Mindful Poetry

Dead at 39

2012-01-13T16:13:00.000-06:00

I am no longer of myself, but of a communal picture, living at large. When I place my hands on the lectern, I feel voltage where none was before. The throng loosens its voices though the well of my soul sinks deeper. I once stood at the foot of this mountain, but now climb to the pinnacle; its peak is within reach.

Metamorphosis
From colored boy to icon
The fruits of my thoughts

I am no longer fearful, though you fear me, fear my credo. I am not here to change you, but to reshape your world view, as did my namesake four hundred years ago. I also can list ninety-five reasons: One, I am a human being. Two, my rights are equally guaranteed by the Constitution. Three, my wife gives birth to babies just as yours does. Four, I am not defined by the color of my skin. Five...

No longer deny
My selfsame humanity
I am your brother

Memphis has become my Jerusalem; hidden amongst the crowd lies a snake, which my heel cannot crush. This weight works itself into my face, trying to contort my message, but the weight will turn to buoyancy, my words will become golden. I stand now on the balcony listening to a song in my mind: Take My Hand, Precious Lord. I see the snake.

Vict'ry flashes
Sending me to the mountain top
My dream is at hand

Good Counsel Home, 1963

2012-01-12T01:07:00.000-06:00

The first time I saw Tula,
she was cracking an egg over
a yellow bowl the Housemother and I
had found at Goodwill that morning.

The trick is to beat it until it’s good and foamy,
she said, a matchstick dangling
off the edge of her lip, nearly falling
into our uncooked lunch.

We sat at the counter, balancing on bar stools
still funky from bleach and ammonia, slurping egg-dumpling soup,
taking reluctant bites out of apples
we’d picked up with our AFDC checks.

Tula was ready to pop, though she never complained
about the silver ribbons snaking across her gut or the
bowling ball sitting on her bladder. I saw her once, scratching her
backside, working her index finger like her ass was made outta Playdoh.

Two weeks later, Tula was on kitchen duty again.
She stood there with her deflated belly and eyes like a basset hound.
I asked if she knew who got her kid.
Sneering, she took two brown eggs, and raising

her arms high over head, she smashed
them together, the yellow yolks sliding
down her wrists, shells falling in her hair,
whispering, who the hell cares.

Once Upon a Bed

2011-11-16T13:52:00.002-06:00

Tracey and Lou owned a PosturePedic mattress
You’d never know, to look at them, they weren’t married
Most telling was Lou loving Tracey with a light caress

They shared two children, a dog, with great success
Between day-care, school, and work, they often ferried
Tracey and Lou owned a PosturePedic mattress

A trip to Dr. Bahrain, lymph nodes he did access
At that precise moment, they began to feel harried
Most telling was Lou loving Tracey with a light caress

Where does one go when one seeks to convalesce
With family? Alone? The choices were varied
Tracey and Lou owned a PosturePedic mattress

Lou said to Tracey, “Back to your mother’s, I would guess.”
But, “Tsk, tsk, tsk, it’s a shame you never married.”
Most telling was Lou loving Tracey with a light caress

Two rings turned up on that last day along with fancy dress
Into the crypt went mother’s tears; the rings regretfully they buried
Tracey and Lou owned a PosturePedic mattress
Most telling was Lou loving Tracey with a light caress

Our Bliss

2011-11-01T12:52:00.001-05:00

The requiem of our bliss begins
as I unlock the birdcage of my heart,
freeing all kept promises, cleaning out
the spent seeds and stale water.
You know my gestures intimately;

you’ve watched me dozens of years.
The requiem of our bliss begins
as I open my mouth to mourn,
recalling the chariot of our wedded life.
See how it trundles along, broken and squeaking.

So, too, has our love passed from ecstatic trills
to shrill whines—a dismal threnody.
The requiem of our bliss begins
as I unclench my hand, releasing our love
to find its resting chamber.

Our certificate of vows must slip through
bent spindles that once bound us together.
Let it pass.
The requiem of our bliss begins
as our bands fall onto shredded newspaper.

I lay our photo upon the flame;
the edges curl and blacken.
Your face furrows as I snuff out our attachment.
I am burning you out of my heart.
The requiem of our bliss begins.

How Snapdragons First Formed

2011-10-25T21:56:00.000-05:00

This has always been a favorite myth:
How a flower was once a great dragon
The nugget, the cream, the kernel and pith
It’s all contained in her bookmobile wagon

"How a flower was once a great dragon..."
Miss Evie begins with a tentative smile
It’s all contained in her bookmobile wagon
The legend starts off in an innocent style

Miss Evie begins with a tentative smile
Her feathery voice wraps us up in a wire
The legend starts off in an innocent style
"My dragon,” she says, with a face of desire

Her feathery voice wraps us up in a wire
"But into the river of Styx it descended...”
"My dragon,” she says, with a face of desire
“Its death down in Hades is where it all ended."

"But into the river of Styx it descended...”
Her breathing increases, comes out in a gasp.
“Its death down in Hades is where it all ended.
The folklore has caught us all up in its grasp

Her breathing increases, comes out in a gasp.
She throws down the book with a fiery scream
The folklore has caught us all up in its grasp
The children are thrilled, with faces, they beam

She throws down the book with a fiery scream,
A cutlass, she brandishes, eyes scanning wide.
The children are thrilled, with faces, they beam.
"Come back, my dragon," brave Evelyn cried.

A cutlass, she brandishes, eyes scanning wide,
She lunges, she swoops, she beheads the flower.
"Come back, my dragon," brave Evelyn cried.
But the dragon transforms by mythical power.

