Sudden Storm

No two are alike.
Snowflakes. They say.
That's one of the truths no one disputes.
There comes a time when it is easier
to swallow a truth whole than to bite into an argument.
No two are alike. Arguments.
Sometimes they end in silence. Sometimes in an avalanche of
words.
Words that once said cannot be unsaid.
Cannot
be forgotten.
There comes a time when it is impossible to make
peace one more
time.
Better to leave the battle lines in place.
And feelings frozen.

Spring

I can feel it in my bones. The onset of spring fever. Daylight savings time coming. It won't be dark when I drive home. 70 degrees this weekend. Here's an old poem I wrote about a spring day a lifetime ago.

Spring in the Yard with No Grass

I nap on a brown army blanket and I am content.
I breathe in the smoke from
Daddy’s Chesterfield cigarette and his Old Spice Cologne
I ignore the gumballs under the blanket.
I count the flowers in the linoleum on the kitchen floor.
I memorize my phone number and the pictures in my Little Golden Library Book.
I like the flowers best – the yellow ones that look like butter.
The flowers on the linoleum are red.
The television is always on
as The World Turns
If I open the cupboard under the sink will I still find your whiskey bottle there?
Does your ironing board still crowd the dining room where no one eats together?
Do you still have the ashtray I brought you from Luray Caverns?
Do you still catch your toe under our worn carpet and cuss at the dog?
Have you shot him yet?
Do you still write me everyday in your mind?
Can I come home again?
Where rabbits hutch in Aunt Irma’s backyard.
Where Bill Mackey’s motor scooter dives down a hill that seemed steeper then.
Where you are still young and you tie a perfect bow in my sash and send me off starched and ironed to conquer the first grade.
Where the houses on both sides are filled with people who love me.
Where you stand on the front porch and holler “It’s Howdy Doody Time” and I run home to you.

Big Sur

And when you go, arrive with the sun.
Arrive from the east.
Arrive when your mind and body are numbed by travel,
and be surprised.
Be surprised that the mountains are alive.
Surprised that they breathe and surprised that you can believe again.

And when you go don’t wait for sunshine
Walk in the rain.
Walk in the fog.
Walk in the dark so you will know the power of eucalyptus.
The power of sulfur as you sit clothed only in embarrassment at the baths at Esalen listening to an ocean you cannot see crash on the rocks below.

When you go sleep late. Dream deep.
Enjoy the echoes that have been left behind at Deetjens
Make them your own. Leave some for the travelers
Who will come behind you.
Stretch. Make love. Be love.
Go to breakfast and taste the oatmeal.
All your life you will recall the way this oatmeal fills your mouth,
your belly, comforts you.

When you go remember when you drove up Highway One for the first time
in the dark, alone and unloved.
Remember how you envied the family in the travel trailer by the side of the road.
Remember how you wanted to step into a new ocean
but didn’t.

Then and Then

Where were you the first time you looked at me
and saw yourself in my face?
You told me you were living your life over through me.
You told me I would be the death of you

I stand beside your bed waiting, waiting
for you to draw your last breath
Knowing I have come home too late. I am dead to you already.

We share consecrated Sundays
fishing in our secret spot near Toppins pier
No one found us there. No one looked.
I baited hooks. You smoked.

I force myself to bring my face to your mouth and inhale your breath
I watch you sleep. Your bloated flesh is the color of creek scum
Finally I speak the unsaid words.
I’m home, Mama. I’m sorry.

I wanted more from life than croakers and soft shelled crabs
I wasn’t your shadow or your savior
Mama, I ran away from you long before I left

Spring in the Yard with No Grass

I nap on a brown army blanket and I am content.

I breathe in the smoke from Daddy’s Chesterfield cigarette and his Old Spice cologne

I ignore the gumballs under the blanket.

I count the flowers in the linoleum on the kitchen floor.

I memorize my phone number and the pictures in my Little Golden Library Book.

I like the flowers best – the yellow ones that look like butter.

The flowers on the linoleum are red.

The television is always on as

The World Turns

If I open the cupboard under the sink will I still find your whiskey bottle there?

Does your ironing board still crowd the dining room where no one eats together?

Do you still have the ashtray I brought you from Luray Caverns?

Do you still catch your toe under our worn carpet and cuss at the dog?

Have you shot him yet?

Do you still write me everyday in your mind?

Can I come home again?

Where rabbits hutch in Aunt Irma’s backyard.

