Untitled

I shouldn’t be here, sleeping not by choice:

potion holds me.  Unholy healing witchcraft

shows unseeing eyes dark images dancing a brilliant array of contortions,

swaying, seething, suffering as

I watch in delighted horror.

Enveloped I sense the presence of those who would wake me

from visions: they come and go unpredicted.  Clinging still

an aftertaste of the life that was.

Images return, bringing drumbeats:

Arrhythmic thumping,

thumping,

thumping.

Indecision weights legs now heavy;

I cannot.

I will not.

I want not.

I shouldn’t be here where I can feel the pull of my heart’s breath;

my veins and I float in calm terror.  Clarity has fled

chased by swelling colored shapes.

The hue of life tries a return.

I sense the call away from dark dancers.

New light comes to windows unused, unfocused and

contortionists take a final bow.

I enter an uncharted wakefulness.

I Still Want to be Mom

Forget what I said earlier -

it’s not really a thing I can

quit.

I mean, certainly, there are days

and hours and

weeks when my incompetence

comes to light. 

Actually, you bring it to me:

gift wrapped with good intentions and lost memories

covered in mud, anger, sticks, and grassy bits

or stabbed through with plaintive arrows of discontent and bad manners.

Still, squeezing the meanness of life narrows visions because you also

present:

playful antics, made up words,
cherries from the bottom of your slushy that

you probably sucked on but I eat them anyway when you offer them,

and

I’d just like you to forget what I said earlier.

Featured

Films feature unsmall histories;

    fancy yourself a star, but

can you be if all others are also?

Impossible.

Wretches, golden boys, diamond girls

   congregate, walking over long-

   eclipsed shades marked by sunken ideograms.

Thousand story souls hold parallel intersects –

   all imperfect, and none as weighty as first

   thought.

Bits are rusted by unexpected sneers –

   rude unwrapped.  Wounding.

When shadows pervade and flit

   past mirrors, we all reflect

   the boisterous grief of being no more

   than a fishwife – droll on screen but

   lurid in the flesh.

Hypnotic half-truths engage the viewers.

The screenwriter should be fired.

vase

bowl of translucence

proudly standing

and holding

sparklers of nature

refracting earth’s bounty

keeping watch –

a balance – air

proudly blooms light

seasonal explosions with

colors are hard to hide

April 26 Georgia

A boy mows the field next to the

            Senior Center: offices locked

            but blue bars and stars decorate

            signs out front.

Southern mists rise, pulling names

            from graves – a haunting –

            families foraged from left over

            people who did not foresee faults.

Collards and black-eyed peas glance

            at luck; chicken and dumplings

            bridge religion – not race.

Those keys are kept in generational pies -      

            though quick acquaintance

            can be had over pond seining –

            fish fries – or moonshine.

They won’t look, but fingers cross and

            casseroles cover wounds and scars

            built in eternity.

There is no end.

His grandfather is buried at Mr. Elam’s

            feet – there’s a rub that cannot

            be dug up.

Recollected history means more

            on this day than textbooks

            and undiluted sweet tea memories

            float up Freeman Harris Road.

This is more than we think it is.