An Unexpected Lineament

I’m tired of hearing, “I love you.”
Weary of words without weight
Love must be strong like a sinew
I’m tired of hearing, “I love you.”
These ropes of love have been cut through
Love in the mirror looks like hate
I am tired of hearing, “I love you.”
Weary of words without weight

Swedish Blues

My sister, Jaci, and Marguerite in 1988. 

Her Swedish blue eyes, never wan
As she sits, concave in her chair
Kyphosis has claimed
Her regale deportment
Has left her gasping for air

She pants a warm invitation
“Pray, sit, the seat is not taken.”
I perch on her couch
And gaze in her eyes
Her beauty not yet forsaken

The air hangs vacant of words
Her thoughts have scurried away
I wonder aloud
Is there anything, Mum
Say the word and I will obey

She smiles again between breaths
You have five children, she asks
I nod in agreement
What else can I do
Then adjust her oxygen mask

My tongue in my mouth is like lead
Her final example: ascesis
Pills at her disposal
A handful could end
Her grasp on life releases

But the easy way, she will not take
As days turn to nights without end
She patiently waits
For her turn in line
When Jesus will bid her ascend

--for Marguerite 

Global Changes

“Can anything be stupider than that a man has the right to kill me because he lives on the other side of a river and his ruler has a quarrel with mine, though I have not quarreled with him?”  --Blaise Pascal

The sun might burn a little hotter, toast the moon to crème brûlée. The ocean tides roil wider, coaxing the insistent surf. Children play in pursuit of enemies and baddies. But too soon, they graduate to coursing-games without protection of the scabbard tip. Wing tip, felt tip, tip-toe, tip.

Suddenly cartography becomes a stylish profession. Whoever draws lines wields power like a bulldozer. Lines in the sand. Lines on their faces. Battle line, toe-the-line, bloodline, soup line, bottom line. 

The moneyed sets acquire mercenary education. Too busy with League-of-Legends and Inter-Stellar-War games, their lackeys nothing more than a repository for sound-bites. Trilobite, snakebite, overbite, Jacobite. 

So what’s left beyond climate—it’ll be volatile; politics—sub rosa; and power? Yes, the humble-god-of-love, which flows around the obstacles and firms up to make a pudding. Who doesn’t love pudding? 

Make mine tart.

Why I Am Sending My Dad a Father's Day Card in November

I still have the card in my desk drawer, lower left.  I look at it very rarely at this point. It reads: "Happy Mother's Day to my sister who showed me how to be a great mom..."

followed my sister
choir, college, marriage, child
cheerleader in each

I found the card at a rummage sale; I accumulate cards like an old lady sprouts chin hairs. Rifling through a stack of greeting cards filed in an old cardboard box in July, 2002, I pulled out one that stated my thoughts exactly, intending to send it the following May. I never dreamed I'd instead bury my sister the day before Mother’s day, 2003.

anticipation
a seed catalogue in winter
but spring never comes

So the card sits in the bottom of my desk drawer, lower left. I cannot throw it out. I cannot mail it. Why did I wait, I wonder. Why did I wait?

When a Child is a Poker Chip

Holding out his hand, palm-side up,
he grinned wide. So I asked, “Wassup?”
“Gimme a buck, could you?”

A dollar in this beggar’s cup?
He stood expectant with his pup.
Would he buy grub to chew?

He looked skeletal, this close-up
“Come on, we’ll go someplace to sup.”
With a frown, back he drew.

Mister, see this measuring cup?
Boss man demands to fill ‘er up.
If I don’t—black-n-blue.