She lunges, she swoops, she beheads the flower.
Opens a vein to nourishing nectar
Then the dragon transforms by mythical power
And reshapes into a floral spectre

Opens a vein to nourishing nectar
The nugget, the cream, the kernel and pith
And reshapes into a floral spectre
This has always been a favorite myth

The Last Fugue

2011-10-22T21:53:00.002-05:00

That’s the way it sounds to me
My hand dragging in the water
As you bow her violin in key
We laugh and drink Vichy water

My hand dragging in the water
The contrails in the sky
We laugh and drink Vichy water
You say her name, but I don’t cry

The contrails in the sky
Hang like my heart in stasis
You say her name, but I don’t cry
I give you my last quarter with two faces

Hang like my heart in stasis
Until it bursts into a fistful of coins
I give you my last quarter with two faces
Throw it in her grave, I enjoin

Until it bursts into a fistful of coins
As you bow her violin in key
Throw it in her grave, I enjoin
That’s the way it sounds to me

Flying

2011-10-22T21:45:00.000-05:00

Tu ne seras pas oublié.

You were not ready when you flew from earth,
snatched, like a bird in a storm.

Now I sit at your desk writing the last words in your journal.
I pour out your shampoo, sudsing my hair twice a day
until there is nothing left.
I paint my nails while emptying your imported bottles
of Le Rouge Foncé and Rose Scintillant.

Birds feast on your half-eaten bag of Cheetos I shake,
salting the wind.
I burn your cinnamon candle down to a nub,
leave on your night-light until the bulb burns out,
open to your bookmark, finishing Baudelaire’s final verses.

Then I lay my head on your pillow,
inhaling your lilac memory,
pull up the yellow cotton sheet,
and dream your last dream.

My aching heart hears you whisper
Allez à Paris.

When I land at Charles de Gaulle
every face I see is yours—
blue-gray eyes
chestnut hair
fair face dotted with freckles.

And then I see him:
the Frenchman in your dream.

He smiles at me, steps forward.
His cheeks press mine,
right and left.
I feel the rasp of his peppered beard.
But I know you want more.

Standing on tiptoe, my arms wrapped around his neck,
I look into his brown eyes, pleading
“Une fois plus pour Jacqueline?”
I hold my breath.
“Avec plaisir,” he replies.

And we kiss like old lovers,
lingering on
until the taste of his lips cannot be forgotten.

What Happens on Sycamore Street

2011-09-19T21:07:00.000-05:00

She waits in a house at 743 Sycamore Street
where the sun shines so brightly on the sidewalk
it looks iridescent and pink morning glories bloom
all day long in shadows, where a cat prowls silently
between houses, terrifying song birds, and at last
she admits she is waiting to die.

“My sweet potatoes, planted this spring, didn’t die
even though we suffered drought, but up the street
Mrs. Hoover’s fall-bearing raspberries didn’t last
the summer,” she says as she looks down the walk.
What she doesn’t say, what remains silent,
is how she wonders about her own fading bloom.

Her groom holds her hand, a mottled bloom
on his cheeks. “Nineteen years and…” but his voice dies
away as he thinks ‘til death us do part silently.
The cat chases a squirrel across the street
just as a Honda drives by. Squeals, then driver walks
around the front of his car, looking at the last

chase Fresko will ever enjoy. With effort, at last
he leans over and picks up the body, lays it in blooming
asters growing in the boulevard, wipes his hands on the sidewalk
as if the roughness will cleanse his palms. His is a die-
hard attitude, no need to find its owners; cat was in the street,
what can they expect. In 743 Sycamore, they watch silently.

“Do you think,” she asks, breaking the silence,
“that our neighbors will come to the funeral, my last
big show,” she adds with a tepid smile. “I’ll throw a street
party,” he says, “but I am a madcap, my love, my blooming
rose. Let’s us a party today, tonight before evening dies!”
Outside a small girl cries, kneeling on the concrete sidewalk

skinning her bare knees. Her father lifts her up and walks
down the road, crossing Sycamore, while mother silently
trails behind holding a blanketed ball of cat, now dead.
“Wrap me in a shroud like that cat when I die,”
she claps a hand on her mouth, shocked by her last
comment. He wraps his arms around her, sniffs the bloom
of her hair, freshly washed. “Tonight, babe, we party in the street.”

All things living will die, but how long we walk
on this Earth, how many streets we silently
traverse until our last is a bloom that cannot open until it drops.

Reclaiming My Poetic Muse

2011-05-18T13:15:00.000-05:00

I am ashamed to admit, I have lost my muse
I suspect my muse—I shall call her Trix--
wandered into the forest, lured by a wreath
of myrtle and roses, a laurel upon Erato,
but a noose on the neck of Trix. What
am I to do? My patience wears thin

I have called out loud, I have whispered thin,
“Trixie, dear, you are my voice, my only muse;
without you I am an oiled chair, dampened firewood. What
else can I say? When you return, my trixiest
Trix, we will eat dictionaries and tattoo ‘Erato’
on our breasts. I will weave snapdragons in a wreath

circling your head a dozen times with wreaths
of lavender and jasmine. On your tongue, thin
slices of crystalized ginger and we’ll watch Erato’s
favorite movie six times in a row. Trix, my muse,
my dear, come back to me.” In agony, I wait for Trix,
but not even a bird’s twittering…I hear silence…what?

Someone dares toy with me? Baits my heart? What
beast are you to fool me! To wrap my mouth in a wreath
of thorns! I implore, I beg like a leper. Do not trick
me with illusion! Trix, could that be you: a murmur thinly
slid under my tongue? Unscale my eyes, unloose my muse,
step out from the darkness and face me. Is that you, Erato?

My confusion soars. I see my Trix kneading bread with Erato.
Trix turns to me and asks, “Did you bring yeast? What
else would make this wheat rise into words?” My muse
stands there, askance, hands on hips. A wreath
of questions she asks me, but waits for no reply. My thin
hand holds no answers, but a pinch of leavening. “Trix,”

I say in my smallest voice, “Come home, my Trixie
lover.” “I am only on loan, you know, from Erato,”
she tells me sadly. “But what must I do to gain you?” I thinly
whisper. Trix smiles then, spreads her arms wide. “What
must you do? Only this: write an epic, write a wreath,
write a mountain and an ocean. Then I will be your Muse.”

And so with my thin pen and a pocket of tricks culled from Rogets,
I write daily. My trixiest muse shares her secrets, out of Erato’s earshot,
and together, come what may, we write words to wreathe our fates forever.

