~in loving memory of Momma~
~love, hope & prayers for brother Jack~
~deepest devotion to my children & grandchildren~
~Family Thanksgiving~
~a basket full of hugs & kisses~
~a piece of cherry pie~
~a warm smile on a cold morning~
~a place to go & cry~
~stories to tell & secrets to keep~
~those kites that refuse to fly~
~holidays at Grandma’s~
~& there’s Grandpa’s knee to ride~
~a symphony of tiny voices~
~pictures hanging on the wall~
~loneliness & happiness~
~bathtubs in the hall~
~beginnings & birthdays~
~& fires in the fall~
~those letters that say, “I miss you~
~I miss you most of all”~
~all the fourth of Julys exploding~
~& when there’s a scraped-up knee~
~magick kisses chase the pain away~
~& cats up in the tree~
~new shoes & hand-me-downs~
~those brand new glasses, “I can see!”~
~fighting & loving & loving & fighting~
~the past that’s the past of “me”~
~bicycles & training wheels~
~& time gets in the way~
~fairy tales & teeth under pillows~
~that place where the old dog lays~
~special seats to sit & blankets to hold~
~report cards & bright sunny days~
~little pockets full of bugs & bolts~
~picnics & camping & weekends away~
~where some friends belong & some are just friends~
~all kinds of neat stuff to share~
~noses & roses & photograph poses~
~everyone’s favorite chair~
~countless messes made by “Mister No One”~
~the search for the three-legged teddy bear~
~pennies in couches, pencils & cookies~
~the feeling: there’s always someone who cares~
~it’s you I’m really talking about~
~& the others I’d like to see~
~what we are is what it really means~
~to be part of a family~
~I guess drifting apart is natural~ ~the way Gods intend it to be~
~to be apart and a part, full circle~
~is to be part of a family~
~we all must grow in our own direction~
~surely we must strive to be free~
~but ever so often we should meet & remember~
~what it means to be family~
~it is you I’m really talking about~
~the pieces of you that are me~
~the pride I feel in the sharing~
~being part of a family~
~Family Thanksgiving was published by Mel Brakes Press 2010~
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~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: II~
~there are times you wake up~
~when you haven’t yet been to sleep~
~lost to the moon’s dictation as tides~
~murder in your blood~
~riding the storm~
~the bad sister’s face in the mirror won’t drop~
~Tempered By the Woman Without~
Memories call my attention to the moon. Reluctant to follow my heart so recently exiled to the roam, I stare at a single blind window facing east, imagine mad dogs in the yard, consider the other portal door, icicles’ frigid need to pierce my feet in the night.
My heart is a lonely wanderer. It listens to the howling voice of winter wind threatening to enter the room. It was cold the day I left her in the tiny city of the owls. Wisdom has bitten my love dreams in half. I am lost in a labyrinth of pain.
The teacher warned her students, “Beware that your noodle poems do not bite you.” She knew a man who drowned in the soup of himself. Photographs are mind whips to the lonely, reminders of that other reality. I have gathered my tablets in piles, an impenetrable wall of words.
Digging through papers, a card fell in my lap. It was a note from my mother begging forgiveness and too late now. I speak desperately to her box of ashes. Is it shameful for a man to weep? There are seven levels of revenge the winds of time disregard.
There’s the moon I shared with her. It captures my eyes, draws them through a wintry haze of clouds. I have stood too long in the yard trapped ‘neath this masque of ice. Where have they taken my princess, the lightning of our desire.
When eyes close and hands reach, what nimble creatures of habit they are, open on empty and holding without. Their disappointment is a near-step to misery. They torture the mind that made them so. A spirit of darkness invades and slips away with our dreams.
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~Poe, Nietzsche, Morrison, Manson loosening the mind nuts~~raven speaking the dark night~~Helter Skelter & oh, my damn, the music’s over here~~goodnight my lady this~ ~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: I~
~Confirmation of Darkness~
Monkish, I am a monkey starving in the limbs of a barren tree watching the ape community thriving on the lush jungle of life, unwilling, unable to join them, surviving by consuming vermin crawling through the skin of my brain.
There is a tin man howling whose body is a whistle stop where blackbirds rest and cackle, dance across his stiff arms, make sport of his scarecrow appearance. I scatter seeds on the ground to get them off me.
