“What is this weather in my soul?
This nameless weather:
Squirrel’s flag-tail pulsating
A silent, nil day.
Exceptional drought……
memory’s ceaseless loop roils;
turkey vultures soar.
Tag: poem
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Veritas: The Woman In The Well
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.
•
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Heart’s Script
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.
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1943 Photo: Ruby’s Fortune
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.
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ordinary people
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.
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1943 Photo With Six Girls
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!”
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Butterflies
Spiraling upward
un-touching entwination
in flittering flight
nothing to repent
they cherish what is given
synched as wind and chime
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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?
Belated Words 