Posts for June 18, 2016

She comes in from the garden as the rain decides to be more than mist. Her sturdy feet, the knuckles and lifeline of her hands, wear the beauty of hard, honest labor in the soil. Tendrils of hair fall across her face, rubbing against the smudges left on nose and cheeks when she tried to brush them back. I’m a dirty old woman, she says, and he laughs around a smile at the paired meanings, at the thought of growing old with her. She settles on the couch, stretching like the cat that yields its place. He rises from the rocker handed down through the women in her family, goes to the kitchen and hums an old love song she taught him as he fills a basin with warm water, lavender soap, a cloth. Coming back to her, he kneels on the worn wood of the floor and begins to wash the dark earth from her feet. It’s her turn to smile, and she does. 

The hardest feelings I reflect
Are the tears of a girl.
As my stomach digests grief,
I notice my heart still beats-
What a relief.

To leave love is never fair,
Nor ideally easy,
When breathing constricted air.
I reflect, lament, and rub my eyes
At the longest picture of seeing her cry.

From hate to love, and strong to weak
I hold my tongue in time to speak.
To build a dam where feelings flow,
A crack in the wall will leave me exposed.

It’s true, it’s in the air
Guiltful feelings I’ve never shared.
Now she knows the place i’m in,
The hardest riddle among the wisest men.

Happiness, bliss, and golden piss
Temporary inflections
Of this tangible world of exceptions.
Once again,
In a world of I,
Let’s spread my wings
And learn to fly.

It’s 10 a.m. and under the portico of the courthouse,
beneath a tent fashioned with a quilt,
someone still sleeps, lulled by the sound of the fountain.
Has the balmy air made his heart light?

On his way to the palace to see the emperor, a wretched Augustine,
not yet converted, was overwrought with worry
about the florid oration of flattery he was about to deliver.
On the thoroughfares of Milan he saw a joyous beggar.
Augustine wondered why he should be tortured by his fears
and yet the beggar feel so cheerful he was joking.

Somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright
but on these streets, as my spouse and I walk in silent annoyance
with each other over petty differences almost, but not quite, forgotten,
we wish God’s grace would befall us.

                                               First Television

Before we had our own
I crossed the street to watch one
in the drugstore window.
Neighbors would gather to gaze
at the flickering brightness,
an aperture into another world.

We had to work together
to purchase our own.
Sitting on my chenille bedspread
I lined up coins between the rows
of knotted thread.
Long rows of pennies, nickels and dimes,
my fingers metallic to the taste.

We shared a common dream,
the family sitting around a glowing screen,
warmed by this subdued fire.

When the day finally came,
the massive brown box arrived
set up dominion over the living room,
hypnotized everyone’s evening attention.

The next year my father boycotted
wrestling because of the beer commercials.
Even then, I knew this was fruitless.

We entered the modern era,
each at our own measured pace.

Waited eight grinding months to see her
with her tiny, pink apple cheeks
I’d have been deemed a nut case if I’d have
suffered those last four weeks  

Complications produced many challenges
Both our lives had been at stake
Relief and elation made it all worth it to hear
the hesitant sound she did make  

A newborn, garbled pipsqueak squall
Placed in my arms, this bundle of warmth
Permission for us to ever be apart?
“Never,” avowed perfect north  

Watched 18 sugary confections of cake
adorn our dining room table
Recorded her well-pleased smiles in my mind
Mother’s love is not just a label  

“Will you just cry and die when August arrives
when she doesn’t come home right away?”
“Actually, no,” I heard myself clearly answer
“She needs to acclimate. I want her to stay.”  

A grown young woman stands ready today
I place her in His arms
“Know to whom you belong as you run your race, child.”
Keep her safe, Lord, from every harm.    

And God, shower her with abundant blessings
Encamp your angels all around
And let the noise she makes in her journey be
Exactly as your infinite love sounds

Inhale, holding life in the blink of an eye

Exhale, as the sun drowns your senses

It’s in these moments that sometimes
we sew together our thoughts
with threads of long forgotten memories

Pockets of time collect and scatter
like rain drops on a tin roof

We often forget

That blood feels like paint in the dark
 
Warm soil on our hands is like going back home

And with a kiss from a lover you can taste the sea

I have horrible dreams about how happy you are.

But only grown ups live here now.
I am no longer the reversed fool, absent
eyes closed, cliff bound stepper.
I have bagged up all my loose humility,
the shardes in the yard,
the minute pieces that left my feet bloody last year.
I don’t walk outside barefoot anymore.

No one will sweep your dirty sidewalks.
This yard is yours to keep,
even courageous hands are cautious of splinter bites. 

I have horrible dreams about how happy you are.

But only grown ups live here now.
I am no longer the reversed fool, absent
eyes closed, cliff bound stepper.
I have bagged up all my loose humility,
the shardes in the yard,
the minute pieces that left my feet bloody last year.
I don’t walk outside barefoot anymore.

No one will sweep your dirty sidewalks.
This yard is yours to keep,
even courageous hands are cautious of splinter bites. 

Poem 17, June 17  

Chester Johnson, Poem Nine    

I remember the first time
I saw a kamikaze
hit one of ours.  

I thought:
how senseless a thing             
for a pilot to do.              

I didn’t have long            
to think though…            
three came for the Iowa.              

I can’t take credit for it,            
but I could be thankful            
our gunners knocked out              

two Jills and a Judy            
on the way to sink us
that November day.              

Since you ask,            
a Jill was a Jap            
carrier dive bomber.              

A Judy was a Jap            
torpedo bomber            
we’d meet them again               

in the skies over Okinawa.

She has vampire toes
pale, slender, and preternaturally agile
with dark red nails, wet and shiny
as fresh-spilled blood  

She has vampire palms
smooth, without past or future
to map in lines, only the arches
and loops of an endless now  

She has a vampire smile
expressing neither guile nor truth
empty of meaning and free
to carry whatever prey may desire