June’s clever music box
In my lifetime
two people have polished my shoes
unsolicited
just because it needed doing
and they loved me.
But today it’s just me
to do what needs to be done.
My black clogs worn almost daily
now scuffed beyond what’s tolerable.
I find my shoeshine bag
I hadn’t thought of for years
still carrying its life-long accumulations–
polishes in oxblood, tan and black–
cans pried open with a penny–
the oily aroma I remember from childhood.
Just as I did years ago,
I dump the contents of the bag
onto an old newspaper on the floor.
I set aside from the rest
the yellow saddle soap
and then the black polish,
a wood-handled brush and a soft cloth.
In imitation of my father,
I methodically clean, polish, brush
and shine with an old cotton tee shirt.
I’m role playing
for those who loved me,
who showed me how to love.
reach for me as crepuscule obscures time’s passage–
flesh understands desire is transtemporal
hearts and minds know circumstance is not
live in words filling pages that will become immortal
once our souls part from ephemeral existence
craft a caim for this moment
conjur a spirit to strike a bargain for a future promise
to meet again–
as inextinguishable light seeking refuge beneath the horizon
as delicate illumination sparkling in disguise as marmoris
as impassioned orbs destined to converge in sempiternal ecstasy
Born under the stars mapping the journey of Taurus across the sky with the captured Princess Europa, I have always felt connected with the place where I was born, specifically the farms where my people worked and planted and harvested for generations. I feel the weight of those lands passing out of our hands, but will always remember climbing those hills and working that soil under the guidance of grandparents, aunts, and uncles, eating the fruits of that labor in the form of new potatoes and sour pickles canned in miscellaneous reused glass jars. I am sad that my son never caught tadpoles in the creek to bring to my grandmother as my cousin’s children were able to do
Muck giving under
Foot, hands clutching jarred tadpoles
Released when we left.
There are murals in
California. Exhaust stained,
gang-signed walls treated
with soap and thinner, creating
something new inside the
negative space. As he is
telling me this, a design
grows out of his
thumbnail, the paint
from the chalkboard
table giving way to cheap
polyurethane. Satisfied,
he rises, exits the coffee shop,
and finds another mess
to make sense of.
born, hatched, sprouted
form came to be
nurished, fed, watered
growth
live long, live strong
maybe
weakened, plump, weeds
old age, slaughtered, choked
death.
It’s the harp players’
job to restrain.
to remain calm
and ready,
to clutch loosely
in your palm
the tiny black
bullet microphone
with the volume knob set,
good to go,
when?
you’ll never know
and better so
also to hold,
in proper key,
that ten hole
brass reed bomb,
otherwise called the
pig whistle, the mouth organ,
the diatonic gob iron, the bone,
the French harp, the horn,
the blues harp, the tin sandwich,
the panpipe, the harpoon,
the common man’s instrument,
the harmonica,
with its twenty thin tin slivers,
affixed long to short,
soldered onto solid plates,
pinned to a pear wood comb
with hollow chambers cut
that echo every moan,
encased with silver covers
which glisten under stage light,
low notes left, high notes right
on the twelfth bar turn
around, the lead guitarist
gives a nod,
it’s your time tonight
remember always
to stay low,
syncopate the bass line,
listen, listen
to the snare,
start slow,
keep a cadence
funky cool, cast a line
then reel and flow,
lay bare your soul
until the hook is in,
and then,
when all that
sorrow and that pain
can no longer be contained,
once per show,
let it explode.
hungry prelingual humans,
pointing toward the prey
soldiers,
signaling orders
the traffic cop,
directing vehicles
deaf friends,
signing each other
an angry parent or boss,
acting out
a raised arm,
to show your buddies where you are in the crowd
the high five,
awaiting completion
the lecturer,
trying to enhance their speech
the raised fist,
seeking blood and bone
the loved ones at the end of that bright tunnel,
calling you home
This is my favorite part of the day
the morning, after my coffee,
as the day begins, shiny and new
Before my to do list starts demanding
and the hard things interfere,
there is so much promise
The promise can get crowded out
with the busyness and weary cirucumstances
but each day presents a chance
to get things accomplished, connect
with people, and most importantly
show kindness to others
As I put on my armor to face the
difficult part of my day,
I choose to do so with gladness,
and embrace the hope that
exsists within the mire
of life’s unpleasant aspects
