If you build it they will come.
And I did, not intentionally for him…
now them, but we never know how we
might be blessed by a cheap plastic pool
aslant In red clay hole, dug despite screaming,
deteriorating bone’s protest, now homing
lily pads teasing bloom and tadpole cloud;
a tinge of hope, of promise of life to come.
Ninety-nine years ago an instant of time was snapped.
click-click
A picture of a life just beginning preserved by caring;
April 1926, rural Alabama. Her birth certificate denotes,
in cursive, under Doctor-Midwife: Mrs. B. A midwife
or, who knows now, just by chance a caring neighbor?
Is that the birthing sheet hung to dry in the background?
click-click
See the slate-looking stones placed under the rockers and
the two pillows in dinge softness framing a newborn life;
daughter, sister, mother; an endless array of assignations.
See the leather covered seat... the rocker's an inside chair.
No flash bulbed cameras back then for poor farmer folks;
she had to be brought outside to face the sun...the glare
of life's beginnings. See her tiny fingers grasping, searching
for something to clutch, to squeeze...always...to cling to?
click-click
Funeral Processions; yes, I've followed a few; led two
in the second vehicle, the family car, after the Hearse.
Yesterday on the bypass on way to the nursing home
I fell behind another; a slow, near stalling motorcade;
multiple police blue lights flashing at crossroads,
extended parade of taillight's paying homage. Then,
exit to Glory Gardens' acres and acres of Departures;
the ridge cresting crypts; roadside hugging flat stones.
Was the honored one a past friend I had forgotten?
Past is the word noting my ascension into the Present,
in which I have chosen, requested of my son, a plot;
a boundless plot unmarked, his choosing, along a creek,
a wilderness home where a discreet casting of ashes
elicits only bird hymns and fern frond's silent prayers,
and an endless cleansing by the gurgling creek
and scents of flowing seasons to converse with me.
A Traveler
“She’s a Traveler, for sure.” Nurse sighed
through a tired, unpretentious smile.
“Gotta chase her down at times to give’er meds.
Other day tried to get in the mechanical room!
Course, it was locked... but you never can tell...
lord knows why she’s always wheeling around...
looking for somebody, probably you, or a way outta here.
Course, we all love’er; she's always sweet’n kind...
always saying Thanks Honey!, Hi! and such...
except at night sometimes when she screams
and calls for something we don’t understand...
yeah, she’s really a Traveler, a Searcher for sure."
in the end its just the end
no ascension no descension
no immortality no damnation
in the end there is no end
memory and maybe bone are gone
but never gone
all seeps and blends on and on
as bits and thoughts whirling as
clippings blooming in a thousand years
Soybean rows paved the fields in tan shades
heralding by their dryness a nearing harvest;
a crop, a cycle, a promise of a fulfillment.
Lean, overalled, old man paces his fields;
squatting, testing multiple plants’ readiness.
A taciturn self can’t hide the bliss of Harvest.
A seventeen-year-old boy has harvested,
with, according to companions, “extreme
happiness,” a young, rare albino antelope.
Ask about the hunt, the harvester said,
“I‘m was so happy! I couldn’t git a breath!”
Culls blood runs thick-red over white hair.
“News! Breaking news! News just for you!
An illicit harvesting may have just occurred!
Apparently, the Harvester did not issue
any notifications prior to this culling and
states his intent was ‘totally eradicate, not
mere persecution, of those sordid, ethic beast!’”.
Memories do blanch, change, slip to nonexistence
but one still remains clear as a straight razor edge.
1953 probably. 1st grade, small wood, rural rental
with an old outhouse...but we had running water!
At my new school we had "duck and cover" drills and
every Sunday service the preacher screamed at me
words directly from God; if deemed an unbeliever,
I would endure forever a lake of fire and brimstone.
My dreams of fire came at night way before I slept.
I knew my small bed and handmake quilts offered
no protection, only a sweaty taste of fire to come
as I clutched them in fear tightly around my neck.
One way or the other, I was destined to be burned,
by The Bomb or by my inability to accept gods will;
to be a red seething char as those in our coal stove,
only screaming with all the others in our agony.
I am no longer six. I am 76. Accepting the inevitable
is a process accomplished by most; a natural process,
not taught in schools. I went to a funeral home today
and purchased a prepaid cremation plan. Hello, Fire!
Once again, the Final Edit begins; a rearrangement...Cut...Copy...Paste...Delete and regretted words are revised, changed...denied. Perhaps, they or I said that but meant the other; new words I just remembered; was it just a joke! Ha! Ha! Did I appear to be laughing? Anyway: a beginning is always the beginning and the ending is never, ever really the ending.
Fuzz saw, no, smelled it first, the cruel pile of dumped vegetables across our street's ditch in brushes edge. A couple of deep sniffs and, not enthralled, he yanked my leash to leave. Vegetables, still pee-free, were not enticing. "Waite!" I snapped, offering a Milk Bone to halt retreat. Cucumbers, yellow squash, even eggplant lay among a scattering of pinkish sweet potatoes. Inspecting the trove, I found only one eggplant past saving; the rest lay yearning for fruition. The suspect perps live across the street, but were gone. "Dammit!" I wanted them to witness my smile as I stuffed three cucumbers in my pockets and hastily returned with an Ingles bag to save the discarded; glorying in my self-righteous.
Yellow Squash Casserole with Sweet Potato Cheese Sauce.
Belated Words 