a geisha's nod

I kinda sometimes maybe, but not really

I wish to be crazy untied

Smoke cigarettes

Hang out in cool New York bars

Jazz infested

just crawling in hip

I wish to wear trench coats and top hats

Run bone braless

I wish to be that colossal one

With profound binding

Published things

I wish to sip coffee

That tastes something

Like it smells

Love's bitter bite backwash

And coffee breath

I wish for some cash

But to be free enough to travel

In cars to graveyards

Pubs and history’s shining

I wish to be the eccentric

Who reads poetry to her dog

Surrounded in book musk

And Literature dust

As he just smiles

murder of a fairy's tale

footprints unique as fingertips

as lips grazed along poet (trees)

the muse that whips against windy reason

hair to waist and eyes of Eden

lost to saints

surrendered to shield

this fairy’s shroud is dusty

skin shed as empty paper

eyes sockets bare from

chosen blindness

flesh to bone

bone to loss

hostage

a homage

to broken veins and vomit

her emerald gown disintegrates

how long until her steps

erased

how long until her silence

replaced

…the breeze taunted

“Why did you look

Why did you see

Only the magic knows

Only the devil can tell

You treaded along a beaten path

You stumbled upon an open wound

A trap

This muse knows

Death was a rhyme away but

Pain

Flows like torrents

Dances as soul

Haunts as a storm

Risen from the southern sea

Carrying the name

POET to forever haunt and scar thee

for where there is one

there is always three

and where

there are three

the list

will grow”

The train approached the station as she waited heart pounding, ticket damp with sweat. She committed murder today. She is dead and she must hide away.

august 2010

Threshold

Entering the house he felt warmth

Not of heat

But of love

Not of romance

But of life

Not of ordinary

But of seeking

Not for what has been lost

But of knowledge

Not of man

But of universe

Not of science

But Of heart

Not of blood

But of Breathe

Not of air

But of earth

Not of arrogance

But of acceptance

Not of submission

But of action

Not of hate

But of warmth

Entering the house he felt warmth as he crossed the threshold into her smile

august 2010

revelation of a smile

She plowed through the knee high grass determined to reach the rocky ledge, moving quickly and deliberately, ignoring any aching that may have been present in her bones. The grass scratched her exposed shins as she stepped higher; almost with a youthful stance looking over her shoulder to be sure she was not missed. They would not have yet noticed that she was missing from her usual spot in the parlor with her beloved books. She only looked at the picture books now. Sandy, her daughter, had pulled them down from storage last year, a box of children’s books from another time. Her tea was probably still steaming on the table where her book rested and no one was due to check on her for at least twenty minutes. They didn’t think she still kept track of things like time.

­

“Mother, do you like the new tea Lilly picked up? She chose it just for you, mother. Would you like another sugar cookie, how about some fruit mother?”

She hated when they spoke to her as she devoured her picture books. She preferred to be alone as she felt herself fall into the universe of each page.

“Mother, I have some things to do, I’ll be back to check on you in a little while.”

She had to force herself to smile and nod. As soon as the parlor door clicked she bolted out of the French doors leading into the garden.

The ledge was in sight now, just a few more steps. In childhood they called it Stone Cliff. Her mother hated when they went out as far as Stone Cliff and forbid them from climbing down the boulders to the small patch of course beach below. The waves were violent and Mother warned them about the undertow. What mother did not know was that there was a narrow worn path along the boulders that children traversed to reach the bottom. The thrill of defying Mother was only surpassed by the danger of the waves that threatened as they played their pirates game. They were either digging up a treasure or burying one it seemed

She stood on Stone Cliff looking to the right for the head of the small path. It would be overgrown now. She heard what sounded like calling. Where they looking for her already she wondered or was it the gulls circling above the sea? They will check the grounds quietly at first , calmly, she thought, they will be convinced that I have gone to use the “facilities.”

Then she remembered from long ago, Mother hates me to come here. Mother worries so.

The path was overgrown, but she could make it out enough and understood that she would be sliding most the way down on her back side, with her hands extended to guide her. She could do it.

Mother would be so disappointed that she soiled her gown.

Scraping, sliding and rolling down between boulder and bush, she became bloody, bruised. She felt nothing, but the will to reach this grey shelled sand. The sea so noisy now, might they be calling? Might it be time for supper?

A silent glare through an entire meal would the punishment. No laughter, no light talk, none of mothers charm because she had failed her. Just her icey eyes and short quick movements from plate to mouth as she cut, chewed, swallowed, cut, chewed, swallowed.

Reaching the bottom the sea immediately overtook her senses as it always had. Her muscles relaxed releasing her of all her aches. Stepping from her gown, and slippers she stripped off everything. Her skin goosed immediately but she felt no cold, just exhilaration, just the power she wanted to hold.

This is where I made all my decisions.

This is where I cried my tears.

This is where I lost my mind.

