Warning to the reader: reading this collection will take more than 30 minutes for the fastest of readers. The collection extends in time from my teenage years (1975-ish) to the present. Some are better than others. Some are worse. And I am still adding as hidden ones are discovered. I'd like to think they get better with experience, but that does not always hold.
p.s. Leave it to me to open a collection of sonnets with a triolet. Here it goes:
A triolet
Sem ti, tudo me enoja e me aborrece
sem ti, perpetuamente estou passando,
nas mores alegrias, mor tristeza. - Camoes
I’m not long for this world of woe -
of strife and quarrelsome divide;
so I’ll content myself with poems -
I’m not long for this world of woe.
In time we reap the deeds we sow:
Our words and acts and thoughts collide –
I’m not long for this world of woe –
of strife and quarrelsome divide.
The Flight by Night
What was the meaning of the flight by night?
Was it to escape the enemy’s oppression?
Was it in search of a rare sunbeam?
Or was it to recapture a nostalgic dream?
What was the meaning of the flight by night?
Was it a stage in a gradual progression?
Was it to retrieve the gifts of life and time?
Or was it the revival of something more sublime?
What was the meaning of the flight by night?
I must fight to overcome this frightening obsession.
We must search until we find the answer
to this question. Then, and only then,
will we be free from past transgression.
1975
Come Feast Your Eyes...(sonnet)
Come feast your eyes upon this mortal flesh -
This flesh that toiled and suffered on the earth,
And never once backed down from any task;
This frame that housed a spirit and a mind
That dared to live: a spirit that defied the sting of death;
A mind so exalted and sublime,
That it transcends the boundaries of time.
Come feast your eyes upon this mortal flesh -
This earthly form of dirt and dust and clay,
This vessel that once breathed the breath of life.
Look in the eyes and see into the soul:
The virtuous soul, the patient, faithful soul, the soul
At rest; the soul that found contentment in
Its prayer, and thereby freed itself from sin.
1975
Colour
Why then should we be blinded
By the skin’s external hue?
Is supremacy of coloring
The sole reward we’re due?
Can this doctrine heal our sores?
Is it refuge for our grief?
Does it rectify injustice?
Can it bring us true relief?
Nay! But quality of intellect and
Purity of heart and uprightness
Of morals will sustain us…
If the goals we set are true.
Let us, thus, go forth, remake the world,
With truth and strong belief.
1975
We, the students
We exist independent of the filth and
Moral corruption that plagues the modern world.
And although it may be stylish to do wrong,
We refuse to conform, we dare not allow ourselves
To be seduced by the appetites and desires
Whose control give us mastery over creation.
Our lifestyle is unique, we have our own
Ideas of freedom, our own motivating power,
Our own value system. Our behavior is not
Defined by modern psychology, our growth
Is not measured in height or weight, our
Mental power is not classified by IQ, SAT, or ACT scores.
We generate the energy we need to move and grow,
We have our own power source in ourselves.
1976
Alchemy (Notes from Chemistry 101)
broken pieces
scattered all about,
resisting silently
their reconstruction.
subatomic particles
in random motion
looking for the best nucleus
to revolve around.
mass confusion and disorder
as the electrons collide,
mix and split,
rejecting organization,
responding only to light
from a pure source.
1976
Missile Launch Sonnet
"This is the Captain, this is a strategic launch!
Man Battlestations!" rings around my soul,
And rousing me from sleepiness and slumber,
Demands that I assume my chosen role.
We rise up, like a beast, from ocean’s bottom,
The hatches open, doomsday is at hand—
We push the buttons, random pick the numbers,
Then send the missiles after our command.
And afterward the afterword is zero…
There’s no one left to tell us how we sinned;
We are survivors, that makes us the hero,
We build the world anew and make amends.
But how can we ignore, erase our wrong?
We pay the price. Are we the best, the strong?
1981
Elegy for Rhia Walton
Each time I pass through Richmond I feel
Your presence more strongly than I ever did
When you were here with us,
Sharing with us our laughter, and our fears.
Your departure was so sudden, so unexpected,
So tragic. We miss you terribly and
We've exhausted all attempts to fill the vacuum
That your withdrawal has created
In our hearts and in our conversations.
My love for you was a helpless infant
That, orphaned, must now fend for itself.
From time to time I feel the conspicuous
Absence of some quality in my life.
I know what is missing is you.
1983
Prelude
Every decision, it seems,
is a tradeoff, and each choice,
a rejection of all other options.
We oversimplify
to mask our true feelings.
We generalize
to avert the difficult question.
Our friendship,
our love is a complex being,
a life all its own
with wants and needs
that test our resolve.
Is it a mistake, a crime to feed it,
to allow it to blossom and grow?
1986
The Mayport Sonnets 1988-1991Sonnet #6
I’m torn between two sinking ships,
Two jealous mistresses who hate.
To choose one is to choose them both:
The choice is clear; I hesitate
Deciding and the moment slips away.
New ships are landing at my pier
From places strange, from shores untold.
They beckon me to come aboard,
I hesitate. Once more events unfold
Revealing feelings that are blue.
My pilot bids me change my course,
Steer clear of danger, shallow shoals.
I navigate my ship through storms
To reach the resting place of souls.
Sonnet #7
Dear faithful friend, the spirit
Of the verses that we write,
Excites us and invites us
To relive that summer’s night.
There are those who do not put stock
In resurrection’s power;
They hem and haw at warnings
Of the coming of the hour.
I too had doubts about beliefs
That dead could come to life,
Then my forgotten love for you
Was resurrected, born anew . . .
A stronger and far deeper love
Is one twice born, sent from above.
Sonnet #8
Unclothed we come into this world, possession-less, alone,
The odyssey to reach each goal acquaints us with new pain,
Each stumbling block, despite the odds, becomes a stepping stone,
And every loss, a predecessor to a greater gain.
Our meeting was revealed to me when I was but a child:
A revelation of a form, a loveliness, pristine,
Yet planted in my heart was that pure vision, undefiled,
Someday to manifest itself just as it was foreseen.
I found you when I lacked the wherewithal to make you mine,
Distressed, perplexed, I felt compelled to spell my love that June.
That summer’s love was but a glimpse into a world divine,
A harbinger of better days, of times more opportune.
We’ll meet again and then we must decide upon the hour,
When we’ll allow our destinies to intertwine and flower.
Sonnet #10
When overburdened with the cares and woes
Of everyday travail, I take a pause
To recollect, arrange my thoughts, compose
Some verse for you, attempting to disclose
A word, a clause, the laws that bind our hearts
Together in a single work of art.
Our love cannot be bound by words and notes,
Though flawed, confined to secrecy, and mute,
We can’t stand on a mountaintop, promote
Abroad this feeling, though it keeps our boat
Afloat amid the sunken wrecks, unmarked,
Unseen by those who fail to read the charts . . .
I love you, yes, I can’t ignore the force
That steers me steady on life’s stormy course.
