Rain seeks high ground and low
and labors long into the night;
Thunder peals endlessly and
leering flashes unsteady light.
While white stings the sky lighting
up a town that sleeping waits:
for a Saviour, a sun. And she calls him
"Darling" as he calls her "Dearest one"
The words fall like heavy drops descending
from lonely clouds and lonelier crowds.
And the rain is warm like patient passion when
romance is hopeless but no less than astounding.
Drenching the small town in answer to prayers
Drowning out all thought but delivering from drought.
Quenching the dry souls who finally found their voice,
their thirst slaked in the puddles and lakes.
In the puddles and lakes their unsteady steps surrounded.
10.7.1990
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Nooo!
Screaming thoughts fall out of my mouth as a calloused
hand pulls hair in the opposite direction of my head.
I should say something. I should say something now.
But what is it? What does she want to hear?
Spinning, the room comes full circle:
bed, door, dresser, door, window, desk, bed, WALL.
Spots and circles of light flash in tiny bursts in my eyes
that are shut tight but I can still see them...
Searing words cut into me like the edges of
a cat o' nine tails:
words curve out into the air, up, then back again. SNAP.
Bits of bone, metal, and cold glass,
knock me on my eight year old ass.
Silently I start agreeing to whatever she says:
Yes, it's all my fault. Yes, I should have known better.
Yes, I should have listened to you.
Yes, you'll give me something to cry about.
Hands shake me as if it's their only purpose in life.
I should tell her something. I should say something now.
But what does she want to hear? I cry out to God, and...
for the briefest moment she sees my pain...sees me.
Now she is angry at herself, but I am still the target.
The words come again, a lurid litany,
a dictionary full of friction, then fire.
Letmegoletmegoletmegoletmegoletmegoletmego.
Roots of bitterness find fertile ground in blook-soaked soil,
and I will nuture them for years with resentment, regret, and noise.
Finally
she is gone
and my mind begins to build walls around this experience
to keep it away from the rest...
and hidden behind the bars of denial
and walls of haunted heartache lives
the little boy who never stops saying, "I'm sorry, momma."
hand pulls hair in the opposite direction of my head.
I should say something. I should say something now.
But what is it? What does she want to hear?
Spinning, the room comes full circle:
bed, door, dresser, door, window, desk, bed, WALL.
Spots and circles of light flash in tiny bursts in my eyes
that are shut tight but I can still see them...
Searing words cut into me like the edges of
a cat o' nine tails:
words curve out into the air, up, then back again. SNAP.
Bits of bone, metal, and cold glass,
knock me on my eight year old ass.
Silently I start agreeing to whatever she says:
Yes, it's all my fault. Yes, I should have known better.
Yes, I should have listened to you.
Yes, you'll give me something to cry about.
Hands shake me as if it's their only purpose in life.
I should tell her something. I should say something now.
But what does she want to hear? I cry out to God, and...
for the briefest moment she sees my pain...sees me.
Now she is angry at herself, but I am still the target.
The words come again, a lurid litany,
a dictionary full of friction, then fire.
Letmegoletmegoletmegoletmegoletmegoletmego.
Roots of bitterness find fertile ground in blook-soaked soil,
and I will nuture them for years with resentment, regret, and noise.
Finally
she is gone
and my mind begins to build walls around this experience
to keep it away from the rest...
and hidden behind the bars of denial
and walls of haunted heartache lives
the little boy who never stops saying, "I'm sorry, momma."
Decembering
She rises out of the depths of slumber
just long enough to give me a kiss.
She is an angel in the making.
Upon waking she greets me with soft affection
before going down for the third time
into the mucky mire of subtle salty
dreams and half-quenched fire.
And I will remember her as I
trudge through the alternate reality of retail hell.
I will remember how her hair fell
down upon her face and
how she rose from the depths of summer
just long enough to give me a kiss.
12.3.1996
just long enough to give me a kiss.
She is an angel in the making.
Upon waking she greets me with soft affection
before going down for the third time
into the mucky mire of subtle salty
dreams and half-quenched fire.
And I will remember her as I
trudge through the alternate reality of retail hell.
I will remember how her hair fell
down upon her face and
how she rose from the depths of summer
just long enough to give me a kiss.
12.3.1996
Monday, January 17, 2011
Gone, but not...
Follow me into the sunset, he said, and let go of my hand.
At the edge of life he whispered goodbyes I didn't understand.
I didn't spend enough time with my grandfather and now he's gone.
I laughed when he said there was gold on his farm.
Now I wish that I had pretended to believe him.
I remember hating to spend even a couple of weeks on his farm
summers when I was a kid.
I was a troublemaker but he never got mad no matter what I did.
The sun would hang low and hot on a humid August afternoon:
Red the color of blood hovered over the fields in a wide circle.
Someday the circle will be complete and my last day will dawn.
On that day I pray for the power and grace you held till the end.
And I'll follow you into the sunset, my friend.
5.30.1996
At the edge of life he whispered goodbyes I didn't understand.
I didn't spend enough time with my grandfather and now he's gone.
I laughed when he said there was gold on his farm.
Now I wish that I had pretended to believe him.
I remember hating to spend even a couple of weeks on his farm
summers when I was a kid.