A continuum of negativity has swallowed my universe, beginning with naked parents and the poor rags of their death. My lady’s kisses have been taken, carried away in strongboxes, offered free to strangers.
Struggling to find a peace of ground, running bare-skinned through a snowfield, my spirit howls out to the gods seeking confirmation of destiny, its voice singing a litany handed down from the cradleboard in chains, the slave camp of my being.
If not for the glad-song of my children I might swallow the carpet nails of life, sing a rasping, gushing blood-song, allow myself the strength and release of weakness. Yet do they sustain me, demand with the purity of their love that I stand diminished, love them unconditionally.
She met me in a lightning storm, captured, ran away with my heart. Years grind our dearest dreams to dust. They become clouds to confuse and confound us. A poor lover, I struggle desperately to recapture what were, perhaps, only thoughts of a blind man who believed for a moment he could see.
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~Hell You Say~
~I get it~
~there are too many guns~
~you’d have me give mine up~
~& keep yours to defend & protect me~
~the hell you say~
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~Like A Tear~
~face dark as silt~
~high water crashing~
~cascading down~
~yellow/white~
~red vein showing~
~tide rolls in smooth~
~liquid saline blanket~
~lids blink~
~reveal eyes of mud~
~a white worm crawls through~
~falls across the cheek~
~like a tear~
~thick lips grimace~
~create a parody of a grin~
~teeth whiter than white~
~ivory columns~
~part and a pink snake leaps out~
~seizes the falling morsel~
~and bears it home~
~like a tear~
~like a hostage~
~like a promise~
~protesting genesis~
~the pearl white gates fall~
~as the tide flows back~
~eyes slam shut~
~then open~
~yellow/white~
~vein broken~
~red blood drips~
~down an ebony cheek of sand~
~like a tear~
~like a river become man~
~lightning arcs shiver~
~destroy the fabric of the sky~
~an insignificant mound of sand~
~rises up~
~shouts curses unheeded~
~to the heavens~
~fear is born in the mud of its eyes~
~thunder breaks~
~the man thing falls down~
~it has come to pray~
~to be carried away~
~like a tear~
~like a promise of nations~
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~Like A Tear was first published by Poetically Speaking~
I will recite this piece on New American Dream, “The Show”, www.newamericandream.net Thursday, September 29 at 5pm Pacific time.
Dictionary.com: Coffle - a line of animals, prisoners, or slaves chained and driven along together.
~Coffle~
Midnight, Alexandria Virginia, May 23, 1861
A line of chained men, eighteen in all, struggle to find a rhythm in their leg irons which are chained to their waists to their manacled hands. Each wears a steel collar. A chain connects these so the men are forced to march in a line. They make a coffle. A fat unkempt white man and his young assistant lead the way, their whips dragging in the dust. The coffle is black and will offer no resistance enroute to the Slave Pens. They are the midnight parade, one the giddy white folks won’t be bothered to witness.
The overseer hands his assistant a coin and the key to the pen. “Jus lock ‘em in a cell. We’ll separate ‘em and spray ‘em down tomorrow ‘fore the buyers come. Write this down and take it to Mister Birch: ‘I got me a dozen an’ a half stone breakers. They is long limbed and hard muscled. You wanna beat the sale, come see ‘fore ten tomorra mornin’”.
The youngster pulled a pad from his pocket and wrote furiously. He stuffed the pad back in his pocket, fumbled the key into the lock. The door to the cells opened with a complaining screech. The old man laughed and scratched his groin. “Ya all boys get on in there. That bolt cannot be lifted from the inside.”
The black men, eyes on the ground before them, shuffled into the dark stinking quarters of the Slave Pen. Here they would sleep and try to hold their water until morning came. Before the door closed behind them, one began to sing. His voice was low and syrupy and cracked like muddy water. He sang:
mister, set your whip down
you done cut this body ‘way
if I never lift that hammer
oh-oh livelong day
The younger white man banged the door with his whip. “You want I go whup ‘em quiet?”