Kid needed food, not a wallop
This trafficked child was enveloped
His world: a cut-throat view

Panhandled more like a stick-up
He a pawn, me like a bishop
In the end, we’re both screwed

Kent

Balmy and pleasant, first Monday in May,  passions burn like fire
Chickadee chirps at the crack of an egg, abundant life abounds
But on that day, it could also be heard, pistol shots fifteen minutes prior

One hundred yards away, guardsmen fired sixty-seven rounds
Twenty-nine edgy men squeezed the trigger on their rifle
Under a cloudless sky, four students fell on University grounds

Since that day, the fourth of May, many have tried to stifle
But secrecy reeks when justice uproots, it’s best to be transparent
Back in 1970, despite 'Nam, war was losing its disciples

We lay to rest the hottest fears, those moods that stir up the aberrant
Toss flowers on graves and cross ourselves; pretend it’s not that dire
 But the nature of war, of the human heart, knows conquest is inherent 

Kent State was a bed of unrest, flames reaching ever higher
Sandra and Bill were just two kids, to protest, they didn't aspire

Mao Zedong 1893 - 1976

Western world believes he committed acts of genocide
People’s Republic of China revere him as a shining knight
Forty million people starved, no one could have testified

“He led us in accomplishments,” the newly modern Chinese cried
His deeds are doubtless striking, but not in the best light
Western world believes he committed acts of genocide

“He improved our education, our health care nationwide!”
No one mentions the forced labor, an allegiance to recite
Forty million people starved, no one could have testified

He and Nixon in Beijing, standing side-by-side
While behind them a class struggle waged, a violent fatal fight
Western world believes he committed acts of genocide

“He was a Statesman, poet, visionary bona fide.”
He was a murderous despot, let history not rewrite
Forty million people starved, no one could have testified

The Red Emperor, so misaligned, his glory by others denied
Not so, his wild fantasies led to millions dead of blight
Western world believes he committed acts of genocide
Forty million people starved, no one could have testified

A Teaching Ballade from Mindful Poetry

Today's prompt at Poetic Asides on Writers' Digest is "write a poem about a monster."  I'm thinking of using the ballade form for this one. Here's my Mindful Poetry column post from last year about this form.

A Teaching Ballade

The ballade for Mindful Poetry
Appears to be our form for June
As you write and tap each key
The rhyming scheme will shape a tune
A regular meter’s not picayune
Keep the time the guidelines state
Your success induces me to swoon
May your ballade illuminate!

Three stanzas and an envoy, see?
If you write less, you’ll end too soon
Pattern your rhymes of A, B, and C
Line eight repeats like a blue moon
In this French form that surfs the dune
Use rhymezone to navigate
Above reproach, you’ll be immune
May your ballade illuminate!

Sometimes I’m slow, but guarantee
To your ballade, I’ll be attune
I’ll leave a note, some repartee
To be sure, I’ll not impugn
A few more points I must harpoon
So keep your course, do not conflate
Repeated rhymes a big boo-boo!
May your ballade illuminate!

The envoy works like a cocoon
Four lines written instead of eight
To draw attention like a loon
May your ballade illuminate!

Hero

I dreamt I met Jimmy Carter
A father-figure who towered high
More than salt, he’s cream of tartar
I dreamt I met Jimmy Carter
A humble path, he did charter
To his ideals, I must apply
I dreamt I met Jimmy Carter
A father-figure who towered high

A Wide River to Cross

Her ship pulled away from shore
Spelling disaster

Hail! I see her come full bore
Navigate  faster

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is a Coin Poem, which has two stanzas, 24 syllables, a rhyme-scheme, and considers an issue from two sides--hence, a coin poem!

Really

The nursery magic had happened to him,
and he was a toy no longer.
He was Real.
The Boy himself had said it.

Ford had learned how to change the baby’s diaper,
swing him like a football during the witching hour
and check the bathwater temp with his elbow.
He loved the boy’s mother who he had married
before full disclosure. Thus he certainly wasn’t
the father. Their April wedding happened on a whim.
He questioned his own wisdom. 

They’d been married ten months now;
the only lullaby Ford sang were hymns
for the nursery magic had happened to him.

