Posts for June 2, 2023 (page 7)

Category
Poem

the name of my god is blue

it is the blue that fills the clerestory window in our chapel every morning and when there is no blue, god’s name is not-this-gray. it is the blue of surprise of one more day of enchant- ment in an enchanted place. it is the insistence of blue that follows dark and dawn which can be black and orange and then humble making way for blue. it is the aliases my god uses when undercover. cobalt and sapphire and baby and robin’s eggs and cornflower are some of them and others are confidential. it is the blue of the berries which my brother bruce buys to fill our abundance so that i can adorn my cereal. it is the blue of my jeans too expensive for a poor man which still hug my legs with embrace of a god named blue. it is the blue of too many flowers whose other names i do not know so instead i call them the flowers of my god. it is the blue of cheese and wheat and corn and potatoes and plums and some raspberries and a kind of sherbert. and all these remind me of my god whose name is blue. it is the blue of motel pool where almost once I drowned but how in another blue pool brother patrick taught me to kick and swim. it is the blue of a flame that does ordinary things such as light my cigar and other secret things in a place i cannot speak of. a fire that is blue is in god’s favorite star which one one has yet seen. it is the blue of a crayon held by a child which digs into paper and slashes sky with its fisted energy. (and now I now that my waxy blue marks were true.)  it is the blue that some name true and that is also a name for god. it is the blue of eyes i have never seen face to face, but know somehow when mercy is reflected in them. and mercy is what i call god after there are no more blue things and simply silence.


Category
Poem

The Dog

Man on the corner argues his own shadow
no one stops to disagree
Woman in the window trills her tune
no one wants to listen
Child in the park chases a dog
And the dog 

The dog chases the child in return
Slobbering, smiling, rolling, running
A gift.


Category
Poem

The Mabel Poems

MABEL IS AN ASPIRING RAINCLOUD

Mabel is an aspiring
raincloud. She 
wants to burst over the ocean
and return as a red grape.

MABEL IS AFRAID OF THE DARK

Mabel is afraid
of the dark, but she doesn’t
tell anyone. 

EVEN THE SUNSET SPLASHED 

Even the sunset splashed
on a cream-
colored wall makes Mabel sad.

IN FIVE YEARS

In five years,
Mable
plans to twirl
a fire baton.

TODAY MABEL IS A SUNDIAL

Today Mabel is a sun-
dial
marking the hours.

SOMETIMES MABEL WANTS TO KNOW THE FUTURE

Sometimes Mabel 
wants to know the future. Sometimes
she does not. 

 


Category
Poem

Can the Sun See Other Stars?

Open air and an azure sky
free of clouds to hide the heavens,
perfect for long walks or hammocks;
tranquil is the breathing wind.

Take your first steps out the door
whether waking up or clocking out.
Let this energy mix with your spirit
in the sun’s enigmatic warmth.

The patron saint of selflessness
ever giving from almost endless store
of hydrogen zipping flying fusing,
exploding power toward the world.

But…

If illumined cities can pollute the night
while midday light makes ghosts of moons,
how extreme from the surface fire,
like onstage performers looking out?

Does the sun know of Orion
as he stalks the wary Taurus,
Libra balancing scales, the charms
of Aries and Virgo, Pisces’ eternal swirl?

Does it know it’s part of a galaxy
full of billions of like souls,
how that number continues to grow
in the endless expanse of space?

Does it know of Earth and its billions
dependent on the sun for life,
how it is worshipped and loved
in ways that will never outshine?

Does it even get a peek at Mercury?

For all the sun knows, it could
very well believe it’s completely alone
yet the light never fades.
The mission remains the same:

give and give and give and give
like true love is designed to do.