Naked, she entered the sea, waves thrashing her thighs, shells cutting her feet, water chilling her bone, but she could breathe and she could remember all the hope. She could toss away dreams that never would be finished. Life was not going to give her any more time. There wouldn’t be a next year, or I might try that next time, or planning, or wondering what tomorrow held. There was just today. A wave struck her and losing her balance she began to tumble into the surf, not resisting but letting the water move her with its weapon of powerful tide.

As a child, getting lost in a wave frightens us,

as an adult, it reminds us,

as a weathered one, it has its way with us.

Her body limp and loose refusing to fight.

Daughter, son and grandchild; Sandy, Lilly and Peter raced to the ledge. What was mothering always calling it, Stony cliff? Sandy never had a desire to visit it as she had always taken Lilly to the public beaches only fifteen minutes away. She remembered going to the small cliff hidden beach only once as a child and being tossed by a wave against a rock cutting a three inch slice along her thigh. It was enough to never return. Mother had been rambling on a few days ago about Stony Cliff and she had ignored her, redirecting her attention to her picture books.

Looking down from the steep cliff they saw Mother’s white gown pressed against a large rock. What could have happened? Did mother want to die?

She saw them approaching.

Was that her mother, with her scowl, and her best friend Mary and Jimmy Hendrickson her high school sweetheart, but Jimmy never came home from the war did he? He was here? Why did they look so panicked?

“I am playing in the waves!” she sang through lips that would not move.

They reached the bottom of the treacherous trail and rushed towards mother on the sand as surf coursed over her naked body back and forth. Sandy thought about how frail she had assumed mother was now, how she spoke to her like a child, how her mother never knew who anyone was anymore, often mistaking Sandy as her own mother. She was her mother now, at least in duty, so it did not seem so strange. In fact, it almost seemed natural.

Peter rushed towards mother and scooped her in one smooth movement out of the water. Mother’s lips were blue, her teeth were chattering, but Sandy distinctly saw her smile. Yes, mother was smiling for the first time in eight long years and she began to quietly sing an old nursery rhyme as Peter dried and covered her with her cotton gown.

Little drops of water,

Little grains of sand,

Make the mighty ocean

And the pleasant land

*special thanks to Anthony D'Juan Shelton

* Little Drops of Water, Old English Nursery Rhyme

she WAS old

She was old

Today I touched soil and I remembered these things.

Two memories wrap around each other when I think of South Carolina and a visit(s) there as a little girl. Whether they took place on one trip or several is not important because in my mind they all echo around the taste and feel of the south.

Bertha Weeks, or Great Grandmom as I knew her, stood in her kitchen in white cotton briefs and a white industrial strength bra. She stood over the sink washing a pot. She might have been singing. I’d like to think she was. Her skinny legs looked ancient and spotted and her underwear were riding high, almost touching her bra strap. My Grandmother, Wynona’s shrill voice entered, “for God’s sake put some clothes on.” I imagine Bertha replying in her southern way with wit and feisty words, but I can’t hear them, they’re lost. Itwashot, scorching, and as far as I can remember there wasn’t an air conditioner. White cotton briefs and an industrial bra were probably just about right, considering.

Later that day or that year or maybe even a year later, I remember following Great Grandmom Bertha out to the garden. She carried an old aluminum pot with a handle. It was filled with rice she had just cooked. She didn’t eat any of it. It was for the worms. I followed her through what seemed like a disorganized mess of plants, paths, empty cans and various containers of all types. She told me all about the worms and how they kept her plants strong and in returned she cooked them nice big pots of rice to enjoy. She bent over in her house coat, small spade in one hand, and dug a hole in the earth and scooped in rice, mixing it in and covering it again. I remember staring in wonder and thinking that Grandmom Wynona would not like this and that maybe this was strange. Something seemed uncomfortable about it….feeding worms.

Only later would I realize the wisdom she had shared. Years later after she died and after the slap of tasting southern racism up close and personal.

In the south, I learned, what is meant to not be “prejudiced” was that you took good care of your help. Took pity on them. Maybe even buried them in your own family plot.

Bertha went north because she had to.

Bertha was on the couch with one leg.

Bertha was ancient now and I was afraid of her.

I came to visit Grandmom Wynona, a regular thing. It was expected that I hug Great Grandmom. She was fragile, small, sour. I felt ashamed but, I wanted to get it over with and go outside or something, but Grandmom thought it would be nice if I sat in the room with her. They set up a T.V., so she could watch from the couch in the formal living room. I knew about her leg. I overheard them all talking. I knew there was a stump under the blanket. I was maybe 14 now. I was sure about things, as sure as a teenager could be about things. I had already battled it out with Grandmom, earlier that year, blurting out that I spent the night at my best friend’s house often.

Whose Mom happened to be my mom’s best friend.

Who happened to be a boy.

Who happened to be gay

Who happened to be black

(Well half black. Stephan loved to tell people he got a white ass and black hair and he was angry as hell at the race gods.)

Grandmom was crying and I was righteous and powerful. I wasn’t crying, I was sobbing

I was right.