The Gift of Waiting

2010-12-12T12:21:00.001-06:00

We are waiting for the end of advent,
but are we expecting the Christ child?
Or are our thoughts on ribbons and gifts
circling the tree like an electric train?
Christ is with us now, and yet we wait;
we hold our breath in anticipation.

Half the pleasure, you know, is anticipation.
The third candle, lit on the wreath of advent
burns joy—we are closer than half way—but wait!
Just wait a little longer. It is hard to be a child
waiting, not knowing, but the waiting trains
us to bide our time, hold still for the Gift.

We tell our children about the donkey carrying a gift,
wrapped in Mary’s womb. We smile at their anticipation,
watching them fidget, tiptoe, and whisper. Their train
of thought headed in one direction: the eve of Advent.
A ceramic nativity scene high on the mantle, a child
can only look, not touch. Like a spinster, we make them wait

for Christmas Eve, for the Bible lesson read aloud. Wait,
wait, wait. When all they want is to tear open the gifts
and shout, “Look what I got!” I was a once a child,
I remember. After the wrappings are undone, anticipation
fades. But here is another mystery, Advent
is not over. Epiphany comes like the twelve-fifteen train

down the tracks. We count down to twelve: the train
the days, the leaping lords. We watch and wait
for Epiphany, the bookend of a month-long advent.
Three Kings’ Day marks the twelfth night, marks with gifts,
the climax of Christmas. The waiting, the anticipation,
the longing are over. Now we celebrate the birth of our Christ-child

Somehow, compressed though it is, we watch this Jesus-child
grow up to be a miracle-man who calls his disciples and trains
them to wait. To wait and to watch with holy anticipation,
while he washes feet and feeds the hordes that also wait
for the time when the three wise men’s gifts
will be used to anoint and prepare the body of the King of Advent.

This anticipation we feel, like a child, eager and open,
leads us through the days of Advent and trains our hearts
to wait for the kismet of Jesus as he becomes our greatest gift.

The Reluctant Villanellist

2010-11-23T11:42:00.001-06:00

Form poetry, says Robert, is fun, but what does he know?
Has he ever tried writing a double-wrapped sestina?
I want to write poetry that’s lucrative, pulls in gobs of dough

So I’m telling you, in today’s column, punt and free throw
Just like that, he says, write like a poetic ballerina
Form poetry, says Robert, is fun, but what does he know?

I throw my hands in the air, too disgusted to just “let it go”
Heck, I’m the Mindful Poet™, covering the poetic arena
I want to write poetry that’s lucrative, pulls in gobs of dough

So I tell him, Mr. Robert, form poetry is a lot of show
But it has no depth, no imagery, no rhyme, and no patina
Form poetry, says Robert, is fun, but what does he know?

Form poetry is a waste of time, stupid, dumb rondeau
Those of us who are smart will write like Sappho or Athena
I want to write poetry that’s lucrative, pulls in gobs of dough

So take your forms and stuff it; I’ll write like Vince Van Gogh
And with my satchel bulging, jet off to Argentina
I want to write poetry that’s lucrative, pulls in gobs of dough
Form poetry, says Robert, is fun, but what does he know?

Not Counted

2010-09-14T13:45:00.001-05:00

I am not on the list of names
Mournfully read each September eleventh
Won’t someone weep for me?

Hunched in the alley between two towers, that was me
Sleeping off the Smirnoff vodka, forgetting my name
One of many, one of eleven

Into the tower’s north face, came crashing flight eleven
The omnipotence of America fell on me
But no one remembers my name

Me and eleven other cardboard box bums, along with our names, died, too.

Buried on the Lone Prairie

2010-07-28T04:25:00.001-05:00

Mrs. Cranberry dug a trench in the flower bed
just to the left of a row of tulip bulbs.
Her son Ensen knelt down in the upturned dirt,
his arms cradling a silent bundle.
Cotton-Candy's mews had long since died,
her body stiffened like an icicle.

"This past winter," he said, "an icicle
fell point down in this very spot, this snow bed
that'll now hold my Cotton-Candy. She's died
now, Ma, she's really gone?" Her little bulb
of life is passed, Ma agreed, as she bundled
her thoughts together. Earthen smell of dirt

rose to her nose, a test, she thought of the scented dirt
harrowed by Mr. Cranberry last spring, after all icicles
had melted and they'd laid their bonny lass, bundled
in a tattered quilt, pulled from her straw bed,
in the yellowed prairie land. No daffodill bulbs
had been planted then, but now, where she'd died,

they circled her grave, waving as if nothing could ever die
again. Why did she die? Ma's tears fell in the dirt
making splotches of mud, like minature dirt bulbs
into which Ensen laid Cotton-Candy, stiff and cold as an icicle
"Ma?" Mrs. Cranberry looked up, her heart a bed
of cut glass, "Yes, Ensen?" "Could I make a bundle

of money by going around and praying for the bundles
of children that died last winter? You know, died
from the fever?" His mother stepped back into the bed
of flowers, shocked. But his face showed no malevolent dirt
despite that he'd stabbed her through the heart with an icicle
of words. "No, child, prayers are free," she whispered, as if a bulb

of emotion were stuck in her throat. "Instead, take these bulbs,
dig them up, and sell them for a dime a bundle."
He saw the tears on her face, a pendent spear, an icicle
of sadness, sliced down her cheek. Thoughts of his cat died
as he jury-rigged a basket of bulbs to sell with still-clinging dirt
on their opaque skins. Ma laid Cotton-Candy in her last bed.

Sunshine on the bitter cold creates icicles that drip into bulbs
below where the bearded iris, in its bed, unbundles its arms,
casts off the dead leaves and emerges like a fluted horn from the dirt.