Sonnet #11
Before I fall asleep each night I read
The poems you’ve sent: they are my prayers, my hope,
My joy, prescription for my timeless need.
I read them twice, I measure every slope
And curve, defining and deriving their
Delights, despite the doom you recommend
Our end would be if we should ever touch
Our lips to lips, our flesh to flesh again.
My compass true, my anchor sound, I’ll find
The key to treasures long forgotten, long
Unrecognized, preserved within the mind
Of poets who still sing the sonnet’s song.
And you, my friend, write on your sullen dirge.
I wager we’ll survive its sterile purge.
Sonnet #12
One April day the crew got underway,
With Captain's-gig and hopes and spirits high,
Embarking on a lark to old St. Augustine,
To seek for LUCE the blessing of the fleet.
We passed shacks, mansions, rich and poor that lined
The shore. Along the beach the sand was brown
Like mud; ebb tide exposed the rotted posts
Where fishing boats and captain's gigs could land.
LUCE led the slow procession past the stands
Where stood the Bishop, color guard, and friends,
He sprinkled us with water from his hands,
And smiled and spoke his blessing for the fleet:
God bless the fleet that shields our shores from harm.
Protect the ships that silence war's alarm.
Sonnet #13
A young man's life expired on my ship
Today. He walked aboard at dawn, intent
(One must assume) to start his day, his life
Anew. Then suddenly, without consent,
Without the chance to bargain, beg, or plead,
The messenger of death unsheathed his sword,
Cut off the breath, suppressed the beating heart
Of life once vibrant, cocksure, confident.
A young man died, was his the first, the last
To reach the end of dreams, the final breath
To take? When all the storms of life have passed,
And evil's jurisdiction over souls
Is brought to naught, the truth, once crucified,
Will rise to save the souls of hopes that died.
Sonnet #14
Dear friend, I listen to your poems of late,
And contemplate the dreaded thought of life
Without the prospect of your fond embrace;
I reminisce about that kiss one June:
Too soon, too late to consummate; too true
To be denied, too pure to not be sure
That God intended for our souls to dwell
As one, exclusive, all-embracing love---
No matter what the future holds in store,
I did, I do I’ll always love you more
And more; though distance separate us far,
I’ll search the constellations for that star
That shines in you. And should I die, too soon,
Apart from you, we’ll meet again one June.
Sonnet #15
Dear friend, with pen in hand and feelings true
I sing for you this song. Despite my voice,
Too base in places to be understood,
You’ll sense the message: soothing, moving, light,
Disarming, satisfying. Rendezvous
Tonight with me, take flight, delight, rejoice
In that we share this love, exchange this word
That lives past sunsets, through the darkest night.
I can’t contain the energy this thought
Now generates: it makes me want to dance,
Sing, shout, tell all the worlds, turn somersaults;
It makes me grateful, thankful for romance.
When passing passions blue bid me adieu,
I seek safe harbors, true, kind friend, near you
Sonnet #16
Today I watched the shuttle launched towards space.
A tail of fire plowed the southern morning sky
Until it disappeared. I thought about
The people there, behind the scenes, who made,
It all occur. There's someone there whose life
Is less than free from care, a lonely heart,
Dis-eased, distressed, beset by worries, woes,
Who, overcoming all, finds sweet the reaching
Of the goal. Happy ones there feel the tinge
Of sadness at the thought of those who've missed
By fate the thrill of launch complete, the charm,
The pure romance of making dreams come true.
The shuttle jets toward heaven, far away
From troubles, closer still to hopes ideal.
Sonnet #17
Dear friend I left our poems ashore to gain
A clear and fresh perspective on romance
So new, unfolding through these notes exchanged
By mail. In some respects I'm at a loss
For words that rhyme: these thoughts, sublime, contain
The elements of hope divine, the chance
That you might share, with me, again, unchanged
Thrills sought and found that star-crossed night in June.
It can't be as it was. It must be less
Or more. Our lust for life has aged, matured,
We've wined and dined on bittersweets, endured
The loss and gain of joy's and pain's excess.
And yet I can't forget that night in June,
When we read Shelley, kissed, and touched the moon.
Sonnet #18
The spirit's come and gone. And yet remains
The hull, the shell wherein no true love thrives
Today. The salvaged traces laugh at me,
At us for make-believing fairy-tales
And happy endings where romance is sweet,
Where love runs deep, where passions overflow,
Eclipsing sun and moon and night and day.
The spirit waves good-bye and with a sigh
I lift my eyes, my chin, my sinking heart
To God, to plead for strength to understand
This plan, this life so fraught with strife, so full
Of chance and happenstance and foiled romance.
The deed is done, its end is near. Revere
The strength that overcomes a darkened year.
Sonnet #19
Two months have passed since last I read from you
A poem, wherein you bid your heart awake,
Return again, transcend that hellish gore
Where life and love are but the vapid glow
Which covers, hides and smothers innocence.
I beg to understand, to know the truth
About that grave whereof you speak, where fools
Like me are brought, at last, to dismal ends.
My love of life is greater than my hope
That we might share again the joy we knew
That June. Another spring is come, and June
Will visit soon enough to cast its spell.
My love for poems and poets knows no end—
I can’t be just the object of your pen.
Sonnet #20
Dear friend, take up your pen again, compose
Those works of art that live and breathe and sing
The rhapsody of love and hope. Revive
Anew in you the spirit of the Muse
To guide, to entertain, and to enthuse.
Restore the democratic art, the urge
To write, embraceable, attainable
By all. Take up your pen, today, obey
God’s highest call: express the good, the true,
The beautiful. Articulate in verse
Life’s purest, deepest, noblest sentiments;
Preserve in rhyme and rhythm secrets sent.
Take up your pen again, the times demand
Your words be heard, your dreams rise up and stand.
Sonnet #21
Remember years ago when we first met?
You selling books, me browsing, reading books
At Brandon’s store? We were so young, and life
So unrevealed, so full of promises
And boundless hopes and dreams, and guarantees
And opportunities. You went away.
I stayed and made mistakes. We met again,
You east, me west, you school, me ships and seas.
Confused, we erred and severed friendship’s bond,
And all seemed lost between us save a thread,
A laser beam of hope that, over time,
Compressed, distilled and purified, survived
Until today. We meet again. What fate
Awaits is ours to plan, to recommend.
Sonnet #22
I look back to the time we shared and smile,
And smile and grin and laugh with joy untapped
Before that smile. Our spirits span the miles
That separate our hearts, that keep us trapped
Apart, detached, disjointed from that source
of strength, of love the gods bequeathed to gods
At birth. We rendezvous beyond, outside
The force of chance and fate. Our senses fuse,
United endlessly in time and space;
The spark of life ignites and multiplies,
Acknowledging a power all its own.
Dear friend I can't ignore the call of June:
In just a few short weeks we'll meet, we'll taste
The chilled sweet wine, fermented, aged and pure.
