Speckle/breasted thrasher chucks the one-eye;
tschuck!…tschuck!…tschuck! he warns and scolds
perceived encroaching. Sorry, I mumble at his cry.
How did I reach this instant, this soul plateau,
accepting censure from an ill-mannered bird….
his chirps articulate, more true than mine;
their spring pure unlike my struggling words
failing to fathom their season, their place in time?
Clinking gossamer of phantom links
Weak as will, strong as adoration,
Binds us One from our separate shores,
At times, dangling to currents tumult,
Jerking, teasing a tangled bereavement.
But, at times, tensing to beams of bliss.
Gaia reveals the truth, at times,
Not subtly, but rocking….tumbling
What we deem rock and tumble proof.
That flora in that window box,
So bright and white and red; erect
Despite this freeze? Distance deceives
Our naive hearts and eyes effortlessly.
Scent would have squealed; revealed the fib.
Too high the price a sniff demands?
We “hem and haw” and she larks.
Our claims of dominion, our crow,
As meaningless as plastic blooms.
shells fall as spring rain…
the widows child dies…and yet
hearts are leaping pups
Daylight, unforgiving and true,
caught my hands at ease, flat,
unflatteringly flat, upon my knees.
Loosely applied over blue-veined
rivers and tendon ridges, a pliant
skin reveals a history of scars:
puckered, punctured stars, sliced
crescents, rude tears and gouges
all ungulate in a lighter hue over
blue-veined rivers and tendon ridges.
A skinscape of a crazed topographer;
a delineation of years of labor,
of incidences with sharp edges,
of inabilities, and worst, inattention,
of flailing arms and careless hands;
hands with slender fingers
better spread across opened pages
gently tapping, counting, calling out the joy.
Calla lends herself to lyric,
Flowing lines sync; visual rhyme.
You and me, our whining’s, not so much.
She exist in pastel syllables,
Cello bliss, dabs from the sacred palette;
Copyrighted; forbidden to us, by ourselves.
Deprived, we paint only you and me:
Gray lamentations, stark primary tints;
Decrying fate in strident sketches
Of perceived losses and longings.
Satiation, our illusive deity;
Calla, complete, an ignored embrace.
I recall the bucket of coopered staves to lower,
splash and feeling the weight filling. Soft rope,
braided and frayed winding round a slicked-log
spindle cranked by hand up through a squeaking
pulley would bring the bucket of water up to us.
I claimed first sip from the tarnished tin dipper
made cold to my lips by the wells sweet water.
•
If I caught him in a good mood, Old-man Carter
would sigh, lean his cane and lift me up to stare
down into the cool, unquiet, enticing darkness;
his private black hole protected by lid and shed.
Tall, taciturn and humorless, I though, he told me,
“A woman hides in the well and sings to me.”
“You drink the water?” I asked. “I do.” he bragged.
•
Even at five, I knew people told lies or as
Mama called them: stories. You’re telling me
a story! she would allege puckering her brow.
A thousand siren songs pulled me from the well;
decades falling away before I knew her name;
the woman beneath the water down the well
who sings to sooth and protect her only child.
•
A goddess, yet still, only a frail creature hiding
from those that would disfigure, abuse, and
malign her for the songs of truth she sings;
holding Virtue, sweet child, tight to her, she
watches for descending light, a face above,
an ear attentive to voices other than its own.
“You drink the water?” you ask. “I do.” I brag.
•
We all bear witness, self-sworn daily,
speaking our lies, shinier than truth;
painting ourselves, molding a visage
of reflections from fouled mirrors.
We profess enlightenment yet cling
to darkness choosing each sin care-
fully writing new, discreet definitions.
What is written will endure; flourish.
Our heart’s script perishes with flesh.
Her round face rose, luminous sun, above
from behind her girlfriend’s shoulders,
joined in flowing lines as if to hid her bliss.
Beaming, joyous in perceived sisterhood
she rose alone, safe in love for a day, but
night would return her shame of stuttered
speech, of hard sums, and whispered slurs,
imagined, but survived, accommodated,
clutched in a secreted-self for a long life.
Must there be a differentiation, a notedness,
an elevation above, a falling below, a middling?
Does Gaia favor fierce or meek, exotic or plain?
Does ranking serve our need to condescend?
I resist the rant when the phrase is proffered,
again and again, naming us ordinary people.
I will let my beast strut, flaunt my plumage;
flare my hand-painted hackles and post a selfie.
Belated Words 