Category: Poems (Page 4 of 7)

An augur in ancient Rome studied signs
And bird behavior to discern a proposed action’s
Favorability rating with Latin divines.
Many have been auguring outcomes, respective factions
Prophesying destruction while others predict
Improving days. I don’t know about
The future, but the image I choose to depict
With my day-gifts is a canvas on easel, out
Where colors and drawing methods I’ve yet to learn
Await my sight-gift. We are all beginners.
This clock tick, and this. You see? Yearn
For the kingdom that loves and makes the losers winners.
There’s been an inauguration we haven’t esteemed–
The one St. Matthew told and Dr. King dreamed.

The thing we misunderstand when we say things
Like”we’re divided” and “there can be no unity”
Is that we are joined by infinite strings,
Like it or hate it, much like the beloved community
Of my nostrils welcomes oxygen that fills
My foot blood. Try it on and feel the pain
Of that statement: your sins, needs, and ills
Are not mine–I’ll take care of my main
Man–me. And we wonder why our cells
Attack themselves in this place built by jumping
Over people we knocked down, ignoring yells
For help–insisiting my drumbeat keeps thumping.
When the lungs tell the heart, “you do not belong to me,”
The spirit must vacate in the absence of We.

As far back as mid-childhood, I’ve had
Side-fat hugging my guts like cozy chain mail.
This faithful foam belly blankie holds mad
Thoughts, muffles gut yells, and keeps the jail
Cot soft–a detention center cemented together
By juvenile infractions and judgments handed down
By a very junior justice. Inquiring whether
Or not I could see the case files, I’m told The Crown
Has sealed the records. (My psychic incarceration
Takes place in a British crime drama.) This
Reminds me it’s time to watch an episode
Of The Great British Baking Show. Swiss
Rolls and scones. Yum. TV a la mode.
These loyal chums have always stuck by my side.
It’s objectively true–everything is better fried.

When I put the frozen waffle box
On the counter, our second son likes
To wail, “WAAAAFFLLLLEEEE!” And hold on to your socks
Because he howls with force. After the “yikes,
You’re loud” passes through my brain, I remind
Him we have to wait for the toaster to do
Its magic. “WAAAAFFLLLLEEEE!” “Wait” isn’t the kind
Of word this one-year-old likes. Me neither. You?
I always think about God during waffle screams–
How there God is, toasting a nice blueberry
Breakfast treat, perhaps getting the ice cream
Scoop from the drawer (!) for my fave frozen dairy.
I’m convinced God must be holding out,
And God’s just warming syrup while I pout.

Front porches have been on my mind, the hours
I spent taxing the chains, bolts, and grease
Of Papa and Grandma’s front swing. Flowers
(Lilies, shamrocks) and boxwood sat near. Peace
And quiet visited like Preacher Tom bringing
Tomatoes. One day I sat alone on the glider,
And Grandma opened the screen door. Wringing
Out a rag and clearing a trespassing spider
Web, she said, “You see, if you were in
The city, you’d have a neighbor right there and there.
You couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t even poot.” Her grin
Played under her glasses, and she sat in the rocking chair.
Front porches are the place we meet our guest
And share our drinks and food, and both are blessed.

On interstate 85 just outside
Gaffney, South Carolina, there’s a peach-
Shaped water tower. When you ride
By it’s hard not to notice, nay, reach
The objective conclusion that this lofty H2O
Holder looks like a yellow-orange butt.
Peaches are also a fruit known to grow
Well in Georgia. They’re delicious cut
Into wedges or baked in a cobbler. We had peach
Trees in our yard as a child, and my parents put
The ripe fruit in homemade ice cream–each
Spoonful heaven–chasing fireflies barefoot.
I think also about the wasted fruit
That fell and rotted, stones that couldn’t root.

Lately moss has been confronting me
With green, quiet significance. It boldly grows
In pavement cracks, on unseen bark, free
To sit still and soft on a stump or rows
Of stones that used to be a wall. I see
These viridescent carpet patches lying
Meditatively still–infinitive to be–
Beautiful and enough, giggling at all my trying.
These microcosm forests–I think what one
Cell must look like, how infinitesimal
And necessary it is, chloro-filled and sun-
Avoidant, ever-leftward moving decimal.
It was childhood–my love for moss began to grow
Because it’s not grass. That you have to mow.

How many times did you hear, “That didn’t hurt,”
“Don’t cry like a little bitch,” or “Nobody cares
About your moaning.”? Enough to rub some dirt
On it, get up and keep limping? There are prayers
In the Bible that are mostly weeping–
The kind of howling that would confine most boys
To the permanent penalty box. No one’s keeping
Little pussies on their team–all that noise
And snot. So when that shit starts to surface, shove
It hard, and crush it down like a car compactor.
You won’t be able to hear the roar for love.
You’ll strut and fret, a you-obsessed bad actor.
The first smoldering shut-up detonated the lies
That piled like concrete rubble on stifled cries.

She’s the one who told me how to write
A sonnet. I got to take the class she taught,
And I fully expected Mrs. Whatsit it to alight
Before the blackboard and comfort all us fraught
Meg Murrays with soothing words about how
Writing would be the tesseract to link
Us back to all that gaping space now
In need of saving. She took us to the brink
Of repair–cantankerous tenacious–saying things
Like, “Don’t go looking for pain. Pain will find
You,” and, “Fighting for peace is like fucking
For virginity.” This near-octogenarian blasted my mind.
Ms. L’Engle you taught me that writing is a gift
For author and reader to spell a universe shift.

O brutal. Full of specious cries for clamber,
Waives of brain. Usurpal–mounting travesty
Above the muted pain. Ameri… Amber
Waves were meant to image majesty
And plenty for all us huddled masses yearning
For free breath, space to grow a vine
And fig tree. Oh say, can you see the burning
Bombs bursting the image of the Divine
Right out of our knowing? The only spark of God
We strike in our neighbor is the wrath we ignite accusing
Them of demonic identity. Angels’ feet trod
By the river’s margins, their futile hubris losing.
Please God submerge us in that crystal stream.
Wash our eyes of the soul wasting dream.