To Venus, Rhea, Juno and the Rest

2010-04-20T00:26:00.002-05:00

The moon hangs low, pregnant in the western sky
Cherokee roses that bloom by day, now stand with folded petal
You and I, who have said our prayers, wait for a reply

What gift can I offer to the gods that dwell in castles high?
Sheaves of barley, a clutch of pearls, plates of golden metal?
The moon hangs low, pregnant in the western sky

You, my darling, have given all, you’ve nothing left to deny;
you’ve nothing to withhold. For this, you’ve braced your mettle.
You and I, who have said our prayers, wait for a reply

I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine: he feeds among the rye.
I long for our bliss to bloom forth, roses amongst the nettle
The moon hangs low, pregnant in the western sky

Yet, what of this third blossom, at present, no more than a sigh
Are we to torture ourselves, think a twosome is less than--to settle?
You and I, who have said our prayers, wait for a reply

Our love withstands gale force winds, hands clasped, we say goodbye
Not wizard nor witch, with twisted hearts and a brewing kettle
The moon hangs low, pregnant in the western sky
You and I, who have said our prayers, wait for a reply

Shelley's Last Word

2010-01-30T01:52:00.001-06:00

Now smile said the cameraman as I puckered up my lips
I did my level best, but I'm telling you dear reader, hanging high over ground
With a shepherd's hook levitating me by my clothing
Did not afford much comfort. Hallelujah, baby!
The shot was snapped and I could drop down to stage
Except the pulleys were tangled and I was stuck

A dozen feet looks more like a hundred when stuck
in mid-air. My shirt hung askew, my lips
turned blue as the dutch boy paint that the stage
crew was using on the set. Green for ground
and blue for sky. Simple-pimple, baby!
I was ready to squeal like a stuck pig as my clothing

began to rip. That's one way to make a scene san clothing.
But not one that I wanted to make. "Hey, I'm stuck!"
I yelled. Then Arden Mulski howled, "I can see your baby
fat!" I leveled him a stare to grow hair above his lip
if he'd been man enough to do it. Little blob on the ground.
But he had one over me, he was standing on the stage

while I hung like a treed kite. A real stage-
hand saw my predicament, my rapidly ripping clothing,
and raced to the control pit underground.
"No worries," she hollered, "I'm flipping the switch--stuck!
I'll be jiggered, it's stuck!" I saw her lips
mouth words that even a baby

would blush to hear. The pulley shifted, O sweet baby,
and I tilted, head now aimed straight at the stage
and a cold breeze fanning cheeks not attached to my lips.
Into the theater walks a Romanesque Zeus, his clothing,
but a toga, a prop from another play. I am dumb, stuck
like a mute, wordless, beguilded. From the ground,

he looks up, chuckles and says, "Feet not touching the ground
when I walk by, huh? Happens all the time, babe."
His narcissistic words unpeeled my helpless, stuck
brain. I twisted and grabbed the rope, pulled the stage
crew's attention as they admired my amassed strength. Clothing
notwithstanding, I looked like a cougar with ruby lips.

A thick pad was produced and I stuck the landing as I grounded
myself center-stage. My lips curled upward. "Baby?"
I said to Mr. Aztec. Upstaging him and his clothes, I riposted, "Call me M'am."

Prompts for January 20, due January 26:

The story needs to take place somehow off the ground.
Include an Exposition in your story
Use the words: level, amass, dutch, and hallelujah
Someone needs to do something non-verbal with his or her mouth such as hiccup, cough, sneeze, your choice

Thirteen Ways of Looking at God

2010-01-17T03:28:00.001-06:00

I
Among multifarious gods,
The only one offering an invitation
Was the God of Grace.

II
I was of one mind,
split like a trident
Into past, present, and future.

III
The Savior story piggybacks and
Assimilates, eager to stand out.

IV
A shaper and a specter
Are one.
A shaper and a specter and a Nazarene
Are one.

V
Test me not for I can not chose
To live in corporeal presence
Or to strive for the ether
To drink dandelion tea
Or imbibe celestial wine.

VI

Rainbows, full circles, when
Viewed from the other side.
Promises given, but no more
Sacrifice.
No blood of the Lamb.
No unleaven bread.

VII

Your opulence shields you
From the starving Calcutta waif.
Your nescience portends
A future spent in purgatory.

VIII

Brass coins, bells,
The slender neck of an oud
All sing in unison
But you are the
Ultimate rhythm.

IX

When god remained entombed,
Even Peter fell silent.
Interspersed with his denials.

X

At the sight of god
Ascending on golden stairs
Even the double-tongued pharisee
Bent to prophetic omens.

XI

His donkey stepped to Egypt,
Hiding even his scent from Herod.
Once, a leper touched him
Believing in miracles.
He received nothing less.

XII

The throngs are praying.
God transcends.

XIII

It was twilight his entire life.
Dusk prevailed
And did not abate.
God lingered until dawn
When the sun rose.

Earthly Beliefs

2010-01-17T00:38:00.000-06:00

There's a few things about me that are beautiful,
but you don't know them. First, I live on this Earth
as a human being, but before I lived here, my friends,
I was an angel. Maybe I ended up here because of lust.
Lusting to eat Braeburns or to hold small, furry animals.
I'm not sure, but lust is powerful. Look it up at the library.

The name of the street where I live is Library
Lane. Down the block, on mornings replete with beautiful
sunshine, I walk to that reverential place, spying animals
along the way. Believe me. Look it up on Google Earth
if you are too incredulous. Some people actually lust
after the name of my street, but not my friends.

Second, I find that I am lonely for friends.
Again, that might be hard to believe and no library
book will confirm it, but I am lonely. I lust
for deeper friendships with souls that are beautiful.
When looking for friends, this small world becomes a giant earth,
which no ship can traverse. And friendless, we act like animals.

The irony is, I am the cruelest of all animals.
So if you can, please send me a legion of friends.
Third, although I am a Christian, I love this Earth;
its splendid woven sky and manufactured libraries
and synogogues, all of it is exquisite. All is beautiful.
Yes, I know. Love not the world for the world is lust,

but if so, then I dive into the glories of earthen lust
as the pious dive into earthen vessels. God made animals
the same as me. Why spurn the handwork, the beauty
that is the Lord's? Instead we ought celebrate, friends,
how perfect Life is. Pour out of your churches, your libraries,
your Starbucks and sing praises of our planet Earth.

Fourth, I believe there is no other Earth
like this one, but that there is drudgery and lust
and salvation in abundant measure. In the Library
of the Universe, I believe we can verify even animals'
souls. Don't be fooled by others, not even your friends
who decry notions like mine. Know that you are beautiful.