I was right.

I was right.

Damn it.

And I was. But, it was worse.

I sat in the chair looking over at great grandmom Bertha thinking about the stump under the blanket. Thinking of the recurring nightmare I had of losing my arm. Repulsed yet curious. When suddenly she screamed, bellowed really,

“YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THEY HAVE NIGGERS TELLING THE NEWS UP HERE?”

I felt my blood rise. I felt my anger rise. I felt every episode of Sesame Street I ever watched, every taunt at school that I loved a gay boy, every stare, every talk Stephan’s mother gave us on racism and equality rise in my constricting throat. I wanted to scream.

I heard about this. I learned about it, but here?

I wanted to rant as I watched her sitting there shaking her head. Mom came rushing in… I ran to the room I stayed in. Crying and shocked, I started to ramble. How? Why? It is so wrong. Soothingly, I was told that I was right and it was awful, but she was old.

“So what?”

“Hunny, she is so old. Older than 90. I knew that. I didn’t care. This is ingrained and it won’t change. She is about to leave us and it will never change. She is too old. It was her way of life and really she was a good person her entire life. She is tired, she isn’t herself and she is old. We just need to give her love and make her comfortable. It doesn’t mean we believe it"

I was left to stew in it.

I thought about it and decided that she was old and as I watched her mumbling to herself as she watched TV later that night, still angry, I knew mom was right. She was at her end¸ but

I was just at my start.

I am the girl resting in love within the mouth of the moon

I am the girl resting in love within the mouth of the moon

The moon drew me tonight and I flowed in upon him like cream

Resting within his mouth I beckoned you to rise with us

Your ears were filled with the sound of your pride

The eyes of the moon tear in my starry lullaby

My cries of weathered nights and barren dawns float along the airless stretches

of universe

The moon held me this eve

Rocking me to billowy dreamless sleep

Because he promised

Everything would be just as it is supposed to

The moon chanted to me this eve

Enchanting whispers pressed upon my ear

His reflective glow warming my raised skin

And I woke to the seat of his warm and moist mouth

I am the girl seated within the mouth of the moon

I am the light he set afire this eve

I am the desire of his every moonlit glow

I am the girl resting in love within the mouth of the moon

And you …

You don’t deserve me


September 2009

black stiletto boots

black stiletto boots

I see cold in miles of stretched and obtuse

Virgin snow

I feel mountains and their force amplified

As movement and fire brews miles below

Because

Magnitude charges before

Stark peace

we know

that we war and lose

against

Our own latent undertakings

The congealed whisperings of our greed

Our ripped stockings

Smeared lipstick &

bubble gum

Think that I am done

Done as dead

Done as old

And alone

And I decide

love is trickery

As I slide on my black stiletto boots

One at a time

Love ain’t, nothing

Nothing at all

December 2009

dear poetess

Dear Poetess

Young poetess cross your arms:

Little girl and boredom sit with their cheeks flushed from wind

Whipped fresh in their worries as they begin

To deep crease virgin skin

These are your day’s young fairy

These your nights

Listening within the cricket songs

When you worried you might die

Bud breasts breeding worms

Feeling them hatching strait there ‘neath the skin

Twisting at images of healthy bone and flesh

The agonies began

“I will touch cold ground

I will eat dirt

Worm filled”

Daddy will Leave Poetess:

Daddy left. Not there. Anymore. You can’t remember.

There in a mass of blond tangles

Blue eyed foreign

A stranger. Came to say hello

Do you want to run and dance away from him,

back out to the rush of your hills and grass?

Do not answer.

you

Did. And so did he. Forever

But daddy there

Who is

Seated

With you

He feels like you

You know his brown eyes

Wishing

Love me daddy.

See me.

See me.

See me

Sometimes he sees you

Sometimes he loves you

You could swear

Through what is there pointing to the sky

his words safe embraces

As you shiver in the dark air

These are the stars

That you will question dear

The rest of your nights

He gave you this

The Dreams hold answers Poetess:

They ate you and jeered against your pretty nightgowns

Your freshly bathed skin white and powdered

You screamed

Away from him and his blood

His breath death of terror

let your head rest

they come through doors and windows and alley

As folly enters hearts ; as babes enter life

Slick and wet

Aghast

Catch yourself

And suckle at the tit of that self

These are your treasures dear poetess

These are your gems

Trust their pushes

That was then Poetess:

You told it to the notebooks

Velvet clinches

He loved you as you rocked together after

Wanting to crawl up into each others skin and wear it

And roll

Smiling

As a hound in death

Or feces

You rocked each other into meaning

And life

And you gave it

This is now Poetess:

They paint your eyes merry

And crushed

As you painted theirs

Exclaimed in arms

Or pain

They rip for you

Shear with you

Their pain. Yours. You carry

It heavy sway back.

Easing you will know

It is there

Is has been

Now it is your elemental dance

rawness aired

Feel it through you breasts and womb dear poetess

Taste it all your days

January 2010