Sonnet #23
Dear faithful friend I count each passing day,
I pray for time to instantly elapse,
Events to fill the gaps that separate
And isolate my life from thine. Oh fate,
Do draw me nearer, nearer to the heart
That beats in sync, in step with mine-- to thee,
To thee, sweet angel of my childhood dreams!
I'll smile to see you, touch you, taste your smile,
And all the while my soul has longed to lodge
Near yours will seem like but a brief delay,
A short, short stay away from heaven's bliss.
I fantasize that when we meet we'll kiss,
And cry, and tears will rinse away, dissolve
The walls we've built to hold in check our love.
Sonnet #24
Dear friend, perhaps our paths may cross again:
Perchance, we’ll meet together at the top,
Or down below, beneath the crowds, inside
The underground. Perhaps we’ll be united
By a cause, a hope, a dream, a fantasy . . .
Perhaps we’ll join together out of fear
Or love for something we perceive to be.
It matters not my love, the force, the source
That consecrates the ground on which we'll meet:
It matters not the season of the year
(Though June is sweet!), nor the place destiny
Prescribes, we’ll meet! The Muses tell us so!
Though circumstance as yet precludes the fate
The gods have planned, I wait, I wait, I wait…
End of the Mayport Sonnets St. Louis SonnetsSonnet #25
I fight with all my waning strength
distrustfulness and self-suspicious fear
that seeks free rent. The night's uncertainty
envelops me and whispers in my ear:
"Take arms, retreat; resist, cooperate."
The will, the faith to overcome escapes
my grasp each moment I attempt to make
it mine. At times it seizes me, this fear,
engulfing like a parasite my source.
I cannot let it win! My soul must hold
its ground! Though wounded, bloodied, battered,
I must be…. justified.
The sword of victory and peace is drawn.
The darkest part of night precedes the dawn.
Sonnet #26
Sweet peace, spring love was never meant to last.
But we've been blessed by chance and fate to taste
Its bittersweetness, to feel its incandescence...
Sweet peace, I tremble at the thought of touching you,
I stumble, hesitatingly, over-anxiously
As we touch, as our lips meet,
As our heartbeats synchronize.
Our paths may never cross again as in
this random moment, our lips may never meet,
complete, again, and spring, sweet peace,
for you and I, may never reappear ...
This word is all that I possess to give,
and all is all my fragile soul can bear.
Sweet dreams, sweet peace, I hear your angels' wings.
Sonnet #27
Sweet peace, spring love was never meant to last:
Its budding branches bear a tempting fruit,
Whose taste is bittersweet and innocence
That glows with incandescent subtlety.
Acknowledging spring's temporariness,
I tremble at the thought of touching you:
I fear your petals may unfold too soon,
And, falling to the ground, disintegrate.
I stumble as our lips approach, then meet,
Our heartstrings and our heartbeats synchronized.
Spring love intoxicates us: spirits fuse,
Revealing in each other secret worlds.
Sweet dreams, sweet peace, I hear your angels' wings.
My winter-weary soul awaits next spring.
Sonnet #28
Sweet peace, spring love was never meant to last:
It's just a stint, a pause, a brief delay
In what is otherwise a boring, gray
Sojourn we call our lives. Today her buds
And blossoms tantalize our eyes; in haste
We contemplate the taste of spring romance.
Sweet peace, spring's bittersweetness gives us cause
To recollect and circumspect love's laws;
And yet, spring love commands her subtle dues,
And moves our thawing thoughts to feel her views.
Spring love intoxicates us: drunkenly
We stumble, stagger, tremble, wild and free.
Sweet dreams, sweet peace, I hear your angels' wings,
My drifting, weathered soul awaits next spring.
Sonnet #29
A lynch mob forms and dissipates each day
Conversing and rehearsing how they plan
To seal the fate of those they've chose to slay.
The eager group, polite despite, is dressed
To kill, to maim, to burn some flesh, to swing
A body from a tree until it's gasped
Its last. Horrendous though it seems, they cheer
And celebrate this morbid mass of death.
The bulging eyeballs slime through charred remains
That were his head, while children poke with sticks,
Investigate the flesh that's left, the parts
That didn't burn, that wouldn't yield to flames . . .
End of St. Louis Sonnets Sonnet #32
My love for you is like a fire, raging,
Self-contained and self-sustaining, flaming
Brightly, all-consuming, all-embracing,
Separating, burning all my dross away.
How is it that the flame which burns my flesh
And sears my senses purifies my soul?
Why must it be that pain and pleasure, love
And hate co-habitate in hopes and dreams?
It seems, and it must be that fear hates love
As much as hate fears truth, as truth loves light.
It seems, and it must be my plight, to seek
Your soul, to fan the flame I fear the most.
My love for you is like a fire, raging,
Self-contained and self-sustaining, flaming.
Sonnet #34 - Consular Training
We sought asylum after we were freed.
Resettlement and refuge was our hope
And dream. We recognized that we had been
Excluded from the human race, and yet,
We chose to cast our buckets where we were.
Our nobleness convinced us that some day
We’d reap in joy what we had sown before
In blood and tears: and all the while our fears
Suggested otherwise; to wit, we had no right
To earn by birth what we had been endowed.
In retrospect, we should have sought asylum
Off these shores. One hundred thirty years
Have passed, too many years to resurrect those
Pristine hopes and dreams. And now, today,
The time has come to seize what we are due.
Beloved
Beloved, be loved by me. Is it a thought
So strange, so ill-conceived, so far removed
From what we sense and feel and know to be?
You stir in me strange new passions,
Passions unexperienced, untested.
I am simultaneously frightened and enraptured,
charmed and bewitched, fearful and anxious.
An arrow has pierced my jugular vein, and entered
the inner chamber of my heart, my soul.
I am blinded for a moment by the light,
unsteadied yet emboldened by your love.
How long can we ignore the forces that
Conspired to bring us to this time and place?
Be loved.
Sonnet #37 Return of the Muse - Cairo, Egypt
your spirit left me long, long years ago
your presence left me longer. I forgot
the forms, the rhythms of your loveliness,
the peace and calm you brought me, the silence
and the loneliness we shared. I lost track,
misplaced the way back, through the years, of all
you taught me about words, and songs, and notes,
and rhymes, and meter, and measure…and love.
Oh daughter, oh sister, oh spirit, deep,
who sent you back to me? What force or power
conjured you up and breathed into you life?
And why? Why here and now? And to what end?
It matters not. I worship at your feet.
I hear and I obey; I write, I write . . .
Sonnet #38 - Damascene Sonnet
You lose some things you cherish as you pass
Through life's transitions. Letters you received
May not survive a flood -- first drafts of poems
You wrote get lost in shipments -- coffee mugs
Disappear, book collections may not stay
Intact when divorce or death part the waves
Of time. Friendships and associations
You thought would be there in your grayer years
May only survive a season, or not --
And reasons for a friendship come and go
Like tides that flood and ebb and flood again.