It is written in God's library that this very Earth
contains redeemable life, both beautiful and lustful,
both animal and human. Read it in the Book, dear friends.

Crack Baby

2010-01-09T21:58:00.001-06:00

Larry's lips form a circle as he blows
a smoke ring into Keleigh's pasty grey
face. Coughing, she opens the window a crack
to breath in the frosty air. It is winter
although no snow has yet fallen.
Larry's bright eyes dance with a song

playing on the radio. "What the name of that song?"
he says. Kel shrugs, "Give me a puff; quit blowing
dry air at me and give." Her resolve has fallen,
like her grades and her hopes, into a grey
pulp of ashes. She looks out the window into the wintry
sky. She feels as if her heart will crack

like a pumpkin after Halloween, crack
like her voice when she sings a song
that's too high, crack like the first ice in winter
when she steps gingerly on its glass. Blown,
Keleigh has blown her chances. When she's grey-
haired and wrinkled, she'll look back on this fallen

day and ache like a mother bird whose chick has fallen
out of the nest, too young to fly. The shell cracked
but the wings still folded. Its only hope is its grey
plumage to cammoflage it in the dirt. No song
sings from bird's beak or woman's heart. No blowing
winds of hope lift either spirit. It is winter.

Larry hands her the pipe, "Here's your woolie, you winter-
strawberry." Keleigh cradles the pipe, looks at her weightless, fallen
man. Abruptly she wants neither the screw nor the crack. "Blow
it yourself; I don't want your Love," she says with a voice that cracks.
"Bitch," he breathes and turns up the radio. Wainwright sings a song
while strumming his guitar, in his nasal twang, "When it's grey

in L.A., I sure like it that way..." "Effing country, all gloom and grey
music, that sh..." Larry starts, but looks at Kel glowing in winter
white shimmer, winter white glory. Humming a new song.
"What the hell...", but his voice whiskers away, falls
into silence, like snowflakes at night. He cracks
his pipe on the counter, sneers, then takes one more blow.

Each bird sings its own song, flies on its own grey wings.
Battered by the blows of wind and the bitter breath of winter,
the timid become lost. Fallen feathers sift between the cracks.

Moving to Hospice

2009-12-18T16:02:00.001-06:00

Arlo sings to me right now,
Can you dry every tear...take every hand that death has consumed?
I know Barbary needs a hand
when her sister passes she'll have a river of tears
that not even my cupped hands will hold.

My dog stands behind me
She's crying and pacing
for her boys, my boys, who have gone
out to play in the field
outside the gate where she can not go.

The sky is light blue, dusk will soon fall.
I see our willow tree greening up along
its strands that hang like pearls,
like a rasta-man's dreads swaying in the wind.
The willow is dying, too.

Now Arlo has played the last notes of
"Gambler's Blues" and the people clap
their hands, whistle. I'm sure they smile
to one another, nod their heads, sigh.
But what of Barbary's sister?

Maybe she's sighing, too.
Maybe she's listening to Arlo right now
remarking in her head how she used to
listen to Guthrie when he first started strumming.
She sighs, knowing he'll keep strumming
even when she no longer can listen.

Memory

2009-12-08T13:01:00.000-06:00

That was a bright and bitter day
The phone rang
She called, for the last time,
simply to say, "I love you"
and nothing more.

It took me a moment
to grasp her message
the way her breath caught
like snowflakes on lashes
a thistle seed on argyles

But when at last I understood
her meaning,
it was too late.
There was nothing left
but an empty dial tone.

Felicity

2009-12-08T12:59:00.002-06:00

Felicity was the girl everyone wanted to pick
on because she was slow that way,
you know what I mean.

And one time, when she was playing
right field, she wet
her pants.

She didn’t yell at us or
anything mean, though she did walk
away crying

her blond hair sticking out
of her head like
straws in a haystack

her nose snotty and red
using her sleeve
for a Kleenex.

How many times had she heard the words,
be a good sport,
so she was.

Felicity was the girl everyone wanted to pick
on.
So we did.

A Writer's Vice

2009-12-08T12:59:00.001-06:00

Carol Jean always takes her coffee black
Like the inky sky on a moonless night
Digging in her pocket for a Salem pack
A pair of essentials so that she can write

Like the inky sky on a moonless night
She needs a smoke as well as a lamp
A pair of essentials so that she can write
She scrawls with a writer's cramp

She needs a smoke as well as a lamp
Both burn holes if left forgotten
She scrawls with a writer's cramp
Black words, dark thoughts--all rotten

Both burn holes if left forgotten
The torment of an elusive word
Black words, dark thoughts--all rotten
Stanzas: first, second, then third

The torment of an elusive word
Digging in her pocket for a Salem pack
Stanzas: first, second, then third
Carol Jean always takes her coffee black

Abecedarians

2009-11-30T00:04:00.001-06:00

Sibling Rivalry

After begging candy, Deedra E. Freeman got harmfully ill.
"Jeepers, kid. Like, mitigate nauseous old puke," quipped Ruby.
Sister tattled--unfaithful varmit!
What xxxx'ed your zipper?

Space

Alone
Being
Cosmos
Dione
Existence
Fool's Paradise
Godliness
Hole
Infinity
Jetsons
Knot
Lost in
Manned
Nebula
Open
Pica em
Quantum
Room
Spool
Tool
Uncrowded
Vacuum
Wasteland/Wonderland
Xyst
Years
Zero, don't you know how wonderful you are?

Sail Away

2009-09-14T00:16:00.002-05:00

I’ve had my ear to the rail forty-six days and counting.
Three yards up the line, my sister huddles,
waiting, same as me.

Hearing something
I jerk my head up,
study the horizon.
But, no, it is nothing,
perhaps the whine of an airplane overhead;
its contrail divides the sky in half.
My sister clears her throat.

In the alfalfa field small birds
like warbler and nuthatch, flit from stalk to stalk.
I lay my ear down once more.
The steel rail warm and soothing against my skin.
Its smoothness is like a sharp, sharp blade,
ready to slice a tomato.