Zebadiah, limbs akimbo in Ford’s arms, crying his throat raw
but Ford kept pacing the screened-in porch
hoping the neighbors wouldn’t mind too much.
He wished he could call his own mother
and ask for advice or a remedy or even a hand
but Ford’s single-mother had taken the dive
into her own hell-hole; he was the stronger
of the two. With Zebadiah’s mama at work, Ford needed to
rely on his own inner-fortitude.  The tonic, he’d conjure,
for he was a toy no longer.

It’s not that Ford didn’t feel for the boy, feel
pity and maybe a bit of kinship; they were both
bastards after all. That kind of talk was his mother’s
mouth running, sharp on the tongue and piercing
Zeb didn’t take after his mama and he’d never
match Ford. Someone looked like a third wheel
but no one could tell who was the spare
Ford was sure the neighbors gossiped
Now Ginny was showing, could no longer conceal
Ford was certain this next kid would make him feel Real.

Ginny climbed in the car, “Zeb will have a new
brother or sister soon,” she breathed, waving
goodbye as Zebadiah stood with Mrs. Paulsen
next door. Ford touched the shoulder of his pseudo-son,
offered a quick squeeze before the drive
to the hospital would finally acquit
Ford’s notion that he was a papa ad hoc; he wanted to
feel like he’d done all the work. Zeb’s arms locked around
Ford’s knees, “Daddy, I love you, don’t forget,”
breaking his heart, Ford was already Real. The Boy himself had said it.

--some lines from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

Telling the Truth

If I were dry instead of spilling over

A stemmed rummer: Chardonnay or port

If I were bare instead of drunk with clover

Wisteria madly climbing o’er my fort

If I were fair instead of robust swart

My limbs each a shaded branch

If I were willowy, but nay, I am short

Burning thoughts the world will stanch

If I were a vicar, not stuck on this ranch

Prayers launched unto the Promised Land

To face the Almighty, I’d surely blanch

My intractable ship by Him be manned

If I were willing, I’d spread my arms and die

But my arms stay folded; I bow and sigh

Canis Lupus

Mimi’s waiting patiently for a blood-red
moon, an eclipse that starts past
midnight, that starts with a wolf’s
muzzle pointed skyward, its lips
making a howling lament, a rumbling
moan until it’s joined by a rough pack

Fellow canines, sister bitch, form a pack
friendly to none but the other, their red
focused eyes wait until a train rumbles
far down cold, steel tracks, past
farmhouses where prayers on lips
form, children breathing like a pack of wolves

Tangled like a litter of whelps-to-wolves
Tussling for their place in the pack
Tough and snarling, their bristled hair, lips
turned back in a sneer, yet their red
tender hearts bleed of memories past
today and tomorrow with the past rumble

By 1926, the last wolves were rumbled
back to their graves in Yellowstone, No Wolves
became the mantra, this shameful past
beholden to government control. Yet a pack
beneath the radar, sheltered on a red
bed of secrets, grew in Minnesota, on the lip

of Lake Superior—those wolves’ curled lips,
open teeth, and crouched haunches, rumble
outside where they sleep, no predators with red
objectives will attack them. The alpha wolf,
only betrayed by man, runs in tight packs
or strikes out solo in search of a mate. In the past,

no wailing wolf could be found. “That’s in the past,”
newspapers claimed, but Mimi still believed, her lips
not opening, not even mouthing the truth. A wolf’s pack
need not fear, Mimi’s tongue will not wag, nor words rumble
nilly-willy. Mimi sets salt-licks for the deer, knowing a wolf
nearby will soon down one for its dinner, under the moon, blood-red.