The fat man laughed. “I like your brass, boy. You go give Birch that note. Come on back an’ if they’s still singin’, I want you write down them words. I heard tell they’s some kinda unnerground railroad an’ them songs is signals to ol’ Abe Lincoln hisself. You bring me them darky’s words an’ I’ll tip a pint or two with ya. You go on now!” He gave the padlock a pull to reassure himself and turned to go to his quarters. A voice darker than prison followed him down.
mister overseeryou done sold my children ‘way
got me chained here to this hammer
oh-oh livelong day
Lord as my witness
turn this body back to clay
I will bury that old hammer
oh-oh livelong day
mama, tell your children
it don’t do no good to pray
with your hands born to that hammer
oh-oh livelong day
“Man, it’s so dark in here, I can’t even see your eyes. Why you keep singin’ that ol’ song anyway? Ain’t nobody listenin’, ain’t nobody give a care ‘bout us.”
The syrupy voice stopped. Chains rattled a bit and the singing man spoke. “You hear that fat man? Well, I got a bolt in me... that’s what I got and it cannot be lifted from the outside. It gets rusty, just like that one on the door. If I want to oil it all I have to do is sing. If you listened, you would know. There’s a tall man in a dark hat. He’s comin’ to break these chains and, when he does, I’m gonna fight in that man’s army. That’s my dream. I may never find my people but I can offer myself up. Wherever they are, they gon’ be free.”
“You crazy, man. How’s that song go? Mind if I sing with ya? Maybe I could go fight in that army with you... They really let a black man shoot and fight...”
But the singer was singing:
take a word to Mister Lincoln
if he breaks these chains away
I will fight them with this hammer
oh-oh livelong day
Next day the Union army surprised Confederates and captured the Slave Pen but it was empty except for one old man chained to the middle of the floor by the leg and he was singing:
four score and seven
if a man is what he say
he gon’ free me from this hammer
oh-oh livelong day
mister, I’m the diggerand that hole I made today
is the last one; you can lay me
oh-oh livelong day
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~Coffle was first published by Flashquake~
~I’m real~
~I’m human~
~but I’m not an ordinary man~
~no no no~
~Jim Morrison~
~does the hellbound howl at you?~
~Nietzsche~
~you haven't got long~
~before you are all going to kill yourselves~
~Charles Manson~
~thus I pacified Psyche & kissed her~
~Poe~
~Jesus is the bomb~
~do you see him~
~WordWulf~
~Situated Western/Saving Grace~
Western didn’t wake up this morning. We stayed up drinking last night, him and me. I’ve begun to wonder if the Saturday morning head is worth the Friday night slaking of a thirst stacked up, day to day, during the week. Maybe I’m getting old. Maybe I’ve had enough.
Western was funny last night though. He had me laughing my ass off one minute and crying the next. He tells the funniest damned stories then starts talking about his wife and kids. No matter what he’s thinking or doing, his family is always a background conversation running through his mind. At least that’s how he explained it to me.
Man was I pissed when they told me I was going to be stuck on this outpost with that crazy old man. He’s forty-two for Christ’s sake! I didn’t sign up in this man’s army to babysit some guy with two of his fingers missing and a head full of rain.
Now I know better. I’m just a dumb-assed kid. The old man covered my ass, even saved it a couple of times the past month or so here in no man’s land. Last night, after we finished off the booze, Western hugged me, told me I was his saving grace, that hanging out with me was like spending time with one of his own sons. He made me promise that, if anything happened to him over here, I’d go to his family and tell them everything was okay with him. His boys are around my age and he’s glad they’re not here. I don’t know what makes him think I could explain any of this shit to them, crazy old man.
That’s a hug I’ll never forget. Western knew things and didn’t mind sharing once he tested your mettle and found you worthy of his teaching. I guess that was his gift. Knowing I don’t know enough just might see me through this thing. I’m just a dumb-assed kid.
Some desert dog, shootin’ his ass off son-of-a-bitch, got a lucky round off last night. He’ll never know he put a hole in a man better than himself, better than any of us, a hole just big enough for that man’s life to leak away into the filthy sand of this bunker while I was sleeping off the whiskey night. I’m gonna make it. I can do this. I’ll hug his sons and weep with them. I need to do that. I hate this war that taught me how to love a man I didn’t even like then took him away from me.
Guess I’m just a dumb-assed kid. Western didn’t wake up this morning.