Now I hear rumbling.
Under the palm of my hand, vibration.
With my head on the trestle,
I see a plume of white, smoky steam
unfurling in the sky.
A finger pointing,
but not at me.

The vibrato becomes a shuddering.
The grumble, a deafening roar.
I crouch,
horrified and immobile.

With a scream, the locomotive is upon me,
shaking me senseless like dice in a cup.

Yet it misses me,
as if I were invisible.

I sit up after the last car passes,
watching my sister as she sails away,
her brown hair laughing with the wind.

-------------------------------

I'd published another version of this poem much earlier in this blog's life. It's here now, closer to its final form.

Kleptomatic

2009-09-13T01:34:00.001-05:00

Pearl Ocean swung her handbag over
the cart’s handlebar, smacking
the plastic seat protector so soundly
it cracked.

Mrs. Chevalier shook her head
“I heard that, Pearl,” she scolded.
The newlywed smiled sheepishly,
“Jes not used to grocery shopping, I guess.”

“Mrs. Ocean, Mrs. Ocean,” the clerk
waved her slender hand in Pearl’s direction.
Pearl kept walking.
“Ain’t used to her married name, neither,”
muttered Cleomaude Chevalier.

Catching up to the young bride,
the clerk handed Pearl a slip
of paper, a five dollar bill, and 42 cents.
“Your change, Mrs. Ocean.”

“Why, thank you Bettis,” she
smiled, shoving the money into her bra.
Bettis raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

Finally home, Pearl opened up her purse
and dumped out two dozen plastic forks,
seventeen plastic spoons, and eight single-
serving sized bags of oyster crackers.

“Cheap as chips, but I cain’t stop with one,” she lamented.

A No. 2 Pencil's Fallen Glory

2009-09-13T01:17:00.002-05:00

Somehow it has come to this, even after all I’ve done
Without regard, sagacity, for a thousand years they’ve used me,
Like slate and chalk, a paper journal, rejected; I feel your shun.

I was good enough to tuck behind your ear, sub as a mock-up gun
But those days are over and you’ve sailed on to another sea
Somehow it has come to this, even after all I’ve done

Stubby me with Susan, you and your teenaged son
Recording par or eagle, maybe an exultant bogey
Still, like slate and chalk, a paper journal, rejected; I feel your shun.

It’s all electronic now. How posh, exuberant! How fun!
Bah! When batteries wear out, erode, where will you be?
Somehow it has come to this, even after all I’ve done

Pencil sharpeners in every class room, those were the days, now none
Can be found, tossed out with Dick and Jane and baby Sally
Like slate and chalk, a paper journal, rejected; I feel your shun.

Laptops, computers, Jello-green monitors, screens—they’ve won
I’m useless, bent, a discarded possession. Are you happy?
Somehow it has come to this, even after all I’ve done
Like slate and chalk, a paper journal, rejected; I feel your shun.

Les Blues des Routes

2009-09-13T01:11:00.000-05:00

One day you picked up a guitar
Ran your thumb along the strings
Imagined yourself a star
With a house, a car, bedecked like kings

Ran your thumb along the strings
Following notes on the page
With a house, a car, bedecked like kings
Slowly coming of age

Following notes on the page
You listened to Hackberry Ramblers
Slowly coming of age
Your dream of music felt like a gambler’s

You listened to Hackberry Ramblers
Learned the six-string, then the twelve
Your dream of music felt like a gambler’s
But a musician’s bounty you could not shelve

Learned the six-string, then the twelve
Looked for jobs in the Times-Picayune
But a musician’s bounty you could not shelve
Ending up singing in a dank saloon

Looked for jobs in the Times-Picayune
By moonlight you read Cajun Music by Savoy
Ending up singing in a dank saloon
Playing until your fingers were raw

By moonlight you read Cajun Music by Savoy
Imagined yourself a star
Playing until your fingers were raw
On the day you picked up your first guitar

Cajun Music as a Rectifier

2009-09-13T01:08:00.001-05:00

Nothing could stop carcinoma cells from multiplying as they sought to dominate her healthy cells. She lay in her hospice bed, lungs gurgling, oxygen elusive. Then she was quiet.

He played his fiddle five-hundred miles away. The tune once belonged to his friend, hit by a car, dead. I listened to the song on the radio, fingered my imaginary strings, stroked with my make-believe bow.

Then the segue, the bridge to move from melancholy to exuberance. I rode along, sitting on the E-string, swaying to music neither my sister nor his friend would ever hear again.

His music mended me.

Turning the Calendar's Page

2009-09-13T01:06:00.001-05:00

In the august of my life
A curtain of clouds blocks the sun
A jet slices through like a knife
In the august of my life
Why should reverie cause me strife?
The heated dream-plays remain undone
In the august of my life
A curtain of clouds blocks the sun

Bastille Before the Revolution --a prompted tritina

2009-09-13T01:01:00.002-05:00

"A glass of water, s'il vous plait, sir?" she asked in a voice quite humble.
He stared as if she were a Wiccan faerie, then tossed in the air his baseball.
"Get the bloody water youse-self, ye bitch," raged he, "Pardon my French."

"You see, sir, I've cut my finger. Water to bathe it, oui? It was the beans sliced french."
He scoffed and slurred out, "Ye a wench and I won't humble
meself to helps the likes of you," he sneered, dropping his baseball.

The leathered toy rolled under her stool; she held out her hand, balancing the baseball.
Snatching it, he glared at the blood streaked across the white, "Damn French."
La petite fille closed her eyes, held her breath to maintain her disposition of humility.

Chastened and humbled, without recourse she sat while the American played baseball, laughing at her snarled coif, spitting out O-Vwah, as if he were French.

How Angels Come To Earth

2009-09-13T00:42:00.005-05:00

No one tucked her into bed that night, so long ago
Still, she said her prayers and kissed her own hand,
Waited, then whispered to no one, "If you say so..."

She was an easy child, she made no demand
Perhaps that was the red flag and we chose to ignore
Hasn't everyone once stood like an ostrich with head in sand?

