to end the dying. In late 2020—too late for my father, but not too late for millions of Americans—Moderna announced that they had developed the much awaited vaccine. The also announced that the money Dolly donated to Vanderbilt University for research purpose had been used to fund research for the vaccine. Other celebrities use their money their own elaborate lifestyles. Dolly was different. She helped ensure that fewer people would suffer the same fate as my father. And she didn't stope there. Even while a portion of the population denied the virus, denied its potency, and belittled the lives of those who died, Dolly not only got vaccinated, she encouraged others to follow her lead.
So yeah, I don’t mourn the deaths of celebrities. I don’t mourn the passing of people who use their talents to collect wealth, and then do nothing with the money we put in their pockets, except live a life far more than most of us could ever dream of. I don’t mourn celebrities because I refuse to that they were somehow more important than the average person. But Dolly was different. If she was just a celebrity, someone with a great deal of talent, I would have seen the post about her death and kept scrolling. But I don’t grieve the death because she was a celebrity. I grieve because the world will be less kind, less welcoming, and less loving without her in it.
© Elizabeth Jaeger (Glendale, NJ)
How Many Mornings
(For Dolly Parton and Robert Frost)
before dawn I wake, remember
she is gone. Losing my mother not
this many tears.
The way biscuits and stone
soup warm a winter belly,
that rainbowed poetry
cape I hang by the back door,
swirls when I twirl dizzy
with possibility.
How many cat-mornings will
words of her songs sing me awake,
brain nothing more than
a radio receiver, signal strong
enough to open my mouth,
take a breath—
Keen for Jolene;
my mother, my cousin
all the women who could have
held me up the way her mother
did her.
She didn’t know my name, yet
promises “I will always love you.”
A poet said
nothing gold can stay.
Dogs lead me into sky
air smells like rain,
horizon rolls
rafts of cloud
pink, salmon, magenta
my camera chases after
How can you feel safe around
a woman you have never met?
Days riding in a white pickup
windows rolled, radio.
Singing along “Please don’t take her
just because you can.”
Nothing gold can stay.
Aren’t we all gold?
Oprah’s Book Club, no.
My dream, The Magic Blankie,
A Piglet for David, my books
for the Imagination Library,
my hands slip copies into Little Free
libraries we pass as we walk.
I bury my wet face
in sunrise.
Keep walking.
© Rachael Ikins (Baldwinsville, NY)
love watered
by the tears of my song,
Jolene
© Barbara Anna Gaiardoni (Verona, Italy)
I Have Always Loved You
As a young teen girl
I was mesmerized by your words
Once that I discovered I too, could write
my dream was to be able to create
as poignant and importantly as you did
I too, grew up as a have not
and my grandmother sewed plain dresses
I could imagine my hand gliding across
my very own “Coat of Many Colors”
I wanted to be able to make folks
understand real life with my words
During the failing of my first marriage
“Here You Come Again” hit hard
And that, was when my words
began to take on bigger meaning
When I knew too
could help others with paper and pen
It became so clear during that year
every single soul who ever heard “Jolene”
knew what true heartbreak
and desperation sounded like
Doing my very best to follow in your footsteps
I wrote my first collection “Love and Licorice Whips”
to help others understand
Women need a hand-up, not hand-out
Dolly, you were like an older sister
You guided me to inspire
to go higher with what I had
You were only nine years older
but, so much bolder than I
You became my guiding light
Thank you
And “I Will Always Love You”
© Thasia Anne (Erie, Pennsylvania)
She wrote I Will Always Love You and Jolene on the same day
You can’t force someone to love you.
You can’t choose who you fall for.
You loved your patchwork coat’s colours,
failing to understand it labelled you poor.
What's sadder than giving your all and losing?
Dolly knew not to give false hope.
Be dignified, be better, wish him well,
no matter how much it hurts inside.
No matter how much it hurts inside,
be dignified, be better, wish him well.
Dolly knew better than to give false hope.
What’s sadder than giving your all and losing?
Failing to understand it labelled you poor,
you loved your patchwork coat’s colours.
You can’t choose who you fall for.
You can’t force someone to love you.
© Emma Lee (Leicester, UK)
My Last Chit-Chat with Dolly
I braced myself to ask if I could have my very own Dollywood.
‘Would it be he patio at the end of your smirky garden?’
‘Yes.’
‘In your remote Europe?’
‘Yes.’
‘There you could, but shouldn’t sweetie. Just think of the incident we had in mine. Stranded passengers on my FireChaser Express--a flywheel flung, a safety sensor tripped. A tram collision in the parking lot. A grease fire, a girl-fell-out situation. People stuck in the Timber Tower. Chain decoration hurting guests at the Mystery Mine. You don’t deserve so much fuss at your thriving hellebore beds. Why don’t you start your own Imagination Library?’
‘I have, Dolly. I have. I met a bartender, not at Wishy-Washy, all he had read was Ken Follett. I overwhelmed him with Hesse and Huxley, Bradbury and Karen Blixen, Amos Oz, Kundera, Henry Miller, Bukowski, Sylvia Plath and Iris Murdoch, then I relaunched the project step by step, asked for his opinion. He ended up quoting Beckett, oh gosh, is he becoming Tom Shepherd's lobster?’
‘Wow, that guy is your perilous swamp, your tainted Dollywood, indeed, why don’t you urge him to pick some of your hellebores when at least one flower on the stem dropped its stamens and tried to form a tiny seed pod? And why don’t you ask him if he’s a punched persona or a dolled=up mercy diva or just--for your hopes-- a half-sophisticated sofa? Deep inside your pub friend might hate you for your kindness, he may plan a counter attack, he’s nobody's fringe-head or lobster. You’re called Sarah, right? You’d rather build your own personal Eden, your own Sarah-la-la. Keep the hellebores, read Riding Hood to the neighbor’s kids, bake flapjacks and hummingbird cakes, serve them with mango-habarnero lemonades and tell your own story, your Sarah experience.’
© Agnes Marton (Briatico, Italy)
Dolly Parton Recovers Voices at Meadowlark
I was married to Evarts G. Loomis, MD, who founded Meadowlark, America’s first holistic medical retreat in Hemet, California. Much to his surprise, Dolly Parton booked an appointment with his. Dolly shared she’d lost her voice.
“I know my career is over without it,” she said.
Evatts suggested she stay at Meadowlark for a few weeks and explore how she might get her voice back. She readily agreed and participated daily in the program he pioneered.
In addition to a full medical examination, guests were introduced to therapeutic fasts, nutritional counseling, exercise, homeopathic medicine, meditation, acupuncture, yoga, art and music therapy, body work, and psycho-spiritual counseling. Daily group therapy sessions incorporated dreams, journaling, and meditation. Most important of all was the use of love as a healing agent.
Dolly even volunteered to have her photo taken in a shimmery green blouse and dark blue skirt to promote sales of the thrift shop tucked into the grounds. Her wig created a glowing nimbus around her head (see photo).
The shop brought in limited funds to help support Meadowlark.Many patients spent all their money seeking a cure, and were unable to completely pay their bill. Evarts always took them in, and treated each person with respect.
While at Meadowlark, Dolly never pushed her celebrity, or personality.
In time, Dolly’s voice returned. She left the sanctuary, refreshed and ready to take up her career.
After thirty-three years of operation and treating more than 6,000 patients, Meadowlark closed its doors in 1991. When Evarts passed in 2003, I received a card from Dolly expressing her gratitude for his help in a time of crisis. She also shared her grief at the loss of this medical humanitarian. Her kindness reminded me that Dolly, too, was a humanitarian.
© Fay L. Loomis (Kerhonkson, NY)