The things that last a lifetime, then, are rare
And few, and even random....so enjoy
The fleeting now, breathe deeply, smile freely.
Sonnet #39 (without punctuation)
We mourn the setting of a brilliant star
Who blazed a path for many, then burned out
At first he sang sweet songs of puppy love
He later sought through song to heal a world
His passions lifted us before his fall
As children we adored his boyish ways
We grew, became adults with his success
As men and women we thought we knew his pain
His stardom overswept us like the dust
That sweet melodic voice became a rasp
On our subconsciousness, his call to heal
Was crowded out by bills and laws and hate
And so we mourn a man who paid the price
And hope that lesser lights will now suffice
flashbacks…
The three of us returned to the barracks
after a late Saturday night dancing to loud reggae
at a smoky club in downtown New London
called Cool Runnings.
The sun was rising - it was almost time for breakfast.
I played Mahjong – to kill some time –
with the Chinese Wave
who spoke with a really deep Bostonian accent -
while her roommate, Annie, from Boligee,
carefully read my palms and
told me my fortune with playing cards -
I recall my fortune and Annie was gentle
and sweet, but I can’t remember
the Chinese Wave's name.
Sonnet #41
A train ride is such a sweet relief -
the men and women who check tickets
are so friendly, so courteous -
I watch out my window as the late Pennsylvania
afternoon becomes the Delaware sunset
becomes the Maryland nightfall
becomes Chocolate City darkness -
church steeples, oil rigs, smoke stacks, Old Glory
unfurled - I watch it all from my Amtrak window.
The end we think we seek is not near
and it’s not the end and it’s not even what we seek.
A lady sits across from me - her feet must be
hurting in those high-heeled shoes,
but she won’t listen to them when they speak.
Sonnet #42
Words in poetry and notes in music
Are sounds, simple wavelengths colliding off
Our eardrums and the membranes of our souls.
Oft times we transmit sound waves, words or notes,
Through positive values, like happiness
And tenderness, timbres soft and bright.
Sometimes negative: sadness, fear - dull and
Sharp, like aches and pains we frequently endure.
At times, we just receive: parameters
Are the same. But when we meet, ah, when we
Meet, our words and notes connect! Our wavelengths
Intersect, and intertwine, and synthesize!
And we make love – sweet love. External tones
And errant thoughts die softly in the deep.
Sonnet #43
This morning I watched videoed reading The Raven.
Great actors like James Earl Jones read the poem’s
lines to music, almost as if it were a film script
with a musical score. I fear they missed the point,
rushing through the inside words to make them fit
an outside melody and rhythm. With Poe,
the music already lives, inside the words and lines.
Poe’s words are to be read slowly, deliberately,
intentionally. One word should stumble into the another,
like a drunk man walking, like Poe, bobbing and weaving
his way through Baltimore. My father would
read The Raven as it should be read, slowly,
with drunken slurs, and sharps, and flats. “Don’t f-- with Poe!
Forgive me son, but Poe is not a joke.” I learned that lesson well.
Sonnet #44
I was a runner in my hapless youth:
two times, four times, eight times around the track;
running to things, running from things, always
in a haste, never taking time to smell
the fragrance of the roses, know the truth.
In time, life slowed me down. I changed my tack.
I learned to walk, to circumspect, unfazed
by every shiny thing my eyes beheld.
But then the boundless sea became my Muse:
Her hidden wonders and her ways seduced
my every thought. Yet she was just a phase,
A short poetic phrase and a malaise.
This sonnet owns no ending, just a star,
To capture our attention from afar.
Sonnet #45
The poet does not write and read, nonplussed,
For mere applause. His rhythms and his notes
Might give you pause: for him it’s true relief.
Approval is not the cause, nor the end
Of his efforts. He writes because he must:
An unformed phrase, a clause not spoken
Is like an Albatross that gives him grief -
Until he edits out its flaws and sends
It to a waiting world of laws - and dust.
He draws the strength from deep within: a lust
That gnaws his soul and never grants respite,
Nor takes flight, nor withdraws to sleep at night.
Sonnet #46
The wicked witch of the East?
The old, decrepit, ancient East?
She dead. House fell on her ass
during the storm. Feet all shriveled up.
That witch ain’t going nowhere!
Ain’t gon bother nobody!
But the wicked witch of the West?
The new, modern, amoral West?
She’s alive and kicking.
Causing all kinds of trouble.
Done signed a deal with the Wizard.
The lying Wizard.
Dorothy has her hands full with those two.
And the lion ain’t got no courage.
Sonnet #47
In the hustle and the bustle
as we go our chosen way;
in the winning and the losing
keeping score throughout the day -
in the seeking and the striving
as our plans oft go astray;
in the comings and the goings
and the things we do, and say -
in the kicking and the screaming
of war’s battles, of the fray;
in the plotting and the scheming
of our deep naivete -
Our pure love knows no decay:
In my arms I pray you’ll stay.
Sonnet #48
I am feeling the heat of battle
and tasting its bittersweetness. Still on track,
though other things fall through the cracks of space
and time. Poetry is a jealous mistress,
after all, a possessive lover without gender who
demands every gram of your attention and devotion.
“Forget any other dedication, any outside legal
or moral obligation,” Poetry warns,
“and ignore that silly wench you call your Muse!”
Poetry screams, “Be with me alone!”
And you accommodate, first haltingly,
reluctantly, then eagerly, anxiously,
as you become narcotized by, and soon addicted
to the sweetness of stolen waters.
lost sonnet #49 – (ModPo Farewell)
The songwriting teacher said all I needed
was a thesaurus and a rhyming dictionary –
but it hasn’t proven sufficient – and there
are no final words, anyway, no bridge,
no chorus, no refrain, just a tight hug,
a soft sigh, a tender kiss, a throw-away
“see-you-tomorrow,” maybe, if you’re lucky.
And all my countrymen are poets, and sailors.
We will continue writing poems: by day
together in small groups, and at home, alone,
in the midnight hour that is not midnight,
but that floats between isha and fajr –
the darkest part of night – when passions die,
and distractions fall to the side.
Sonnet #50 - Green Tea
the second infusion
is always smoother --
can't do that with coffee,
a one-trick pony
that gallops quickly
to your main vein.
I was once in love
with a poetry lady
but her best poems
got lost in a flood
and I regret being
so self-obsessed
all those years --
all those trying years.
Sonnet #53
High culture and low
polished and profaned
sanctified and ghettoized -
all the decisions we make
stem from false dichotomies
presented to us – opposing options
in a narrative, neither of which
makes us better or worse for the wear --
just older and grayer –
more wrinkled and cataract’d
until our vision is blocked,
and our tastebuds deadened
by the novocaine they give us -
for good behavior.
Sonnet #61 - Introducing Maria
another crazy dance with Maria dos Santos Pittsylvania:
she loves the Tango, Lambada, Kizomba -
always well-dressed, her steps are technically
choreographed, mechanically proficient.