Registration photo of Sam Arthurs for the LexPoMo 2023 Writing Challenge.
Category
Poem

Something Ancient Dwells Here

There is something within these deep woods and hollers; these sacred mountain places
It is ancient, it has always existed will always exist long after we have all returned to the earth
Watching us from within the deep confines of the woods; the thing that calls our names
As darkness falls across the land and casts long shadows as the sun disappears
We were raised not to answer, to ignore it, as it beckons us into the trees
Constantly watching; it’s as though when you stare into forest, the forest stares back  

Appalachia has many secrets; this is but one of them, child, believe me
So many things that can never be explained, only passed down to each
New generation of Appalachian; from the wilds of Maine to the coal fields of Eastern Kentucky, we all know and most of us believe in whatever is out there, though we can
Not put it to a name because no name for it exists; it is ours and does not need a moniker

If you hear it calling you in early evening, as the purple and pinks of twilight takeover
The blue sky, look away because you did not hear a thing, child, not a word
You can look, watch for it against a backdrop of leaves and bramble and oaks but
Do not follow it in, because these woods run deep and finding your way out again
Is a near impossible task; more folks have been lost to it than you could ever imagine
Give it space and respect, revere it, but from a distance like a pretty piece of China
Set upon a shelf in your mamaw’s house; some things are not for us, you see
Some things are best left well enough alone


Category
Poem

Leaving the Party

I know I must weave my way
through the clinking of glasses,
through the crowd, voices raised
to be heard over the music,
past the server with trays
of champagne, to thank
my host, which means
interrupting her converstion,
then approach the honored
guest, waiting until the eyes
of the huddled threesome
turn to me, say goodbye to her,
wade through more people,
juggling drinks and small plates,
past the waiter with a silver tray
of elegant bruschetta, past
groups of three or four huddled
together laughing, find other
close friends to say goodbye,
try to explain without insult
I’d rather just be home
alone.


Category
Poem

Radio

The radio in my jeep cuts out after count 6 of 8
Silence lingers for a two-count, sometimes two and a half and
Then the song, dj, conversation, advertisement fills the air

I’m left to piece the melody, lyrics, or conversation snippets myself
and I can’t help but notice how this mirrors the way I move through daily interactions

I’m just a broken radio hoping that someone knows the lyrics to finish the song I struggle to play. 


Category
Poem

Why Are You So Intent on Becoming An Artesian Well

she decided to look for the way home, a silly girl with silly thoughts, camping in dark woods and avoiding bright paths where a puffin told her raw meat was the opposite of what she needed but if she split herself in two and came back as the moon and not the finger pointing to the moon, she would be welcomed as a scold for herself, advising others when she’s in a dark mood, and he suggested just ask the mood where it could go to be happy and that would lead to a truth telling trailhead, but you’re just a pelagic seabird for god’s sake, so she gathered up as much pea gravel and tumbled glass as her bonny apron could hold and tumbled ass-long into a volcanic rock, untouched, unique, and just as nature intended.

Category
Poem

Autopsy

camping out
in a field of timothy,
the edge of morning
brings a cool bliss
of invisible mist
and carries a dream
of hair and skin
tissue and tendon
muscle and bone
being eaten by ravens

in greater light
the dream falls apart
into the clean sleep of oblivion
when one can no longer feel
the spirit’s embrace
or the heart’s release,
when one can no longer see
the abandoned house
of the vertical eye


Category
Poem

Leaving Pretty Behind

I found her lying in the grass
A small plot of black soil
Half dug next to the house
Trowel still clutched in her hand
Flower bulbs scattered near her feet  

I helped her into the living room
Her soft withered body
A feather leaning against mine
Wobbly hand pointing toward her chair
 
Why didn’t you call me? I asked
She just shrugged before replying
Seems if a body is soon to leave this world
A body should be able to leave something pretty behind  

I put the kettle on for tea
Brought her pills and a warm blanket
No use asking her to call the doctor
Both had given up the pretense
Grown weary of Keep the faith  

She insisted on the planting instead
I grubbed and turned the fall ground
To a fine crumbling between my fingers
Then she puttered the bulbs to bed
Whispered a prayer for their ears only  

One warm and windy March day
I drove past the empty house
Saw the For Sale sign in the yard
A yellow conversation of daffodils
Chatted gaily amongst the red brick
Whispering    pretty   pretty