Her prayer to angels unseen began like before
"Angel of God, my guardian dear..."
But mid-way she began to implore

"God, please let me know you're there, that you hear...
...for I have sinned in the worst way and don't know
what the consequence will be. Death, I fear."

Nestled in her trundle, on a patch of a Texan plateau
She tearfully, fearfully cried out to her Lord.
That's when she said, "If you say so...."

What answer did she hear that restored
Her faith and quieted her uncertain grace?
Silent in life as in death, she found her reward.

Dawn shed rays to no avail upon her waxen face.
She lay, for now, in purgatory's space.

2009-05-31T01:09:00.000-05:00

I Want to Live Until I'm Too Old to Dance

I want to live until I'm too old to dance,
like a fountain that's bubbled its last drops,
let me flow--
into an ocean, into the sea.

I want to live until my skin
has wrinkled and my hair
has grayed into a fifty-cent piece
with John F. Kennedy
still smiling.

I want to live until I creak
when I walk
and I'll walk all over the Universe
singing "We shall overcome!"
while my lungs burst
like a glycerin bubble.

Let's bubble ourselves
all over and live forever
as we sail in a sieve
gone to sea.

November 22, 2006

Lambing -- a triolet

2009-05-06T12:25:00.002-05:00

It was drizzling when the ewe gave birth
That never fails to amaze me
Pungent breeze and guttural sounds unearth
And it drizzles when the ewe gives birth
The wet, fresh lamb instills in me mirth
I breathe in miracles, I look and see
The drizzle as the ewe gives birth
That never fails to amaze me

2009-04-02T15:30:00.003-05:00

Learning

I am learning today
some Arabic words
as I read the Reader's Digest
in the dentist's office, waiting
for my son to have his
teeth examined.

Nadir means lowest point.
The nadir of this day
happened at one o'clock
in the morning when
a high school classmate
fell into the abyss
of cancer.

It's hard to believe, said
her brother-in-law,
thirteen months ago
she was as full of life
as you or I.

Elixir is another
Arabic word. Elixir is a cure-all,
which Lisa never found.
Her husband and children
are learning what
the world now looks like
without her.
I wonder if her youngest
will remember in another
twenty years what
life was like with her.

I reward my son's
cavity-free check-up with
a trip to the History Center.
Lost in the minutae
of Minnesota artifacts,
I learn how Bob Dylan
spent the school year of 1959
to 1960 at the University,
leaving shortly before
Garrison Keillor's four-year
tenure as an undergraduate student.

I am learning what
it feels like to slowly lose
my senior-high friends
like maple leaves
turned early in July, which
float to the ground
at the first of August,
the dog days of summer.

I already knew that
those summer weeks
tagged Dog Days
reference how Sirius, the dog star,
moves into the Northern
hemisphere and within
our scope of nighttime viewing.

I am learning that
Charles Lindbergh,
with all his aviation
glory billowing up
his wings, still preferred
the natural world.
He said, "If I had to choose,
I'd rather have birds than airplanes."

Even as I am learning
all of this, Lisa's spirit
hovers somewhere, not here by me,
but close to her family,
waiting for them each to close
his or her eyes,
to sleep at last after
a long day of crying.

I wonder if there is
anything left for
Lisa to learn. Perhaps
she has, like I, learned
the Arabic word kismet.

2009-02-25T14:18:00.002-06:00

Changing a Flat

I grew up believing the world was flat
Have you ever lived in southwestern Minnesota?
You changed my flat world and even more than that

You believed in me, despite my flaws, you didn't bat
Your eye, au contraire, you took me home in your Toyota
Still, I believed the world lay flat

And God would forsake a girl like me who spat
Out profanities and dismissed the Holy Roman rota
But you didn't give up and even more than that

You listened to me when I called to chat
At five in the morning, singing Molly O'Brien's Dakota
Wind, which is a world, I believe, that is flatter than flat

Babe you loved me, you loved me, I couldn't run from that
You shouted your love from the bridge of Mendota
You changed my flat world and even more than that

Let's grow old together, let's sit and get fat
We'll visit Mount Rushmore in South Dakota
And travel the world that's no longer flat
Because you changed my flat world and even more than that.

(I sent this villanelle in for A Prairie Home Companion's love poetry writing contest. I think Garrison was too wowed to read it. What do you think?)

2009-02-25T13:38:00.000-06:00

Note to a Friend
(KarenL)

I like to think about you
sitting at home, reading Joel or Corinthians
turning each thin sheet
down for the evening as you climb
into bed
as you climb into the ether
of dreams and desire

I like to think about you
stitching a quilt while
Too-Too and Rascal
climb on your squares
kneading their paws on
freshly stitched muslin
their claws catching and snagging
without care

I'd like to think you
were thinking of me, too
as I sit here empty
waiting for thoughts to fill
my head
and my keyboard
until they flood out onto the screen
making oodles of money
as editors climb over one
another in excitement to be the first
publisher of my next masterpiece.

2009-02-25T13:35:00.001-06:00

Penny Caught

This penny wedged between the window sill and pane
Has been painted over twice.
I can tell because the paint's chipped and I see
Two layers: pink then minty green.
No one has opened the window
Since this room was converted
From a ritzy powder room in the 20s
And a lounging room with fainting divan
In the 40s.
Now it is a closet
Where I hang
Myself.

2008-08-25T00:27:00.008-05:00

Fibonacci's sequence of numbers

Here's how this poem format works (and I didn't devise it, so no credit there for me).
Fibonacci's numbers start like this: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13...The first two numbers were provided, after that, the reader must figure them out. Easy enough in the beginning.
Poems can be any length, but must follow the syllabic count as suggested by Fibonacci's numbers.
Here's one that I pulled from the visual thesaurus, which also provided me with this new way of writing poetry.

Yearn
pine
desire:
how I feel
for the Nintendo
sitting in the Gamestop window.

Now I'll try some of my own:

Some
Times
Only
Hand holding
Will heal the broken
Hearted, the bone weary trav'ler
Who finds the universe an alien oasis
Yet stands beside every other castaway and waves to sweet Jesus, my Nazarene

Je
t'aime
bien
à jamais
parce que je suis libre.
Tu êtes libre, aussi. S'il tu plaît
m'aimer, mon cher, mon cher. Tu êtes libre de m'aimer, belle.