I was a troublemaker but he never got mad no matter what I did.
The sun would hang low and hot on a humid August afternoon:
Red the color of blood hovered over the fields in a wide circle.
Someday the circle will be complete and my last day will dawn.
On that day I pray for the power and grace you held till the end.
And I'll follow you into the sunset, my friend.
5.30.1996
Colors
Sky clear full of stars bright shimmering orbs of white fire.
The yellow porch-light bulb keeps the bugs away...away in
the woods creeping trepidation, crawling apprehension:
the low hum of day becomes the deafening roar of night.
The insects hide like my emotions: seething in hunger,
stalking in need,
-- preying--
always there but seldom seen.
Streetlamp streaming argent rays of generic hospitality
reminds me of local ansesthetic. Skin meets my eyes
(my own).
I am not black like an African King
robed in royalty
ruling in wisdom.
Nor am I white like the grinning fat man who lusts
for my vote and my wallet...
Tho', to the uncareful observer
I would appear so.
No.
Hair brown like the land of my people.
Eyes, blue like the Sky-House of the Great Spirit.
Heart, blood-red like the death of my people.
But there are no more Tears, the Trail is ended.
No more do they till the land we tended.
No more do they wear the garments we mended.
Cumulo-nimbus crowds close to Sister-Moon;
steam surrounds the streetlight.
I look down
to see my color
like my pain
wash away
in the gentle rain.
7.8.1994
The yellow porch-light bulb keeps the bugs away...away in
the woods creeping trepidation, crawling apprehension:
the low hum of day becomes the deafening roar of night.
The insects hide like my emotions: seething in hunger,
stalking in need,
-- preying--
always there but seldom seen.
Streetlamp streaming argent rays of generic hospitality
reminds me of local ansesthetic. Skin meets my eyes
(my own).
I am not black like an African King
robed in royalty
ruling in wisdom.
Nor am I white like the grinning fat man who lusts
for my vote and my wallet...
Tho', to the uncareful observer
I would appear so.
No.
Hair brown like the land of my people.
Eyes, blue like the Sky-House of the Great Spirit.
Heart, blood-red like the death of my people.
But there are no more Tears, the Trail is ended.
No more do they till the land we tended.
No more do they wear the garments we mended.
Cumulo-nimbus crowds close to Sister-Moon;
steam surrounds the streetlight.
I look down
to see my color
like my pain
wash away
in the gentle rain.
7.8.1994
Torn
Torn. from here to Eternity...or maybe just from across the room.
The book flies end over end into the carpeted corner.
The man sits lonely, but not alone, listening
to the seemingly endless prattlings of women:
They are talking about a movie.
He cannot remember the title but it little matters.
"Can you stand it?"
"Why would they put such senseless violence in a picture?"
"Yesss," comes the sibilant response, "doesn't it make you sick?"
Outside. the low, long sounds of thunder chasing clouds
across the once silent sky in a dance of darkness.
Misty mid-morning gray swallows the city:
choking off hope and slowing heavenbound prayers.
The sun is shining and warm somewhere, but not here.
Somewhere the sounds of children's play and laughter fill the air,
but not here.
There is peace somewhere on this godforsaken clod of earth and water,
but not here.
The hard life wants not for adventure.
Some go chasing storms, but not here...
Here, the storms will come for you.
5.30.1995
The book flies end over end into the carpeted corner.
The man sits lonely, but not alone, listening
to the seemingly endless prattlings of women:
They are talking about a movie.
He cannot remember the title but it little matters.
"Can you stand it?"
"Why would they put such senseless violence in a picture?"
"Yesss," comes the sibilant response, "doesn't it make you sick?"
Outside. the low, long sounds of thunder chasing clouds
across the once silent sky in a dance of darkness.
Misty mid-morning gray swallows the city:
choking off hope and slowing heavenbound prayers.
The sun is shining and warm somewhere, but not here.
Somewhere the sounds of children's play and laughter fill the air,
but not here.
There is peace somewhere on this godforsaken clod of earth and water,
but not here.
The hard life wants not for adventure.
Some go chasing storms, but not here...
Here, the storms will come for you.
5.30.1995
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Stonewall
He waits confused by the side of the rushing
gushing river while it foments small liquid rebellion
against the water gods by running up rocks
and over banks then all of a sudden the moment seizes
him and he realizes why he is here present-in-hand
he has come to give thanks though no closer
to his goal the knowledge helps him...
and night is a violent ebony vine fading to dust
from the ground up. This is morning dew or call it dusk:
Even the rhythm and cycle of this life is not something that he trusts.
For we are all black and winter-bound... and he just
hopes that someone will wake him when springtime ends.
5.31.2010
gushing river while it foments small liquid rebellion
against the water gods by running up rocks
and over banks then all of a sudden the moment seizes
him and he realizes why he is here present-in-hand
he has come to give thanks though no closer
to his goal the knowledge helps him...
and night is a violent ebony vine fading to dust
from the ground up. This is morning dew or call it dusk:
Even the rhythm and cycle of this life is not something that he trusts.
For we are all black and winter-bound... and he just
hopes that someone will wake him when springtime ends.
5.31.2010
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