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.
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.
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.
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.
Across the back in pencil: Mary Lee, Doris,
Ruby, Jean, Mary Jo and Jewel. They are
bunched together, a gaggle of girls, a clutch
of chicks (Ruby would forgive this line, grinning,
admonishing only with a slow No! shake of head).
.
At a place veiled from memory along
a dirt road at woods edge, they had paused,
in summer, probably on Sunday after church
to again reaffirm their sisterhood; to create
a memento of time and lines I can’t put down.
On a low stone wall or a girlfriend’s lap,
each sits tilting to center to tighten the shot.
Three girl’s left arms flow in sensual repetition
to clasp a sister knee. Their hands and arms fall
loosely draped like their worn cotton dresses
to waists, shoulders, arms, laps and legs;
a collage of languid limbs and flesh demure,
but freed, no Old Master could better.
Legs, closed or crossed, are bare to the knees;
their feet, bare too, splay at liberty in dust.
Each girl, coerced early to womanhood by war,
work and absent boys, is luminous in naiveté.
There is no glint of doubt in any eye; all dare
with unselfconscious grins the viewer to rip
this moment away; to dare tell their fortunes.
I knew you would come today! I knew.
They’re good to me here, really, they are.
They’re not the same though……as family.
Have you seen your brother? That rascal!
Can’t come to see his old Mama…ha, ha!
Is he retired like you? Can’t afford it,
I guess. I would send him money to come.
I still have some money don’t I? Well…..
How long have I been here? Five years!
It only seems a few months. They are
good to me here. I would not stay if they
were mean to me…I would go home today.
A new place, I mean…..I know I can walk
but they won’t walk me anymore…help me
up, to try. Well, then…I guess I’ll stay…they
are good to me here. I would leave if not.
I sat by the window this morning…the trees
they are dogwood…aren’t they…are beautiful.
Is it warm outside? They keep it so cold in here.
I need a new jacket. See, my sleeve is torn.
Yes frayed… well then, whenever you can.
Let me tell you…this morning…sitting there
at the window watching the trees…dogwoods,
I had the most wonderful feeling I’ve ever felt.
God said we would feel that way in heaven
all the time…every minute of endless days!
I can’t wait to see your Daddy there again.
You have a baby sister in heaven too, waiting.
God told me it was a girl. The doctor couldn’t
tell back then…I was just a month along or so.
Something happened….I never would cause it.
Your Daddy and our baby are watching for us.
But she might be grown now; raised in heaven
by your sweet Daddy! Who knows how it works
up there. Raised in Heaven! She would be a true
angel. Something we can never be…you and me.
Belated Words 