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~a squirrel on the mailbox~
~attempting to argue me out of breakfast~
~a church bell sends it flying into a tree~
~it chitters at children skipping down the street~
~I smile & go inside~
~it gets my breakfast after all~
~Tintinnabulum~
Sparrows nesting in the eaves flit dangerously near strangers crossing the porch. Hungry cries from the nest announce the event of birthing has come and is gone. These tiny shrill voices are nature’s call to morning as sure as the sun rises. A fat cat lays in the yard purring, pondering its next meal.
A child laughing nearby, whose tinkling voice somehow defies the tar rubber roar of traffic, is a sweet reminder of Sunday, late spring and bare feet, wiggly toes and dandelions, knows well to celebrate, embrace and engage the day. A deep rumbling in the earth precedes a low flying train.
A man with love in his heart makes a low humming sound, deep, deeper in his being than that of conscious awareness. His spirit becomes an instrument, a finely tuned harp, upon which wind fingers play and the voice of his lover. A smile visits his lips. True beauty is borne, sweet silence on a Sunday morn.
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~The Moth/A Sign~
I took a day off work as a "preserve my sanity" day. I lost my Mother July 11, 2004. Her birthday was September 7th so I had Sunday to reminisce her. I'd been angry at her for choosing to leave and, on top of that, not sending me a sign as she had promised, from the other side. The eighteenth of July I was sitting in my midnight room writing, using a notebook of lines jotted down in 2003 for inspiration, written ten months before her death. A tiny moth alit on the arm of my glasses, its wings aflutter, caressing my right temple.
A feeling inside bid me resist the urge to bat it away. After a few moments, it flew over and landed on the sheet I was writing from. It lingered over a line that read: "A wee bit wicked and its impact was felt all the more in its brevity... there are Earth Angels who would name it sin... but what do they know of sin." I reached for my camera and took a few pictures of the tiny creature so I wouldn't convince myself later that it was a dream or a fantasy the likes of which I am inclined to conjure up. After our private photo shoot, it returned to perch on my glasses once more. They came then, a tender-weep if you will, tears waiting four years to call my name. The moth flew up and through the window of this old farmhouse in Arvada. Signs are signs, aren't they? There was nothing earth shattering as I might have expected, no falling stars or lightning striking through my window exciting my flesh.
I don't travel to exotic faraway lands or jump out of airplanes, nor feel the need to. I raised five wonderful children. Natives of Colorado all, we live in Arvada, Wheat Ridge, and Golden and quite like it here. I'm a simply complex man who likes to write and sing, make music with his sons and watch his daughters dance. The visit of a tiny moth is an epiphany to me, what some others might simply squash and toss into the wastebasket.
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~Larimer Street in Denver~it’s the place to be for the in-crowd, sports junkies, girls on the make~the haves pushed the don’t haves out years ago~it used to be skid-row~I liked it better then~spilled some blood there~not all of it my own~
~George’s Hands~
His knuckles were pushed back, forever swollen in his huge hands whose fists had made him king of the Larimer Street Bars. Quiet and soft-spoken, he took this sixteen-year-old kid under his wing. I worked the yard with him at a scaffolding company. It was my first job and he was my boss.
George took me to the bars some Friday nights after work. The Yellow Cab would pick us up and drop us off in skid row downtown. When we walked into the bars loud voices hushed in respect. Madmen and wild women parted and made way for me and my gentle giant friend.
George put my hand to a wrench, taught me to drive the Case forklift, though he never drove a car and I asked him why. He swore me to secrecy then showed me a document from his wallet that stated his driver’s license was revoked forever for driving getaway cars from bank robberies in the thirties and forties.
Within a year I was George’s boss. He pushed me ahead of himself, told me I would be a man of words, that he was a man of hands. A year later, when George was fifty-six years old, his cigarette smoking and bar room brawling days caught up with him in a rush. I’ll not forget his gasping breath, its halting whoosh as emphysema put him down.
I had helped George tag all his tools and wondered why he would paint them bright orange to separate them from the others in the shop. At seventeen-years-old, after my first pall bearing, George’s wife had me gather them up and bring them to her. She said he meant for me to keep them, every single one of them. They were many, amassed over twenty hardworking years. I loaded them back into my hotrod Mustang, shed a tumble of hard-bitten tears. I have been haunted and blessed the whole of my life by memories of George’s hands.
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