Kiss
Hug
Some tongue
Hoping for
Sex in bed tonight
After a full day of foreplay.

The Bike Man

2008-06-06T01:21:00.000-05:00

The Bike Man

My gears needed attention
because when I shifted
into sixth, they slipped back
to fourth.

And when I downshifted
to fifth, to compensate,
I ended up spinning
like a rat on a wheel.

Wade hoisted my Schwin
onto the bike lift,
cranking the rubber pedal
while eyeing the chain.

He twisted a silver cap
on the front end cable
then jimmied the bottom bracket
as the brakes were engaged.

Who knew a man named Wade
would know all about the intricate
details of my derailleur,
by only spinning my two wheels.

Who knew a man named Wade
would fix my purple vélo
with nothing more than
a thin gloss of lubricant

stretched between his two fingers
firmly pressed on my clotted chain,
easing deeply into my bearings
until the kink came out.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at Sex

2008-06-06T01:06:00.003-05:00

Thirteen Ways of Looking at Sex
A nod to Wallace Stevens

one
Between the flannel fitted and the percale top sheet,
The only moving thing
Was the tip of his finger.

two
I was of two heads
Like the queen
of a porno flick

three
The desire came to me
wrapped in song.
Beyond desire, all else pales.

four
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are kinky.

five
I do not know which to prefer,
The seduction of words
Or the racy taunts of her tongue.
The bed rocking,
Or just after.

sex
Candlelight stabbing the dark
With hallucinating effect.
The bigger the flame,
The longer the objects appear
To be moving to and fro.
Desire burns Without reason.

seven
O card-carrying AARP men,
Why do you imagine trophy wives?
Do you not see how her denied desire
both succeeds and shames you?

eight
I know French accents
And lurid, cabalistic double-stops;
But I know, too,
That desire compels
A fiddler's fingers.

nine
When sex deceives even the simple farmer,
It sets itself up as sinful,
one of seven.

ten
At the sight of her naked body
Tied to the four-poster,
Even Samson handed over
The scissors.

eleven
She rode over him
with her boots on.
Once, he wore his ten-gallon hat
and nothing more.
He received nothing less.

twelve
Desire is mounting,
Sex must be imminent.

thirteen
It was evening all afternoon.
They were sweating
And they were going to sweat.
Replete with desire
and dampened sheets.

2008-06-04T02:05:00.002-05:00

Sail Away

I’ve had my ear to the rail for some time now.
Three yards up the line, my sister huddles,
waiting, same as me.

Hearing something
I jerk my head up,
study the horizon.
But, no, it is nothing,
perhaps the whine of an airplane overhead.
My sister clears her throat.

I lay my ear down once more.
The steel rail warm and soothing against my skin.
Its smoothness is like a sharp, sharp blade,
ready to slice a tomato.

Now I hear rumbling.
Under the palm of my hand, vibration.
With my head on the trestle,
I see a plume of white, smoky steam
unfurling in the sky.
A finger pointing,
but not at me.

The vibrato becomes a shuddering.
The grumble, a roaring.
I crouch,
horrified and immobile.

With a scream, the locomotive is upon me,
shaking me senseless like dice in a cup.

Yet it misses me,
as if I were invisible.

I sit up after the last car passes,
watching my sister as she sails away,
her brown hair laughing with the wind.

---------------------------------------

I thank Bruce Molsky for off-site inspiration with his version of the old-time tune, Sail Away. No one sings it like Bruce.

2008-06-04T01:10:00.002-05:00

Finding Joy

One of these mornings,
she won't wake up.
Sometime at night
when stars are shining,

the half-moon high,
she will take her last breath,
shallow and light,
skimming the surface of air.

Her eyes will flutter,
she will see moonlight
bathing the living room--
her fleeting hospice,

washing her lover's face with shadow
as he waits supine on the sofa.

Her lungs will deflate,
leaking out into space.
The gravity of breathing
no more

will not be lost on her.
Nothing can dull
her brightness.
Her chest

will weigh down on her
squeezing and squeezing
like the first time
when the womb birthed her
into this world.

Soon she will be wrung
out of this life
and into another.

A vastness
she does not remember.

2008-06-04T00:37:00.001-05:00

I Shall Not See Her Again In This Light

In the beginning, it was like any other month,
but there were missing figures on the ledger where
the facts should have been. And her fingers
curled clumsily when she stretched to pull
the chain while turning on her bedside light,
which was needed to warm up from the rain.

November in Kansas still brings rain.
It’s funny that way, how the month
is still changing over to snow, and the light
fades to almost nothing. She wonders where
it’s gone--her brain has a hard time trying to pull
up facts and sort reality with cold, cramped fingers.

And that’s just it. It was the tremor in her fingers
that betrayed her, not the limp or the rain.
Though my mother said it hurt like hell to watch her pull
her left leg around like a lame dog that’s been leashed for a month
to the back of the shed, baying at the moon, where
were the owners, couldn’t they have left on a light?

By January, solstice returns the light
illuminating her bare head and boney fingers.
And the question of treatment no longer centers on where,
but how much more? We wonder if she’ll hold on until the rain
falls again in spring. We stop counting each month
and begin numbering weeks as we feel the moon’s pull

strengthening its grip. We watch the pull
tab on her zipper pinch sagging skin leaving her light
headed and gasping. It’s the last month
I see her with moving lips and fingers.
From the south, clouds again move in to rain
on our cap-less heads as we wander aimless, to nowhere.

April holds no refuge. There is no where
to run to avoid this dizzying pain, the pull
to wrap up in fantasy falls like rain.
Each new day is one step closer to her celestial light.
She listens to father murmuring “Hail Mary, full of grace…” as he fingers
his rosary, begging the Blessed Virgin to end this month.

Sunlight follows rain. And though she doesn’t know where,
in this new month, she accepts the sempiternal pull
toward the light and spreads her arms and fingers.