Wolf-packs survive despite past histories of scourge
Mimi, so unlike Little Red Cap, licks her own lips
As thunder rumbles and her wolves wake for the night

Telling the Truth

If I were dry instead of spilling over
A stemmed rummer: Chardonnay or port
If I were bare instead of drunk with clover
Wisteria madly climbing o’er my fort

If I were fair instead of robust swart
My limbs each a shaded branch
If I were willowy, but nay, I am short
Burning thoughts the world will stanch

If I were a vicar, not stuck on this ranch
Prayers launched unto the Promised Land
To face the Almighty, I’d surely blanch
My intractable ship by Him be manned

If I were willing, I’d spread my arms and die
But my arms stay folded; I bow and sigh

She Looked Pale

At first, she only looked pale
But didn’t we all, it was the middle
of winter with less than eight hours
of sunlight to toast our cheeks
Tanning beds were verboten

Unless one was Glamour-Gal
At first, she only looked pale
Not even as  wan as her sister
who lived in Memphis,
which was two zones warmer

But then we noticed her baggy jeans
and the belt notched to the limit
At first, she only looked pale
We thought nothing of it, we all
looked like ghosts coming out

Of the winter solstice, the tepid sun
making a show in the western sky
but unable to make a dent in degrees
At first, she only looked pale
So when the light finally shined

Brightly enough for the truth
Our hearts sank for there could be
no other reason for her meek demeanor
her listless pallor and papered hands
At first, she only looked pale

Two Bird Poems to Consider

Birds in History

I am a feathered dinosaur
A partridge in a pear tree
My hollow bones account for
My life as a feathered dinosaur
My thrust and lift, my drive to soar
Breaking free of gravity
I am a feathered dinosaur
A partridge in a pear tree

Flight of the Boastful Bird

You could fly if you wore feathers
And cannular bones
In all nature of weather
You could fly if you wore feathers
To live a life untethered
Around your neck, no stones
You could fly if you wore feathers
And cannular bones

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Which one strikes you more?

Hearing Voices

If I'd followed his advice
When he learned there was a baby
He didn't flinch, think twice
To keep it, he thought crazy

When he learned there was a baby
"Snuff it out," he blithely said
To keep it, he thought crazy
"We'll be better when it's dead"

"Snuff it out," he blithely said
His words came as a shock
"We'll be better when it's dead"
A hard place and a rock

His words came as a shock
Then I heard her lusty cry
A hard place and a rock
With love, I said goodbye

Then I heard her lusty cry
And yet I set her free
With love, I said goodbye
Her new parents, they make three

And yet I set her free
My desires, I deferred
Her new parents, they make three
I listened to God's word

My desires, I deferred
I didn't flinch, think twice
I listened to God's word
And I followed His advice

Memphis, Anyway

“I’m not concerned about that now”
said the mountain that spoke with his face,
down from the edge of an unsheltered sky,
and King went to Memphis anyway. Excerpt from Memphis Anyway by Dan Collins


When he was born in 1929, he was named Michael like his father
But concern for the great religious activist compelled his dad
To change both father and son names to Martin,
Martin Luther. Sometimes I wonder if I would accomplish
More if I changed my name, too. Maybe I could be
Eudora Welty or Sally Struthers, but somehow
I don’t think that would make a difference. What compels
A person to rise above their earthly bondage, to lash
Their focus onto ethereal goals, onto Life’s prow
“I’m not concerned about that now”

King made that speech in 1963, the year I was born
And yet in my mind, I can hear his voice pealing out the words
Oh, the wonders of YouTube and a good memory
I still have one, you know. I’ve not lost my mind’s
Facility. Mount Rushmore. I’ve been there twice,
Have you? Once when I was two years old, that place
Was captured on film and I can watch my small, blond
Self holding a snake in Reptile Gardens; it must have
Been along the route. Back then, life was all grace
said the mountain that spoke with his face

Martin was assassinated in 1968, when he was 39 years old
I remember being five then. I owned a dog named Trixie
I had a birthday party with my friends Cheryl and Carol Wold
And Dan Matthews and Jeanne. But I don’t remember any-
Thing about Martin. I wasn’t too young to recall that time in
My life, my grandparents’ farm, my old Aunt Prisca, so why
can’t I remember Martin’s death? Did anyone die when I
was five? I was still living in grace. God still hid in the church
rafters and sang the incantation during High Mass, way up high
down from the edge of an unsheltered sky

