Il dolce far niente (for my daughter)
you watch the waves crash
on honeymoon beaches
horizons expand
Post Talent Show Ride Home
Darkness settles on the landscape.
The stage of laughter empties of performers
elated from their ball-filled successes.
The winner, a semi-demented, scantily
and unflatteringly dressed ball sales person,
another a referee and teacher of all things balls
with a funny and informative slide show who sang
a ball song, another, ball-less because of testicular
cancer, got fewer laughs because he dressed like a clown
and two coaches who didn’t make sense.
Someone announces the Biden-Trump debate
is a debacle, Biden’s balls are stuck in his craw
unable to speak he stands in defeat
and Trump’s balls rattle like loose bearings
in the head of a maraca.
The long drive home the car’s radio stations
devoid of music only the voices of ineptitude,
insanity, old age and forgetfulness resound from the speakers.
I listen to the present, past and future leaders
of my country publicly profess their stupidity
shake my head and say to myself how fortunate
the contestants for this evening’s talent contest
didn’t have to compete against these two idiots.
The packhouse bulging in early September,
my mother takes over, checking our work
as we strip the tobacco leaves off the sticks
they’d been lashed to & cured on,
each length of twine unstrung by hand
like pulling out stitches, each leaf laid
on a big cardboard mold like her springform
cake pan, the bundles stuffed into burlap sheets
tied off at the top like a hobo’s sack.
On breaks over Sun Drop or Nehi Grape,
Mama uses loops of castoff twine
to teach us the old cat’s cradle tricks:
Crow’s Feet, Cut Your Head Off, Fish in a Dish
& my favorite, Jacob’s Ladder—twelve
quick motions, ring-finger-middle-finger-thumb,
a flourish at the end & there: heaven’s
rickety staircase, my hands on the banister,
at the top of it my inheritance.
another June night stretches thin,
reaches for a cloud-covered dawn
an omen or a sign,
a cruel balance that must (?) exist
because a young girl’s wish,
a prayer, a spell was cast decades ago,
slow moving and steadfast,
traversing the past, enigmatizing the present,
brought you here
now
time and fate obscure each other,
and a heavy heart– promised to another tender, loving soul–
must carry the weight of knowing that you really do exist on this astral plane
how beautiful it is to know that you are here,
that you have always been here–
your voice: baritone in range, tenor in timbre, off in the distance
brightly-colored and child-like–
all this time
the gods kept silent,
and remain so–
time is a cruel creation in which we live,
but not among calendar days or lunar cycles:
it’s cenote gold losing its shimmer
in unspoken truths between soft breaths, resplendent verses, and steady, stoic hunger.
ponytail and cold rolled steel bit
for appearances you : today
teeth hair gold lit shine
at me barely looking
here is where imagination takes
the reins : takes me out
to run in circles dipping under
your flat hand today
saddled : undered
sleep standing up
while you watch gray peripheral
this skipping record scene
nightly daydream toward sunset
together : it goes on forever
the oaks and ocean just keep
going for us : stall door between
convinced a face and gorgeous
word can forge horse dedication
spur scars streaked
self humiliation head down
but please before you go for
the night : clean the packed
dirt from my circle hooves
would you : carve evidence
my labor nearer you
I watch the patterns emerge
colors deep and rich bright and pure
the sky lifts while the canvas darkens
from dark to light from white to blues greens yellows orange purple
taste delight pleasure never ceasing joy
satisfaction enough
another bite another brush another gentle sweep of the hand
turning this world to gold
In the sticks where I can’t get
cable & internet is unreliable
it’s natural–inevitable–to turn
to AM radio when you are bored
& want something to happen.
I stumble on a call-in show
for selling tractors, pigs
rabbits, gravel & consider
buying a scoop of Chattanooga
Red gravel or a Blue
Heeler pup. I switch
the dial to Bluegrass Sunrise
on WBLU where old-timey
twang blasts with high
harmonies & runaway
mandolin. Do you want
to go home? Why are you so
alone? the lead singer
belts. I can’t answer. I’ve roamed
city & farm with a restlessness,
a twirling mind like a shiny
baton. No matter, an inner
voice hums. Just breathe
slowly. Watch curvy fields morph
from baby green to bronze
stubble. The welcoming hay
harvest will come & come again
with light coatings of December
now on the naked maples. Returning
seasons mature me like wind
& rain beat down boulder & slate
into sediment & sand. I notice the high tenor,
the three-part harmonies soaring
as I make the practical spiritual choice
& order the Chattanooga Red.
Out there the dark,
in here the light
of my trusty desk lamp,
the kind architects used to use
when sitting at tilted boards
wrestling right angles
from thin air
with their bare hands.
Someday, I’ll be brave.
Ditch this modern life,
step out into the pitch black
and take the only road:
the one that leads
to the moon-white creek
and then, in a straight line,
to forever.
