Posts for 2020 (page 215)

“Miley, you’ll be the great big blue bird in the city,”
He said as he rapidly twisted his thumb over his fingers,
Not able to articulate that my name is actually Emily,
But putting the letters in an order of his own,
Giving me the greatest compliment I’ll ever receive,
Even though it’s meaning is still a mystery to me. 

You see, that was the last I would ever get to speak 
With him, my most brilliantly authentic friend.
Schizophrenia is one hell of a riot. 

Did you know they still prescribe Electroconvulsive Therapy 
When nothing else is working as quickly as the mind
That sharply rearranges letters to create new words,
That makes poetry out of every thought, 
Throwing out phrases gilded with assonance, consonance,
And even alliteration better than any wordsmith? 

I’m not saying it doesn’t help some- 
What kind of expert am I, 
Having only worked in the field for a year?- 
But I do know that now he can’t even

Talk.

can’t get to nothing in these foreign cars
ain’t no space between things
must have little baby hands over there
look how them cables connect
God help you if you need to get to something
underneath
end up taking out half the motor
tiny little thing
ain’t no horsepower here
can’t be
they used to make good vehicles
right here in the U.S.A.
carburetors and lead gas
fella could get some where
in them old cars
if something broke
he had the tools
to fix it himself
kids these days, hell,
can’t change a damn
tire
going to finish replacing
this valve
then going home
wife will have dinner
i’ll have a six pack
watch the game
forget about
foreign cars
for an hour
or two
maybe tomorrow will be better
right back at the garage 
in the morning
but i gotta lady bringing in
an F 150
old one
needs lots of work
giving it to her
grandson
to drive to college
wants it reliable
wants it safe
i’ll get out my old tools
some of them my old man
gave me
i know every inch of that Ford engine
i could strip it with my eyes closed
i’ll take good care of that truck
might even have a beer or two
turn up the radio

With fluid grace the yarn slips through my fingers, looping and twisting to form something that will bring warmth and comfort.

Your face fills my mind.

I remember your measured words as you attempted to train my young, impatient hands with yarn, and fabric, and needle and thread.

I chose a pattern far too complex for my first time sitting at the sewing machine.

You cautioned against it, but allowed it all the same.

You believed in letting kids learn from their skinned knees and elbows if they were too stubborn to listen.

I never mastered the machine but the yarn now bends to my will-becoming a work of art from so many loose strings.

You quietly slipped from this world not long ago on a nondescript, spring Tuesday. 

It seems an unfitting end for such a powerhouse of a woman. 

I could not come to pay my respects-this virus banning such a gathering- so I will pay a different offering.

Every stitch of every row that comforts another will be in tribute to the woman who once tried to train my young, impatient hands.

My aunt
Thinks the pictures are a hoax
Thinks a display of awareness
Was meant to trick us

What is this fight worth to me?
What
will it change
will it

What
will
it
change

will 
it what
will it change

Will it  

What will it change
Will it change
Will it change

I need a poetry month

My heart hurts for                             the world
                                                               our country
                                                               our communities
                                                               families

I need to be        active, helpful

                                      to contribute constructively

                                          to healthy growth and compassionate change

The illusion of safety has vanished

                                                                  the bubble of falsely perceived equality for all has burst

                                                                                the wizard behind the curtain in MIA

What can        I        a priviledged middle-aged white woman in rural eastern Kentucky do 

              to promote healing and change?

I can love
I can speak
I can support
I can vote

I can write poetry.

Close your eyes.
Picture the world we lived in,
the one we used to call our home.

Imagine a time we
would desperately claw to.
One where
as we stand amidst
the threat of a virus, against
injustice, 
we are one.

Finally a purpose to move forwards–
A light at the end
of the tunnel. This
is only the beginning.

Now open.
Try not to stare too intensely,
for the ever growing flames 
might clutter 
your thoughts as well.

Pine Mountain Cemetery III
Russell Howard

Pine trees don’t grow too big
But this one got something extra.
Sits back at the head of the flat
Near that cold branch trickle.
Guess it soaked up all the good.
Water, mineral and ash to grow so tall.

It marks today where the kin laid
What was left of Russell Howard,
Who never had a single chance
On getting anything extra
In his short and tortured life.

A stubborn Maytag grabbed his hand
Rolled up his skinny arm to choke
The screaming life from that boy
Bent on squeezing water from wet
Wash to rest his mother’s back.

Twelve years old he was but three
Is more like what he in true knew.
His clan perhaps willed that pine to
Share strength, wisdom and age
With this child given less than little.
Amonst his kin and strangers death
Must hold more promise than ever
He knew shut away from prying eyes. 

For Stewart N. Parrish

Grandfather,
the snow storm cut short
my trip to attend your funeral.

I-75 was closed to traffic
from Lexington, Kentucky
to Steubenville, Ohio.

Last night,
these years later,
having fallen asleep

on the sofa,
I dreamed of you,
the time we spent

together on the front porch
of your rented house
and talked.

You spoke about your father
and his death when he was 100
after his black stallion reared

and fell backward
in the corral,
taking life.

In my dream,
sadness returned
until you reminded me

of how much you loved
horses and women
as I woke.

Marriage for guilt, lust or love
young enough to misjudge commitment
old enough to cleave
to what could be

I was a performer
without talent or skill
acting as if I knew what love is;
and still I act

The recklessness of heart cleaved
what no man could put asunder
as if a seasoned careless butcher
knew the parting spot by divining
rusty dull knife in hand

Separating circumstance
from what the heart recognizes
as verity and passion
convert to struggled acceptance
rent with jagged torn edges

I was an amateur carpenter
of emotion
patching together the chunks of love known
while seeking the shadowy heart’s desire
using bent nails of intention

Aging changes perceptions
slowly or unpromisingly at times
owning shortcomings without confessions
lacking apologies or admission

I bent my witching wand
willow fork searching
for inner reconciliation
that arrives in spurts and shudders yet
lacks a course to nirvana

I lose the muscle memory of resistance
and find myself in your arms.
The world is a cushion that gives,
an untroubled field, an unhurried promise,
paradise intoxicated by its own fragrance.