Poetry

How I came to be

When I was born, Venus stood right by the thin sliver of a new moon. "A good omen," said the midwife who knew to watch the sky for these special unions. "Love has found a partner once again."

Weathered mountains reached high up in the East,

their white caps pulled down low.

The essence of the granite

slowly dripped into my bones,

stillness I proudly carry in me ever since.

Birds welcomed the new life as well. Some

dropped inkblue feathers to

embellish my birthday dress.

In my dreams I fly with them into the sky where

freedom is obvious and endless.

I did not see the ocean till much later. Ebb and flow, a concept unfamiliar to my eye. Inside of me I often feel the moody waters, stormy waves, happy ripples, waxing and waning. Venus still stands right by the changing moon.

Heartsong for My Father

(to my brother Larry)

All these wounds have names

From your circumcision,

to your scarred knees,

to your bypass.

Although we say we love it,

who says the road is not rough on a man?

Our father has given himself heart and semen,

Our father has witnessed with his hands and labor,

we boys grew, flew through years like we were racers,

and it took you Pa not a few beers with whisky chasers.

You know, we moved beyond Dad's possibilities,

Grandpa's dreams and great-grandpa's living nightmares

and time passes, time pasted and

Pa you were there - heart and soul,

body and soul you were there,

you are here where it counts.

Our Father, our Father, our Father

has clicked off the bathroom light,

has tripped into twilight. the newspaper is at the bedside, the all night jazz station whispers in the dawn, the majesty of the blues possesses the song, and lingers on, lingers on, it is the hue of this room and there is silence here...

I never really believed that I had a story until my father began to lose his memory. He'd always been forgetful. When we woke him up from a deep sleep, he didn't know where he was right away. Sometimes if he woke up with a start, he would call out the names of his sisters, "Emma" and "Julia," then my mother, "Jeanette" and then me and my bother "Topper." This was a startled litany that would bring him back to present time if he stayed awake.

My father seemed to always work at odd hours that put him out of sync with the rest of the family. He seemed to always have some part of the nightwatch and slept some part of the day. I remember for a while this seemed to work toward my advantage during a time when he would be there at home and prepare some lunch for me. I can still remember a fried pork chop sandwich with mustard and black pepper on it. Although it disgusts me now and I haven't eaten pork in years, somehow this is still a pleasant memory for me.

Father, I call forth all the passion you never expressed,

All the words unspoken,

All the songs unsung,

All the injustices unchallenged.

Father, I call you forth from loss and failure perceived and real,

All the would have beens, could have beens,

All the dreams deferred,

All the bad luck that stuck to you shoes.

Father, I call you forth from woundedness and rage suppressed,

All the betrayals, slammed doors and Jim Crow demons,

All the lies, lost friends, deceitful salesmen and second hand cars.

Father, I call you forth to the truth of who you really are:

"You are compassion

mother loving

skirt flirting

rough red-brown earth hands full of beauty

rose hearted, car fixing, little girl teasing scat-singing

Go-to-work-on-Monday

Too-tired-for-church-on-Sunday

Angel Daddy risen up from Arkansas⁹ red clay soil

Who aint no 'farmer" or an "old lady"*

Sweet sweet Daddy, your face is in the Sun

You nurtured with the power of a Motherman

and my Soul rises up in wonder

Of the Strength in a man like you

Tenderness,

Endurance,

Inspite of it all in the face of it all

You were there

You are here were it counts"

* affectionate terms used by my father's childhood depression era running buddies to tease one another.

Song of the Blackstone Pipe: we are the river

Healing wings of fire,

Fly over the River and let the Moon rise

Healing wings of fire,

Fly over the River and let the Moon rise.

Dusk light, dawn light,

Dance over the River

And let the loon rise like the Moon rise,

In song:

Song about the Red river, Flowin' to the Sea, Singin' in the Sun, They are a River.

Don't want to be left here,

Don't want to leave here,

Until,

I hear,

The song, the song, the song, The song of the Black river, Flowin' to the Sea, The music in me, They are a River.

Don't want to be left here,

Don't want to leave here,

Until,

I hear,

The song, the song, the song, The song of the White river, Flowin' to the Sea, Dancin' on the rocks, They are a River.

See, I don't want to be here

If I can't hear, here

The song, the song, the song, the song, the song, the song, The song of the Yellow river, Flowin' to the Sea, Wavin' peonies, They are a River.

I don't want to stay here,

If I can't hear, here,

The song, the song, the song, The song of the Brown river, That muddy, muddy, Brown river, A Mighty Mississippi River of all Humanity, We Are a River.

With Love all our Rivers

Twine and flow,

Gather and grow, Into a great, great River, and then empties into the Sea... Where our journey just began, Where our journey never ends... We are a river rising up

like a Green Water Creature

all dripping with seaweed To kiss the Flaming Flower And then

Rain, rain, rain.

Abbreviated Farewell (for Marti)

In another era,

I could have mourned properly.

Torn my dress, skin, hair,

left traces that made sense, explained,

outer markers for inner agony.

Whatever happened to sitting shiva,

wearing black,

obvious aching, soul pieces on public display?

Fragments of you come back to me. An occasional piece of clothing impossibly, smells of you.

You left in the 90s.

Gracious workplaces grant three days funeral leave.

I'll mourn you on my own time.

In praise of longing (a hymn for the creator)

In the beginning was a swirling void, eternal drifting Stardust.

Enter, stage left, lust.

Lust.

The essential ingredient in

any creation.

Lifeforce, magnetics, pulling

algae from the sea, electrons irrevocably into

each other's force fields.

Lust made Stardust long for itself, begin

to sense possibilities.

Without hunger, who would have chased down a mammoth,

torn flesh from bones? Who could have conceived eating an artichoke,

much less hollandaise?

Don't discount longings.

Lust makes all things possible.

Would/you decieve/me?

Would/you decieve/me? Open your soft/moss green/earth to swallow and then never swallow again?

Would/you leave/me held in your soil crib so fruitful then never come back?

And if you did, would I know the blood hammering grief to be plenty?

How many love poems will never love you?

Break me

I'm broken anyway.

III.

She keeps offering food like a collection plate.

What is she collecting that keeps her offering?