Where Bill Mackey’s motor scooter dives down a hill that seemed steeper then.

Where you are still young and you tie a perfect bow in my sash and send me off starched and ironed to conquer the first grade.

Where the houses on both sides are filled with people who love me.

Where you stand on the front porch and holler “It’s Howdy Doody Time” and I run home to you.

Second Homecoming

Another poem that was born in Myra Shapiro's class

I could be in Belhaven
singing hymns, gathering brown eggs
and looking collard greens.

I could be spoiling grandbabies
while their mama works nights at Toppin’s
making pure pork country sausage.

I could be Page Sparrow
with an apron girded belly
and pear preserves in the pantry

I don’t want to go to sleep yet.

I could be Belhaven
Wisteria blocks the view from the front room window
White rose on a blue suit for Mother’s Day

I could be teaching Vacation Bible School at Sidney Freewill Baptist Church
An army of plaster of paris Jesus’s stand side by side on a shelf
ready to be attacked with tempera and determination

I could be Nelma Linton
limping through life in a cloud of Vicks Vapor Rub
and regret

I don’t want to go to sleep yet.

I could be in Belhaven
riding past row after row after row of corn,
tobacco, soybeans, pine trees and barefooted children

I could be rushing through supper
to get to Wednesday night prayer meeting
where I’ll talk to God and Blanche Burgess

I could be Katie McClese Foreman. A Methodist.
Going to bed early with a sick headache
leaving Roswell and the children to tiptoe around her immaculate house.

I don’t want to go to sleep yet.

I want to go down to the old house one more time.
Mama’s standing in the kitchen
Daddy’s singing about that old gang of his.

I want milk and honey.
I want faith and grace.

I want to wrap myself in mystery and an eight pointed star quilt
and rest beneath a moonless sky.

Homecoming

Another poem from Myra Sharpiro's Class:

Homecoming

I could be in Belhaven
singing hymns, gathering brown eggs
and looking collard greens.

I could be spoiling grandbabies
while their mama works at Toppin’s
making pure pork country sausage.

I could be Page Sparrow
with an apron girded belly
and pear preserves in the pantry

I don’t want to go to Hell

I want to go to Heaven
and walk through pearly gates
to hear the angels sing

I want milk and honey.
I want faith and grace.

I want to love the mystery.
To wrap my self in flour sacks
and sleep with summer stars.

Rose

This is a poem I wrote in Myra Shapiro's workshop after the "portrait exercise". This year the them is "what shapes us" and our poem is Romanesque Arches by Tomas Transtomer.

She is a rose.
Once her roots snaked down into dust and sucked hungrily.
She grew wise without growing old.
She is a rose.
Plucked from the ancient garden
from earth loosened by loving fingers.
Now she will bloom forever
behind a glass
encircled in gold
bejeweled with precious thorns

Apology

Among wishes, I am your candle.
Among journeys, I am your road map.
Among losses, I am your lesson.
Among anger, I am your fist.
Among heartbreak, I am your clown.
Among deep forests, I am your breadcrumb.
Among the dying, I hold the ashes.
Among the hungry, I hold the bread.
Among Time, I count the minutes.
Among danger, I am your comfort.
Among delight, I am your mirror.
Among cold nights, I am your blanket.
Among eternity, I share your emptiness.
Among memories, we'll be forgotten.
Among regrets, I am your biggest regret.
Among regrets, I am the reason you have no sons.
Among barrenness, I am your wife.

Grandmama

If she kisses me on both cheeks before her dry lips brush my hair.

If she takes my hand and pulls me to her table and places a cup before me.

If the aroma of chicory mixes with the smell of collards and snuff.

If there’s an open Bible on her lap and a cat under her chair.

If her eyes try to smile while her hands fiddle with her apron.

Elegy for Daddy

(After hearing Mark Strand’s Elegy for my Father)

Did you love me best? Sometimes. When it was convenient.
Did you love me best? I loved you as well as I could.
Did you know you were going to leave? I was never really there.
Did you know you were going to leave us? I was never really there.
Were you ever innocent? No one is innocent.
Where you ever innocent? Sin is in the eye of God. I spit in that eye.
Is there a God? Why do you ask me?
Is there a God? I am God, now.
What is in the box? An empty box in an empty box in an empty box in an empty box in an empty box.
Why did you leave us? You will understand someday.
Why did you leave us? You will never understand.
Who did you love best? Myself.
Who did you love best? You are my daughter. My true daughter. And I always love you best.