The rhythm, the beat of the music determines
each step, each twirl, each bump, each groove:
but the melody stirs the heart, and you want
to peek into her eyes, cast a flirtatious glance, at least -
then the beat shifts, requiring a technical adjustment,
precision; and attention to the glance you seek
gets diverted to the mechanics of the dance, again –
and you know it’s OK, because Maria is an android
in a pretty pink body suit. And you think yourself
a knight in shining armor - this is Second Life, silly.
Sonnet #63
new books arrived in the laundry room
(I do laundry more often since I retired)
German novels, African American history,
Native American languages, British plays -
I thumb through all the new additions,
while the whites wash and the colors dry.
An eclectic collection, well kept (I can tell) and
carefully read by a conscientious reader,
perhaps a tenant, now departed, her books
abandoned, left behind to testify
on her (or his) behalf. And launderers
like me now benefit from such largesse.
I thumb through them all,
and wonder will my volumes end up here.
Sonnet #66 - Lady Day
I could listen to Lady Day
sing - all night long –
those blue minor chords that
don’t quite seem to fit
except for their perfection;
those flat notes that fall so
softly from her lips, like
manna, to our awaiting souls –
like dew, early, early
before sunrise…
I could listen to those
old songs all night long –
“Bend your branches down –
along the ground – and cover me.”
Sonnet #68
It’s a cold night in the bottom:
a deep fog has crept up on us
from the swamp below –
so thick the street lamps
look like little moons in the distance –
And my legs are tired, man,
my knees are aching so bad:
from walking too long –
too far – too late – too often –
trying to meet too many obligations –
But soon I’ll be home –
hot chicken soup simmering on the stove –
a pair of loving arms awaits me:
to hold me and to listen to my story.
Sonnet #69
The same Spirit that haunts me, guides me –
same dude, although sometimes he shows up
in drag, wearing a wig, and lipstick –
talking ‘bout “Will you light my cigarette?”
This same Spirit appears infrequently,
but just often enough to remind me
that he is both my rudder and my anchor.
He often warns me about the Muse
and her sisters. “Those women are no good,”
he says, “all that flattery and inspiration.”
The same Spirit used to frighten me when
I was a young pup. We are old friends now,
able to dismiss one another’s excesses.
It is, how shall we say, a mutual appreciation?
Sonnet #74 Visit to Borghese Gallery
Daphne is fleeing Apollo
and her face is an open book of terror.
She’d rather be a laurel tree
than live the captive life
of an object of once passionate pursuit.
Apollo’s hand slips around her waist,
her abdomen already transforming to bark,
yet through the wood he feels in her gut
her beating, throbbing heart,
and he, his passion a misdirected vector,
could not care less. Look at his face.
His focus is the hunt, the game,
her fingers leaves, her arms now laurel branches.
The transformation is itself a meditation.
Sonnet #75
“The legends say something happened in Chaneysville.”
And legends don’t normally lie, though they may embellish,
just a bit. A big city history professor returns to his rural roots
when he learns a father-like figure is dying.
A transference occurs, a passing of the seat of authority:
now is his turn to sit on the leadership stool.
Truth knocks at the door, the scales of justice
are unbalanced – a historical wrong must be righted.
The old man taught him in his youth how to track game
through the woods. He used those tools in his new field,
a sleuth tracking information through layers of noise.
But now his sense of direction must be straight and true.
Leave the self-perpetuating baggage in the city:
discovery and redemption require a certain resolution.
Sonnet #76
Measure equal portions each:
ground ginger and cinnamon sticks;
whole peppercorn and clove buds;
cardamom pods; nutmeg; and black cumin seeds.
Mix in a grinder until powdery and fine,
store in an airtight metal tin.
Heat one teaspoon in four cups of water
until it forms a shimmering slime on top.
Add tea and steep for taste,
or brew in coffee, per your choice,
in similar proportion. Or sprinkle
on ice cream or your favorite dessert.
The spice mix will de-stress your mind,
soothe digestion and aid regularity.
Sonnet #77
The universe has no beginning nor end,
expanding and unbounded in undefined space
and time. Every event is an act on a stage,
a plot that continually evolves.
Our paths cross like two distant stars –
each a separate solar system –
but from afar, from Earth, perhaps,
we appear joined, fused, as one.
Sailors use our apparent light
to steer their ships by through the darkened night,
and stargazers reckon the passage of time
by the single light they think that we emit.
Yet all their precise calculations miss
the mark, based on a truth that is false.
Sonnet #78
In one year, or in a thousand years
our galaxies resume their chosen paths,
and from afar, from Earth perhaps, the truth
will be revealed: we are not one star – but two,
or many - diverse, distinct, passing through
space like ships in the night. And sailors still
reach their destinations, despite the inexactitude,
still sleep in loving arms’ embrace the long night
through. So what’s the moral of this story,
what’s the sonnet’s point? We seek defined lives
in indefinite space. We try to reconcile
our every act, our every word, each thought,
but ere the end all bets are off,
and all is naught but drifting stardust…
Sonnet #79
At our center
is a dying star
an empty space
a black hole -
It once emitted
light to all
inside its orbit,
but now
it only absorbs,
and robs, and depletes -
And yet it still
has force and grace
to bend us at its will
and hold us all - together -
Sonnet #80
I wandered through a shopping mall looking
for a telephone, a land phone with two lines:
dying technology, I would soon find out.
The mall, normally full of shoppers, was empty,
quiet, flat. Where were all the shoppers?
A few old men sat at tables in the food court,
rustling through papers with young couples,
and big, tatooed men passed through, I could tell
they were ex-soldiers by their swagger, by the glaze
of combat still in their eyes. Looking for jobs.
No jobs today, everywhere, stores are closing.
In Baghdad, the Marines used to say, “America
is not at war, the Marines are at war.
America is at the Mall.” Not no more.
Sonnet #81
Everybody’s talking about the one percent:
they have all the money, all the connections,
the networks to get more money, more money.
I say let them have their exclusivity,
build those walls higher & higher, thicker
and thicker to keep out the unalike,
the alien, the dissimilar, the impure.
Let their gene pool weaken from incest
and lack of variation, let their diseases
replicate and multiply inside those walls,
walls that enclose but also block out
light & love & joy & celebration.
Give me life’s richness any day, and color,
and let them perish in their cherished purity.
Sonnet #84
The first poem I remember studying
in school was The Song of Hiawatha.
That was poetry. And Thanatopsis –
that was poetry too. In college I met
a girl who could recite them both by heart.
That was true love at first sight. But she said
her mother told her she should never date
a poetry-writing man. I digress.
Good poems have charm and personality,
like trees, that can shelter you in a storm –
and precision, biting multiple times
in the same spot to send its venom true.
The further we venture from the structure,
the less precise our messages become.
