Red door, closed and locked.
Hat in hand, baggage at my side.
Butterflies and sweaty thighs.
Eyes trace the vintage twists and turns, trod thin and faded.
That elevator ride took thirty years to the second floor, and here I stand.
What is inside that guides me?
I breathe in as the keycard slides and then
*click*
Galactic center,
Scorpius guarded gateways,
black hole engine pulse
Cerulean dot,
our great mechanical dance,
whirling spiral waltz
Torrential churning,
hazy heavens hovering
Ineffable scene
Earthly distractions,
obscure brilliant ballet in
cosmic theaters
Forgotten night sky,
symphonic masterpiece calls
out, eyes to the sky
Rain keeps falling,
like the curtains after each
overperformed act you finish.
I will fill the theatre with my silence,
and refuse to give you a standing ovation.
I’ll let the thunder take care of that.
walk slowed to a stroll by whiny knees, you summon
memories — dashing down hills to the lake, delighting
in the run back up through the piney woods
fingers stiff, you marvel that once you practiced
fine calligraphy, decorated tiny hair barrettes with flowers,
joked that you could paint angels on the head of a pin
in physical therapy for “frozen shoulder,” you recall
being the one in the family to carry packages, rake
leaves, shovel your father’s car out of the snowbank
let us not bore ourselves with more – the eyes,
the hearing and memory because today
as you lift your face to inhale
the lemon scent of a southern magnolia blossom
you can fly
I sit with pen in hand legs crossed right hip silently nagging me about the 30+ years of fitness classes ‘listen to me damn it or I will nag you a bit harder’ I uncross my legs shifting weight side to side Unnoticed i believe by the others in the room Discomfort just moves to the back Air is chilly as I force myself back on task from a mind wandering to work then home then my recently deceased mother to dog and then back to pen and paper all within a split second- is that 7 seconds in dog years? I am not sure A quick thought of mortality as I feel the burns on my face from those nasty pre-cancer spots that seem to grow on me like mold on a mushroom It is summer but it is spring but it is fall but it is summer it all happens in one day in Kentucky Kentucky where I was born and where I am sure I will die Ashes jammed into a Diet Coke can and tossed out the car window at 70mph on I-75 where I’ve spent most my life driving back and forth to school home caring for father then mother visiting sister wandering Pen to paper back to the task at hand Creating or just pulling thoughts like teeth from my head Hip nags I ignore Pen to paper Create damn it something thought provoking Too much glare in this room There is a hell it is here I see it everyday Actually I wish I had a Diet Coke right now Focus Focus Pen to paper Create damn it Whats your problem I sure do miss my dog Its not fair when you meet your person when youre 15 Lifes not fair buttercup suck it up Get over it Jelly rolls Grandmother made those Focus Pen to Paper Create damn it something thought provoking
The upward swing
of a new moon
amps up my twitch.
Jiggle. Wait a minute.
On the downward cull,
I sleep deep and sound.
Now I’m planting until
the tides come in, and
I volt like an arcing pole,
a wire vibrating,
a filament swiveling
in the corner.
I wrote a poem about being stuck in a half-full plastic water bottle
At the beginning of spring
My head was hurting and the air felt
A Lot like it feels today–
Humid
The list is long for things to do
And it’s that point of summer
Where the saying goes from,
“We’ll do that this summer,”
To, “we’ll do that next summer”
And it’s ok
I turn on the faucet outside and hook up the hose
The cold water comes out like a sprinkler
And it feels nice
Morning walks with slight breezes
And homemade vegetarian tacos
Are the days
Tubes of paint and trying to find the best prices for canvas
Seem to be the themes for business
And my old typewriter is still on the floor of my office
I still have no idea where to put it
But I love looking at it
I can see the dark clouds rolling toward me
I totally expected them
I could feel them in the air
I could smell the rain coming
I could hear the thunder
I could see the air split with lightning
I embraced the assault on my senses
and let the rain cleanse the earth
and my soul in the process
“I decided that I was supposed to be here
to catch some of the stones people cast at each other.” –from Just Mercy
This quarry world needs stonecatchers
because rocks come from everywhere—
the complicit well-intentioned
the misusers of the flag, praying to a god of nationalism
the government, elected to help, yet in bed with greed,
sometimes our very selves
Every news cycle lands a million hits.
We read the news like Giles Corey calling for more weight.
Let the modern Giles go from more weight to knowing more to
More? Wait. to
Wait. No more!
When Jesus told any who were blameless to cast the first stone,
they knew to walk away. What would America do?
We might be too busy admiring how bulked up our throwing arm has become,
checking out that tone, picking up any stone we can hurl
in the name of superiority. Any rock will do—
igneous, sedimentary, metamorphic. May metamorphosis lead us
to intercept the rocks used to build systems that destroy humans.
Make no mistake. Stonecatching will bruise you
so that other people may heal.
THE SONG THAT CALLS US HOME
(for Bobbie Ann Mason)
My old Kentucky home
the place I’ve run from
most of my life t
the place friends left
to find a better way
the place hearts long for on cloudy days.
Kentuckians have stood in the canyons of New York City
gazed at snow capped peaks
of reflected light on jagged skyline l
ooked to skyscrapers pointing
out the new frontier.
We’ve been absorbed
in the crowd of Mardi Gras
stumbled through the streets of
bottles, booze and boudoirs
watched bare breasts bounce
to the rhythm of Jazz.
Yet
any place we go
Kentuckians are lost
homesick
restless to return.
Some deny it
swear to never go back but
somewhere
hidden by tall Bluegrass
or green tobacco
there is a tombstone reserved
for them where family and
friends are buried
in deep fertile soil.
And, those of us
who’ve come home
who’ve seen bright city lights
who’ve heard the quiet of desert sand
who’ve smelt the smog of L.A.
Who’ve smoked dope and
slept in the arms of whores,
we know. T
Those of us
who’ve seen the Rhine
the Tames and
the Dead Sea…
who’ve crossed oceans
to be shot at and
to shoot back
those of us who’ve cried and
laughed and
groaned
with strangers everywhere,
we know.
We know in the end
by no real choice of our own
we come back.
We come back
because we hear the song.
The song that calls us home.
Tony Sexton
