Posts for June 23, 2020 (page 5)

the herons
that visited the ponds on the Scott County farm
were the first I’d seen
in Kentucky  

my husband and I loved them
they connected us to southern beaches
and represented our desire
to live at the shore  

one crisp fall afternoon
I walked a cattle path
through the rolling yellow fields
to the back pond
wandered along the bank
near water’s edge
I saw a mass on the ground ahead  

a heron lay
curled up
I walked up to its body
my heart ached with the loss
my eyes feasted on color and design
blue, black, beige feathers
full of intricate patterns
shimmering in the sun  

I wanted to pluck a feather
feel the texture
save the experience
but I left the heron
resumed my walk  

years later my husband passed away
I designated the heron
as a symbol for our time together
my love for him
the dreams we once held  

today I live at the lake
I see herons every day
their easy grace and brilliant colors
inspire me
I feel a warm presence
then he silently flies away

These are the days I like best
where all else is put on hold
and I dwell only in this spotlight,
my world a microcosm of focus.
What is most essential?
I’m held in the hands
of what?  Destiny?
Everything shimmers.  All
matter stands on the sidelines watching
as I put items one by one
into the bag.
I’m leaving one world
and entering another.

dressed in red vestments
a radiance of cardinals
looks down from the altar

Ain’t got no time
Stuck here with these blues
Ain’t got long enough arms
To tie my fucking shoes

RAWR

Festooned in stars and bars,
“Good Christian men” rejoice
With Bibles turned backward and upside down
Shouting for our nation’s greatness
Nonchalantly erasing the history of its abuses
Discounting destruction,
Ignoring inconvenient implications
Of the backs it was built on, the bloodshed and oppression that got us to this fine state.

Misplaced pride war-dances around a burning cross
Protesting examination of the chinks in sugarcoated symbols of our worst legacies
Complaining that to see their faults
To remove daily reminders of oppression
Why, that’s erasing history
And that’s not right
When the history is white.

We can never forget
America’s founding fathers and proud roots
(racism, genocide, slavery)
We can never forget
Pride in the America that chose not to be America
(Or notice the incongruence of waving the American and anti-American flag side by side).

Stepping up to unfairness is only fair game
If it’s tea and you’re lily-white disguised as “savages”
Or if your culture of noninclusion and violence is questioned
Not if it’s your actual life rather than your hate-skewed way of life at stake
Not if you’re fighting for peace of mind and equal protection instead of lingering in greed
Not if you’re trying to shine light into our nation’s dark heart instead of reveling blindly in denial
Not if you insist that we become more of what we never quite were but always wanted to believe we were.

We can never forget
Pearl Harbor, the loss of life
The Twin Towers, the loss of life
(Real enemies are never white)
(Attack the other)
Uphold the American way

Working hard for what you’ve got
Doesn’t mean you didn’t have it easier than
The guy you worked hard to threaten into compliance in a less-than-you place
Or at the very least kicked to the edge of your peripheral vision where you could ignore his pain.and struggle

Your jealousy at not having all the attention
Wars with trying to hide the parts of our heritage you actively try to sanitize
Waving fists and firearms in the air and blasting righteous anger, warning
“Best be careful not to step on toes, boy,
Or complain too loudly.”

I’m thankful for people of integrity insisting on
Interrupting our collectively whitewashed memories
I hate to tell you this, boys, but that’s the opposite of
Erasing history.
Fighting this endemic white power trip
Honoring and examining all the shades of our past,
Encompassing more voices, envisioning a future history that’s more worthy of our pride.

Nearly negligible herb,
cilantro’s less interesting cousin,
you delude yourself,
disregard it even as you observe it.

It is diminutive like
green pencil shavings,
a garnish,
quiet in its savor. 

How could a single sprig swell a tongue,
close an airway, erupt hives on the skin,
and send your only
sister into anaphylaxis?

My parents and I sit in the front row
of the auditorium/church/movie theatre.
My mother’s clock radio is under her seat
in case they send her to a place where
she has to tell time                        
                                   Above the screen is a
tool bar with lessons/hymns/orders
scrolling like a stock ticker on Wall Street
or the leaderboard at the U.S. Open  
                                                                 I rise
from my seat and walk to the back
where the creature is fed and watered    
                                                                      I see
this place is a pod linked to other pods
same stock tickers, same leaderboards
                                                                      I see
the screen reach out with malevolent
hands             
            seize optic nerves
                                             freeze brains
People are free to change seats but none
are free to escape the screen’s embrace  

I return to my seat but keep my eyes to the
floor         
         like Anne Frank in a closet listening         
         to the rhythm of marching boots
         and the grind of tank treads

Homer’s Frosty Freeze was the only way
they knew to communicate.
It felt like something to order a slaw dog
and a shake. But when they talked
about geography all the missing pieces
told him she’d been to hell.
Corbin’s on the other side of London
and that was about it.  

Just a skinny girl
hair frizzy as milkweed dander
He watched her sometimes in gym,
running like legs cast in irons
Would she remember what she said about the sidewalk?
That it was made of gas and rainbows and lazy rain?
He thought it meant something.

So they became husband and wife,
and she’d say, You don’t need stitches for that.
We don’t gotta talk about it.  
And she told her mother on the porch
you know, when someone wants to die
to just get it over with. 

He wanted her opinion on a piece of paper
he found on a corkboard at the store
he brought it home and read it out loud.
It was about God and maybe grace,
about being in the lowlands too long.            
I don’t understand a word you are saying. 

But she’d put apples in boxes under the eaves,
beans in jars, berries in the freezer,
dug a hole and put potatoes down in it
and covered it with a carpet rug.

So he peeled turnips and smiled.
The town was a mirror of the lake.
The lake was a mirror of the trees.
The trees were a mirror of the days.
And it got dark so quickly, after all.

Do not rename a target.

Ask before overwriting.

The renaming has no safeguards

If the user has permission to rewrite names,

the command will perform the action without any questions.

the result can be quite drastic,

unless you truly know what you are doing.

rename can be terminal, where you press ENTER.

rename requires only a single key unanticipated error …

—
Found poem (erasure) from Linux Man Pages. Complete text at:

https://man7.org/linux/man-pages/man1/rename.1.html

The ghost of spray paint haunts its walls
where the creek rocks bear the weight of years
under the low bridge
is a crossroads of two creeks meeting

The creek rocks bear the heavy weight of years
where the hill dreams in quiet murmur
this nexus point connection
the moss is green, and deep underfoot

Where the gurgle of a hillside stream sings
in this crossroads of creek water
the water is colder here
there’s something cavern like under the bridge

Its opening a tunnel between two creeks
under the low bridge
spelunking without a cave
there was the ghost of spray paint haunting its walls