Sonnets from the Mountains Sonnet #87
We need time and space to unpack our lives –
condensed, compressed, repressed, concentrated
for far too long on trivialities,
technicalities, false flag theatrics –
Let’s touch the core of what we call our truth:
shall we preserve the status quo, believe
objectively this love will conquer all?
Or should we seek to transcend (abolish?)
the dead-end that’s approaching
for a different, enlightened way?
Or is it only the individual
that matters in the end, the beginning?
Or maybe just break all the rules,
and then, unshackled, unrestrained, renew?
Sonnet #89
early spring is as colorful as late autumn:
the highway flora is putting on new clothes
winter’s browns and greys displaced by greens
and oranges and reds and purples –
further west, the road gets curvier and trees,
more hardwood that evergreen, more long-legged,
evergreens shorter, bushier –
the baby mountains start to appear,
along with their mothers and fathers –
majestic, protective, persevering –
I can feel my brain starting to bend
to the mountain curves. I switch the station
from talk radio to jazz. A Love Supreme
takes me all the way to my mountain home.
Sonnet #90
I arise early from a restless night –
dawn is not yet breaking – all is silent
save the occasional mournful tweet
of a single bird – same note, same tune
and no response – he doesn’t have a mate.
The mountain air is cool & crisp & still –
the darkest part of night.
I make coffee in the aeropress, sit
on the porch and listen to the sad song
of the solitary bird – and sip my coffee,
slowly, to the end. Soon dawn will break
the silence of the night – the dogwoods
blooming, the chorus streaming –
and the early bird will meet his happy maid.
Sonnet #92
every shade of green, it seems,
displays itself upon the hills
that fill the skies encircling my home –
when I arrived December’s days
were short, its nights were long –
these hills were grey and brown –
and sad, a bit, but I was told
that green, in Spring, would overtake,
outstrip Winter’s darkness, and the hills
would put on green – from the bottom
to the top – in stages and layers –
like stockings, thick socks for a frosty night.
And so, in streaks and patches to the top,
100 shades of green now fill the skies.
Sonnet #93
all my verse is about gardening
these days, the rains that feed,
the weeds that choke (which is
their right to do), the late frost
that kills the tender shoots from seeds
I planted too early.
my sunflowers are quite the ladies,
bashful, tender, as they approach
their flowering stage. the carrots
need more thinning, their tops
the brightest green, and the turnip
leaves too tough to eat.
but one of the weeds has edible
leaves – I’ll think I’ll let it grow.
Sonnet #94
The things that are fleeting, passing, require
and inspire the poetry – if only a line or two –
a word, a note, a tune; formless and shapeless,
though still finite, words are needed/heeded
to mark the memory, to fix the experience in time.
The infinite – is poetry itself – like meter and rhythm –
cycles that appear and recede like ripples
of waves that touch the shores of our dreams
from opposing sides, across expanses
of timeless thought and boundless space.
The form of our finite lives is also the poetry –
poetry that endures – beyond the borders
that surround us – the horizons that beckon us.
Sonnet #97
thickened ventricle walls
push the pressure higher
creating the condition
for extra beats per measure
sometimes that extra beat
silences the main bass line
stopping the flow of sound juice
to the thinking center
loss of thought leads to
unconsciousness – out of body
experience – collapse – collision
with Earth – bones breaking
thin the blood flow – cancel
the signal of the errant beat
End of Sonnets from the Mountains Bissau Quintet facing an uncertain future 12/20/2015
The future approached me & reached for my hand,
wrapping his tiny fingers around my thumb.
He was dark and skinny, maybe a bit malnourished,
his eyelids puffed from infection.
But his pupils were wide and round
and full and deep dark. Foreboding maybe.
Full of information. Full of warning.
The future approached me and held out his arms.
I reciprocated and lifted him to my lap.
He didn't speak, but his eyes spoke volumes
of pain and hope. His lips remained still.
Reaching back to inform us, to warn us
that it is coming and it won't be long.
We have every reason to prepare, to be ready.
Mar Atlantico
How many souls
have spent months, years,
lives in your embrace?
The beach is calm, placid.
Waves, incoming,
Lightly lap the shore
Like kisses and repeat.
Soft kisses that please,
Hypnotize, and deceive.
In the distance,
in the far distance,
You already know the sound
Of the roar and crash,
Of waves that break.
Boxing day in Bissau
I hit a bump on the poetry road –
too much to eat, too much conversation
left no time or space to write. Catching up
now that the day has passed –
memories of old mythologies:
A boat that was buried
the time of the giants
confusion among the petite bourgeoisie
the “state” is a massive mythology
whose political parties play a football game
that can go either way as long as it all
self-preserves – the mechanics of administration
a curiosity that captures our best minds –
time better spent in education & poetry.
Walking about thoughts
It is not easy to walk these broken streets,
and not become incensed, radicalized
by all the obvious asymmetries
one sees. Women on each corner selling
fruit & shrimp & peanuts & cashews.
Men in big cars with big, bald, shaven heads.
The table spread. Each outlaw seated.
The chiefs and the youngest of the 3rd generation
The chiefs and youngest of the 4th. All gathered.
The imams have arrived from Guinea &
Sierra Leone, from Morocco and Mauritania,
from Niger and Mali, from Senegal and Gambia.
Unguarded frontier & porous borders equals
weak state. Everything is ripe for the picking.
Departure: Bissau
Finally. At the airport. Our voyage almost complete.
As GSO I spent so many days here, meeting visitors,
crews, teams supporting our new building project.
Half all caught up in a series of local dramas.
I remain detached, aloof, aware of the inconsequentiality
of fleeting trouble phantoms that soon fade.
Goodbye for now, Mama Africa!
We have your hopes & dreams in our baggage
cross-stitched with our own –
your cabeceira, veludo, and farola
from Bandim market, your malagueta,
spice, and honey, triple-wrapped for the journey –
the sweetened waters of Pindjiguiti,
the reddened stain of palm oil on our lips.
2/25/2016
deep in the belly of the whale
a new machinery of governance,
an infrastructure is coalescing –
out of sight and out of mind –
the promised one might just be
in for a surprise by southerners
feeling the bern, sly as a fox,
ready to go the distance
of the bruising battles to come –
grey never fades – the same while
the machinery measures its new
strength, deciding once and for all
if it wants to be network anesthesia
or the herald of a brave new world.
April 3, 2016
it may all be lost in a masquerade -
that's what George Benson used to say
in the song that criss-crossed
between jazz and rhythm & blues -
maybe the universe is a giant hologram -
two dimensions projected over a 3d space,
and we all live in a simulated lab
of our own making - or our enemy's -
which would explain the gaps
and limitations that often present themselves
in our silent hopes and daydreams -
and all the chit-chat we engage in
about race and sex and intersectionality.
Stop, the love you save may be your own.
April 5, 2016
I am black and semi-retired. Though a country boy,
I live in a city that is not my home or hometown.