The first murder I genuinely remember happened on West 72^nd street.
John Lennon was old then, I was seventeen, he was forty. He was old, right?
Did you know, at the moment he was pronounced dead at Roosevelt Hospital
The song, All My Loving, by the Beatles began playing over the sound system
When I die, I wonder what song will be playing, what song do I want?
I like music from Godspell, the musical. Somehow I’d arrange for Day
By Day to be playing if only in my mind. “To see thee more clearly,
Love thee more dearly, Follow thee more nearly, day by day…”
King knew what his future foretold, but there was a voice he had to obey
and King went to Memphis anyway

Tupelo Diner

Wait till you hear what Ruby Perlman did last night.
What in tarnation she be thinkin’, I do not know.

We was working the second shift
at Woolworth's and that girl,
she stands behind the lunch counter
serving the whole Crider family dessert.
I think it was them little lemon custards
with a dollop of whipped cream on top
and a dustin’ of cinnamon.
Looked just like what Miss Margaret served
on TV last Sunday night.

So's anyway, Miss Ruby
she pours coffee for the Mister and Missus
gives ‘em cream, sugar lumps, whatever blessed thing they ask for.
One of them Crider twins spilt his milk and
the baby emptied a salt shaker on the floor,
but that ain't what set Ruby off.

Mr. Crider, he stands up

and the whole family
they leave. 

Eunice, that oughta be Miz Crider,
now don't you be telling her I using her Christian name,
she asks Mr. Crider to leave a tip or sumptin,
seeing as they left a mess,
what with creamed ‘taters slopped
down the high chair and that bratty Betty
shoving perfectly good black-eyed peas
in all them clean straws.

So's anyway, Mr. Crider, he looks at Ruby
and grunts,
then he gives his oldest boy a penny and
tells him to go leave it on the counter.

Avis, that boy,

He ain't got the sense he ‘uz born with.
He walks back to th’ counter
And drops the coin in a glass of water
sayin’ wit’ snakes in his eyes,
"here ya go, nigger."

Ruby--
she jes stands there looking at Avis,
then she grabs the water glass and
hustles over to the front door

squeezin' her body past the Mister
and filling up the doorframe, so's Miz Crider can't get round her.

Ruby's bosom was a heavin'.  She looking

hotter than a two-buck pistol.
She be panting, with sweat
shaking off ‘er head like a dog.

Then she says,
jes’ like that, she says,
"Mr. Crider, if'n you cain't leave me more tip than one piddlin’ cent,
then I don't want your money or your business!"

‘n she takes that glass of water
an pours it over Mr. Crider's head.
‘n she takes that coin,
pressing it on his greasy brow
so's the picture of Abra’m Lincoln
purt near branded on his forehead like he a bawlin' calf.
Not that it'll do any good, but still,
she done it.
She did. 

I swear, when they drug Miss Ruby off
all 'cuffed 'n bound
them cops prob’ly reckon
ol' Ruby gone dug her own grave.

But you mark my words, now,
that Miss Ruby,

Someday...
She gonna fly.

Interview with Lee Harvey Oswald

Let me ask you one more question
Had you ever shot a man before?
I take your silence as implied confession

Carved in my mind: your Byzantine expression
Found on your face ere you hit the floor
Let me ask you one more question

Was killing John your sole obsession?
A President we could all adore
I take your silence as implied confession

You maintained your sight on the grand procession
Then pulled the trigger, not once, but four
Let me ask you one more question

Did you act alone or in succession
with others who formed a conspiracy corps?
I take your silence as implied confession

May God forgive you your transgression
As you knock with hope at Heaven's door
Let me ask you one more question
I take your silence as implied confession