Grace
Picking vegetables, pulling weeds
the ground lay bare.
The drying creek bed
water turning to sky and ground.
How can one know eternity in 60 years?
The illusion of separateness
The primordial I AM
Gives birth to the cosmos
moment by moment.
Has sleep deserted you as well?
Eloped with the moon and left us in the dark?
Wine in hand, I ramble the small apartment,
lift wistful match to lavender candles,
count plodding steps like unwilling sheep.
In the alley, a vagrant can rattles
its sentiments, banging and recoiling
in the windy gloom, bounding off walls,
echoing the tally of its own clattered orbit,
oblivious to the vacuum within.
Rejoice the emptiness it seems to say.
Let gale and time mock our restless bones.
What else can we do
but feast the grace of lightness.
Dance. Fly.
verse 1
G
don’t never do nothin’
ain’t nothin ever doin’
lie around all day
D
thinkin’ ’bout pounnin’
G
ain’t got no job
C
get a gov’ment check
G
neighbors all call me
D G
Ragin’ Redneck
CHORUS
C
Ragin’ Redneck, scurred of nothin’
G D
like my turkey with lots o stuffin’
G Em
Ragin’ Redneck with a story to tell
G D7 G
Ragin’ Redneck, goin’ to hell
verse 2
G
Get outta my yard,
I’ma shoot you down
Been drinkin’ just a little
D
Otter tear up this town
G
“visit” my ex,
C
punch out her man
G
get up tomorrer,
D G
do it a’gin
CHORUS
C
Ragin’ Redneck, scurred of nothin’
G D
like my turkey with lots o stuffin’
G Em
Ragin’ Redneck with a story to tell
G D7 G
Ragin’ Redneck, goin’ to hell (spoken) they gonna lock me up, one of these days!
C
Ragin’ Redneck, scurred of nothin’
G D
like my turkey with lots o stuffin’
G Em
Ragin’ Redneck with a story to tell
G D7 G
Ragin’ Redneck, goin’ to hell (spoken) help me, Jesus!
TAG
G Em
Ragin’ Redneck with a story to tell
G D7 G
Ragin’ Redneck, goin’ to hell
C G
A-a-a-a-a-a-a-men!
We think time is implacable, steady
Slow moving, and there is plenty of it.
Depends if you know a bit of history.
Take The sway of the land just there to the right.
Think that is erosion from rain and creek?
Maybe a glacier dug it hard that sweep?
You’d guess dead wrong. Buffalo, yes
Buffalo made that mark, their hoof step mark.
There’s a reason the land around that dent
Is sweet, deep and brings a good crop, for bent
Through time, was left for us a fertile gift
From those ancient herds moving to the salt
Not too far away. It is called Blue Licks today.
It’s a park, a place to play and see Golden Rod,
The rarest species, that first bloomed where
Indians walked and giant bones’ can still be found.
See how tied to time we are, just a bit past yesterday?
Would that a bit of what we are today could be
As timeless as that path strode by hooves
Of creatures who once filled our land, but for
Man, might still be more populous than today.
Time was theirs to leave a lasting trace, bold
Ones today will do the same. Yet we want to hold
To the whisper of the moment not thinking
Of the centuries when others will seek us out.
If we die
in the form of letters
and the sea is
the sender
I’d like to return
as bioluminescence–
chemically reacting
illuminating
shining
floating
in
the
shallow tidal pools–
Yeah,
forget stepping to the light
I will be the torch
in the water
a paradox
witnessed in the darkness
sinfully seductive
first class
licked
stamped
sent
tracked
and safely delivered
home.
Readers of
my most recent
poetry probably think
this poem is about rain.
It could be
for rain plays a leaf’s song
above me, an energetic drumroll
nearer than the distant
dove’s lament yesterday,
not as loud
as the car,
passing me,
its tires, sloshing
through street runoff
reminiscent of a five pointer’s
feet as it crossed Hay Creek
in the shallow water
of the stream,
with me downwind.
I was young, alert,
and I aimed,
held my breath,
but I lowered
my rifle
that morning.