I hate its noises and the smell of machinery
on subway platforms that live deep in the bowels
of the underground. So I ride the bus. Because I found
my voice years ago I am not invisible, notwithstanding
my own delusions of invisibility. In a divisive political year
I vote both ways (maybe three ways, maybe four)
and dare anybody to tell me I am wrong. I took a long
walk today, south to Georgetown and west to Dupont Circle
and there is still plenty of ink left in my fountain pen.
This might be stream of consciousness, and if I don't
run out of gas, it might make it to a 14-line poem,
or it might shape shift itself into a short story.
April 6, 2016
I started this sonnet, impromptu poem –
what was its object, and what its subject?
Agency is slippery, talk is cheap,
and I am crossing, passing betwixt, between
these worlds of witty words and lines and thoughts.
This sonnet started writing me, reversed
the action. Could I soon avert the doom?
The richochet effect, the final blow
avoided me and landed somewhere else.
The poem became the essence I conceived
and I, at once, its object and its aim.
It acted on me as it wrote itself:
these worlds of words contained the richochet –
the harm absorbed, apart, within its walls.
April 9, 2016 - Let the good times roll
a soft breeze floats in tune with the music
of the viola and flute. The dancers,
the couples are so happy and carefree –
there is food and drink enough to sustain
them all. But how long will the music last?
Caged birds look sadder than the musicians
who continue to sing. The music plays on,
but the bubbles being blown may soon burst.
When the minstrels stop & the food runs out
and the candles burn down to a flicker,
will the music die softly in the breeze?
Pay the musicians! All drinks on the house!
Will the barrels stay empty or be still?
April 11, 2016 - Still life
my ideal still life painting would contain
a non-microwave safe cup and saucer,
a piece of ripened fruit, a wind up watch
with a leather band, and a book, hardbound,
with several bookmarks and tabs. On a desk.
And maybe reading glasses, depending
on the reader's (and the painter's) needs.
I'd stare at that canvas, and wonder
if he (or she) drank tea or coffee, hot
or lukewarm like I like it. I'd wonder
does the book have poetry inside it,
the bookmarks and tabs for his (her) favorite
passages. I'd hang it beside my wife's
painting of the river ferry crossing.
April 10, 2016 - Reminiscences on my parents’ 61st anniversary
We eat Chinese food on Fridays, mostly,
fish makes it sort of Catholic, partly,
and having it on Fridays is Islamic
and Jewish, maybe. Truth is we are not
religious at all. We have made peace
with our choices and our burial preferences
are listed in our wills. I do regret
my youthful indiscretions, the time I snuck
off my boat on a duty day, the night
I spent with a girl who turned out to be
a drug dealer could have been my last,
not for drugs, mind you, let’s be clear.
A cute, sweet girl, a Georgia peach,
a country girl my mother would have loved.
April 23, 2016 - Earth Day (and Prince died)
When I heard the learn’d oceanographer
(it was Earth Day, and our shining Prince had fallen),
When the volume, velocity and variability
of data-rich information overwhelmed the deep,
When I examined the core skills of data management
(data is just an artifact, a document, an antelope),
When I listened to it, the oceanographer’s lecture
excited our minds, with much applause from the librarians;
After the talk we walked to Brookland, the full moon
overhead brightly illuminating a city in mourning, darkened
by uncertainty (our Prince had fallen like the rain),
And approaching Foggy Bottom, I caught a faint whiff
of the swamp beneath us, the sound of the river beyond
slowly turning, emptying into the sea.
April 28, 2016 - a reverse fairy tell
And everybody lived happily ever after
after the plants started sprouting again –
after the birds started singing again –
after all the poisoned debris was cleared
& destroyed buildings were repurposed –
after the hospital overcrowding was relieved
and the population cured of radioactive exposure –
after the clouded skies were cleared of floating ash
& the rivers & streams, of trails of chemical wastes –
after pandemonium & chaos ruled the streets –
after stores & shops were looted for food
& supplies, & drinking water – after the politicians
made the decisions & dropped the atom bombs as they
promised in their campaigns – once upon a time.
Trombones - a sonnet crown
Introduction: Sonnet Crown
It is National Poetry Writing Month, when devotees (like me) commit to writing at least one poem per day. There are several blogs, sites, etc., that offer daily prompts, and folks are free to go off on their own and write “as the spirit leads them,” as my mother would say.
This year I decided to try my hand at a “crown of sonnets,” also called a “corona.” All the sonnet writers I saw at the reading talked about it! Then, I decided to base each unique sonnet on a piece of art, implementing the tools we used in the writing salon at National Art Gallery. Finally, I decided to use as the art work a series of paintings used as illustrations for poetry, and the exhibition talk I attended provided such an example, a series of paintings by the famed Harlem Renaissance painter, Aaron Douglas, used to illustrate James Weldon Johnson’s “God’s Trombones, Seven Negro Sermons in Verse,” one of which was on exhibit at the National Gallery of Art here.
The final line of each poem becomes the first line of each succeeding poem, and the first line of the first, the final line of the last. Additionally, I tried as closely as possible to make each final line align with a line from the actual original poetry that the art work illustrated. Finally, because the example I saw in exhibition was the illustration for the final poem in the series, I worked my way through the original poems from back to front, giving the whole thing a slightly different twist.
Enough chat. I have posted the whole crown of sonnets on my poetry blog here. Please check it out and let me know what you think.
The Judgment Day
It’s more than just a painting or a poem –
or even a sonnet for a painting
(we’d be so vain to suggest!). The story
is far greater than the sum of its parts.
The judgment day is what we seek, and fear.
In no hurry to pay for our misdeeds,
give us reparations now for insults,
moral crimes against us, past and present.
There is a discrimination – between
the sinners and the saved, darkness dwellers,
those who see the light. Salvation’s shining
ray uplifts the soul; lightning bolts reveal
the lumps of lead the wicked thought were pots
of earthly gold. And time shall be no more.
Let My People Go
Of earthly gold. And time shall be no more.
I ride the steeds of war, my spear sharpened
to kill my brother at Pharaoh's command.
But there's a light that pierces all the waves,
the rage of hate, and separates our thoughts
from the darkened state of eternal war.
Go up, Moses, tell old Pharaoh to go.
We no longer need his tricks and trinkets,
his crutches enabled our servitude.
Tell Pharaoh he needs us - we don't need him.
Without us, he, his army cease to be.
Give old Pharaoh the 4-1-1. We're done.
No more blues, no more weeping over me.
The groans of my people have filled my ears.
The Crucifixion
The groans of my people have filled my ears.
A line of folks awaits the lynching tree
behind our dear, sweet Jesus. Simon bears
the cross for him, climbs up the rugged road.
Sweet Jesus. Nails go through his hands, his feet –
the soldier’s spear pierces him. Mary weeps,
we weep when we think about how he died.
I tremble. My turn’s next. The rope is loose
around my neck. The crowd screams, “Crucify!”
We bear the cross. We die on Calvary.
