Belated Words

Write On!

Category: Poems

  • 1943 Photo With Six Girls

    WIN_20141007_160435

    




    




    




    




    




    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.
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    you and me
    
			
    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.
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    He was born to ride that ass
    
			
     
    

    He was born to ride that ass
    

    though plow-handle legs rigid
    

    flaunting bare feet, toes splayed,
    

    might be read as reticence.
    

    •
    

    Through the four-way shamming
    

    nonchalance pretend bugle blaring
    

    his tune of eminence’s arrival,
    

    he clopped. To to, to to, to toot!
    

    •
    

    Eschewing drive-through his ass
    

    clopped bank lobby; Clop! Clop!
    

    “Hooves on marble! So delicious!”
    

    “I like your neck-beard.” teller said.
    

     •
    

    “Unkemptness is a fashionable virtue;
    

    a visual cue denoting ones calling
    

    to a higher sect.” Poet explained.
    

    To to, to to, to toot! To toot!
    

     •
    

    With bewilderment he studied
    

    his pointer pointing to infinity.
    

    “Is infinity always up?” he inquired
    

    without a clue. “Merits further
    

    contemplation, a sonnet at least”
    

    Clop, clop, clop! “Delicious!”
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    The Lie
    
			
    August eight: the truth has yet to be told:
    

    a year, leaked away drop by stale drop,
    

    has only left toxic staining spots.
    

    They glare and moan with rubbing.
    

    Perhaps the truth will never be told;
    

    the telling: soothing balm or albatross,
    

    a healing or a festering more vile;
    

    the undoing more hurtful than the doing?
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    Three Days
    
			
    August one and sweet gum leaves,
    
enough to notice, are falling yellow
    
on wilting grass. The air is dry;
    
the parching season; joy does thirst;
    

    I crave a single meager bliss:
    
a sip of wine, a furtive smile,
    
but for now this cool wind gift will do.
    
August two and insidious privet
    

    tentacle roots spit depleted red-
    
clay clumps at me. I fight to claim
    
a needed though paltry victory
    
before winter’s cold, harsh truce.
    

    August three and butterflies flood
    
their namesake shrubs decoding
    
nectar’s notes on divine law while
    
breeze and chime synch our requiem.
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    thunderstorm
    
			
    with violent disregard they’re wrung
    

    every drop freed from cauldron clouds
    

    parched dazed earth hisses till sated
    

    casting with gratitude excess away
    

    along fated paths to pool in pooling places
    

    again to rise to mimic our myths of ascendant souls
    

    trees now sing with discordant bliss
    

    sweet as sun-baked honeysuckle scent
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    Turtle
    
			
    When five, she scraped in soft, black ground
    

    a hole—a grave—to cuddle what she found
    

    below the steps; a baby turtle; dead.
    

    Splayed neck and legs and cracked green shell
    

    told her of death and worse, of disregard.
    

     
    

    She took her sister’s glass jewel-box
    

    and lay Turtle in on velvet cloth, covered
    

    him over, patted, caressed his final bed;
    

    she sang a song she’d heard the choir sing
    

    while fashioning a cross from sticks and string.
    

     
    

    Three days straight, she exhumed his remains
    

    but Turtle’s knowing smile did not change.
    

    At death, soul flies, flesh melts away, they said.
    

    At five, she wanted only fireflies’ night vitrine
    

    to sooth a disquiet mind; to run, to sing.
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    Earth: In the Beginning
    
			
    Mountain_Laurel_b_06012008
    

    Happy Earth Day! Keep the faith.
    

    In the beginning…
    
not really the beginning,
    
but a beginning almost comprehensible,
    
a malleable mass twirling on the blowers pipe,
    
Earth was cast from Heaven, thrown down
    
spinning from the warmth of all she knew
    
to cold and darkness thick with the roar
    
of her passing and smells of her burning.
    

    She flew from birth light
    
growing dimmer
    
and colder to a sadness unfathomable.
    
Could she weep for herself? Surely.
    
Of all the lights distant but bright
    
In their congruity, none tuned to watch
    
Or cast a glance toward her hurling fate.
    
Did she moan as she was flung
    

    To her perceived oblivion? Surely.
    
Yes, we could have heard her cries
    
And her gaseous guts rumbling,
    
Crying for a savior for herself
    
And for all that could be…crying
    
For a hot, brilliant hand to capture her
    
And roll her around in his golden palm.
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    Vulture
    
			
    Most conspicuous soarer of Georgia skies
    
floats for eons circling till I grit my teeth
    
in expectancy and finally he, snagging
    

    a hot air lift, shoots up straight, ascending
    
like Jesus, wings stiff with ecstasy,
    
blood stained beak thrown open to sing
    

    hosannas, but not for my ears. Then more
    
eons and satiated or fearful of God-light or
    
despairing still of Paradise lost, a minute
    

    wing-tip-dip spirals him in delirium down
    
to vanish behind pine’s dark façade;
    
shade veiled refuge for his grotesquerie.
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    I should have trekked more
    
			
    I should have trekked more;
    
risked unmapped excursions; not
    
Vegas, Turkey or New Guinea,
    
those lauded, exotic locals; no.
    

    I should have taken LSD or
    
chewed some shrooms and
    
luxuriated in my own colors,
    
sniffed the illusive waft of wild,
    

    instead:
    
I’ve traipsed these bland locals;
    
wary of running aground,
    
of taking a hike in flip-flops,
    
of eating forbidden fruit.