Today,
the young lady
across the street
comes out
and walks
when it slows
to a drizzle.
gives you a starting point, pith or kernel
a dream shaping itself
the window from where
I smell rain on the sages
see a beautiful grove of cottonwood trees
clouds making big dark shadows on the flatness
the sharp line of a storm
What language do they speak?
I am preparing a stew
of silence and wonder
quiet green ravines
the domed blue above, the friendly reds
bird noises and singing things
stars that touch the center of me
old scars, still tender
a shrinking sort of fear
I’m feeling sixty miles an hour
in soft, tired twinklings
it is beautiful and exhausting
as if I had straddled the whole world
to tell you about the music of it
great bundles of contradiction
with a hurt all through it
But light is thrown at it, time and attention
singing through the madness
a cellular arrangement
the trees are heavy with it
I am trying to see further
lead from joy back to mystery
There is never anyone to ask the things we most need to ask
Please tell me
do you feel like flowers sometimes—
little blue petals?
I hope so
~ Cento of lines/phrases found in the writings of the artists Frida Kahlo, Georgia O’Keeffe, and Emily Carr
No, I didn’t forget to eat. Oh, you’re too silly. You say you’ve been noticing? Aha, no it’s just I’ve been um, forgetting I guess.
Great, they caught you. Snap out of it. You’re stuck. You feel your legs slowly sinking into tar. You try to run. But you’re too exhausted from the weight on your shoulders of keeping a lie.
For what? A few pounds. You know you will never look like the dream you’ve been wanting. Is it really even a dream. Or an occurring nightmare that creeps into your dreams at night ready to destroy you at any cost. It stabs at your heart over and over. While you wade through the pain you wished it stabbed at something else, the extra pounds on your thighs, stomach, arms.
Why? You know it, they all know it. Paranoid! You’re just paranoid. No. No! NO! NO GODDAMMIT I KNOW THEY ARE THINKING IT.
No? I’m not, I eat.
You reply at a speed that’s mannerly, but off. Everyone stares.
Do they know you’re fat, or that you’re that girl now. I promise! Shit…they know.
You’re the anorexic bitch.
Oh guys…c’mon, I don’t starve myself.
The stares. Piercing eyes, everyone impaling you through and through, just with a stare.
Quick, count how many red things there are in the room. Oh Jen, you’re dumb therapist, this tip better work.
No, please don’t. You feel your palms sweat, shaky breath.
GUYS, I eat I promise.
One kid laughs and makes a joke. It’s about bulimia. Everyone laughs.
The mention of the illness pokes at the back of my throat just like my
two fingers
did last night after dinner.
Over and over.
Holding them there until I vomit.
Choking me,
yet I don’t feel the reward of throwing up what I had just ate.
I avoid breakfast. I say I don’t have enough time. Lunch time at school I just don’t eat. Avoid it at all costs, talk to friends.
Dinner is hard, but I eat with my family. If I feel the need I slip away into a bathroom. I turn the sink on. Hoping they won’t hear my gagging over the sound of the running faucet.
What a waste of water, what a waste of happiness. I get on my knees in order to aim at the toilet. I slip my fingers back as far as I can.
Hold them.
Fuck this hurts. Nope, stay.
It’s over.
You look down.
Guilt, shame.
Well fuck me I did it again.
Wasn’t the last time the last time? And the time before then? You feel it deep down in your soul. A quiet knock, slowly progressing to a persistent bang. Open the door they scream. You dropped the key. It’s in the toilet you just flushed. Along with other important things.
How will u ever be able to open it now? Forgive yourself? You can’t stop. You’re addicted to counting your calories.
Please don’t ask me to eat. It’s a hard time already. I cannot simply chew and swallow. I count, chew, spit it out. If I swallow then give me about 20 minutes I’ll be in the bathroom. You’re silly, I’m not sick! I’m fine I don’t do it often. Please don’t say anything .
Calm down, because in the end it’s just a harmless joke to them.
Break’s Over
Back to school.
We wrap up
in coats and gloves.
After the snow starts
melting, it turns
from a stunning white
to a dingy “gray.”
Describes my mood.