The soldiers stare, do nothing. The thorny crown,
the purple robe mock. Sweet Jesus. Betrayed.
The traitor’s bitter kiss, its passion lost –
the sweat like drops of blood upon his brow.
Noah Built the Ark
The sweat like drops of blood upon his brow.
"He is working so hard to build that boat,
He's gonna give himself a heart attack!"
His wife would say. Year after passing year
he worked on the Ark, rain or shine, hot, cold,
through periods of ridicule, self doubt -
building, preaching.
Legend says he gathered
two of every living creature before
he sealed the hatch. Then the raining began.
Forty days. The rising waters lifted
the Ark off its blocks - sent it underway.
For one year they sailed. Sea without a shore.
Then God gave Noah a sign - a Rainbow -
it won't be water, but fire - next time.
Go Down Death – A Funeral Sermon
It won’t be water, but fire – next time.
The universe was expanding faster
than we thought, the distance the death angel
had to travel, longer, his flight angle
trajectory, steeper, than allowed for
in previous calculations. A bright
star steered him to the house of Caroline,
our sister, to commence her journey home.
Death didn’t say a word. She saw Death come
like a falling star, our Caroline. No fear
was in her heart. Death took her in his arms
like a baby, comforted her, placed her
on his horse securely for the ride.
And she whispered to us: I’m going home.
The Prodigal Son
And she whispered to us: I’m going home.
The young man traveled down the easy road
to Babylon. New clothes, new dancing friends,
new drinking dens and gambling games to play,
and women – flowery scents intoxicate
the mind. Oh the women of Babylon!
But his luck ran out – good times disappeared
and he found himself stripped of everything
good fortune gave him. Soon he cast his lot
among the beasts, the scavengers, the swine
who thrived on leftovers, things tossed aside –
with beggars in the mire of Babylon.
Then, in disgust, he made the journey home.
Young man — your arms too short to box with God.
The Creation
Young man - your arms too short to box with God.
Invisible hand transversed time's flow
and made a world to cure his loneliness.
A thousand worlds. But that was not enough.
There was a need to correspond, to speak,
to apprehend what thoughts the space contained
his hands had wrought. So God created man.
From dust and clay he shaped the human form,
then breathed into his mouth the breath of life.
And man became what God intended him
to be, a maker of his own image.
Then plants grew near him, symbiotically,
providing food and warmth - to each - in turn.
And man became a living soul. Amen.
Listen Lord - A Prayer
And man became a living soul. Amen.
We lift our prayers, our noble thoughts to Thee,
our source of strength and creativity.
These words, these phrases - our meditation,
we presently petition at your throne.
But listen, Lord, just between you and me,
things ain't so right down here. The folks you left
in charge have gone astray - the golden calf
is all they seek, an idol that they made
with their own hands. Keep us in your light, Lord,
on the righteous path. Forgive the sinners,
languishing in Babylon. Take pity
on the poets and artists who fall short.
It's more than just a painting or a poem.
End of Trombones - a sonnet crown
May 15, 2016 - Thresher
I just learned the minimum time required
for human perception of an event:
fifty milliseconds for retinal
integration; 100 milliseconds
for cognitive integration. On board,
it all occurred too fast for awareness,
too quickly for human apprehension.
A tragedy befell us - a collapse
of moral order - it hit us so fast
we couldn’t integrate it with our eyes,
with streaming thoughts about our empty thoughts.
A poem, perhaps, condensed, distilled the track
of every hope - and woe - that passed too soon
for our perception - slow-motioned, closely read.
June 20, 2016
A migration, a journey by moonlight,
from one holy state to a different one –
move fast though, ‘cause the night, well-lit, is short,
which means no time for reading signs and prayers
for good fortune on the road. The shortest
distance between two points is a straight line –
or a tesseract for time travelers
among us. Another year won’t kill them,
and the cotton crop demands their presence.
But this particular convergence comes
once a generation, so their next chance
will be less fortuitous – as will ours.
A long day, a bright moon, and a lost year.
And a journey to bridge a gap in space.
Who am I this month?
Same as last month, I suppose. My day
starts with a glass of lemon juice I squeeze,
and water, with a bit of bitter zest
thrown in for good measure. I turn on the radio
and the internet router to catch up
on the morning news – the good, the bad.
We make the bed together – the master
and her disciple. I have oatmeal with raisins
and cinnamon. On Sundays & Tuesdays
I go to the community garden – okra, collards
and peppers are waiting to be watered
and weeded. On Wednesdays & Saturdays
I work at the library. And in between, I tweet
more than I Facebook status update, I suppose.
Bus stop
I neither wanted nor needed freedom
in my youth. My brain, on fire, needed
a container with lots of oxygen
to cool and feed its insatiable thirst
for truth. Older now with vision clouded
by smoke & smog, I seek that same freedom
I once disdained, forsook, refused, denied.
Older now with knees that ache at the thought
of bridging the divides that hide inside
my conversations. Wait! My bus arrives
at its destination at last! One more
shuttle to catch, one more chapter to read,
one more sonnet of love or fate to extract.
And one more thirst, across the years, to quench.
sonnet for a classmate
When I’m surrounded by obligations,
by debts calling my name and haunting me,
I pull away and read good poetry.
This week I’m reading Bernadette Mayer’s
Midwinter Day - the solstice is upon
us, the year’s shortest day, its longest night,
& I need protection from the evil
that lurks between, within those lines, those notes,
those moments of waking, paralyzing
thoughts. There is always something overdue,
some rhyme that’s needed near the end of it all -
It’s freezing cold outside – my eyes weep
tears that lubricate their pain, overflow
the walls, fall like icicles to the ground.
Proverbs
A watched pot will eventually boil –
you just watch it long enough, is all.
Many things they told us as children
just don’t hold up, like grin and bear it –
such silliness to say to a wounded child;
or like father like son – that predetermination
might be a curse; and it never rains
but pours – a light drizzle can be pleasant.
Still waters run deep: never really
understood how much sense that made –
stagnant waters breed mosquitos, deep
or shallow. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,
now we are talking some truth. But absence
makes the heart grow fonder? No way, no how.
The roots of our love
with a nod to Deleuze and Guattari –
Over the passing years our love has grown:
a mass of tangled roots beneath the soil.
Only an expert gardener would appreciate
this rhizome, how interconnected at every point –
each node drawing nourishment from the soil
surrounding it – every connecting root as essential
as the adjoining nodes. No prior unity defines us –
there is no original order to regulate or codify –
we name this love. Errant roots sometimes rupture,
break or fail, and remake their connections
in multitudinous combinations, always seeking
progression, insuring survival, feeding
this intertwining flowering, a map and tracing
of a secret underground geography.
Survival of the Fit
We brought much with us inside those ships
when we emigrated to this new world
of golden promise and opportunity.
Okra and black-eyed pea seeds
we stowed away in little hiding places -
along with knowledge - how to grow rice,
how to make bread from corn, how to deep fry
meats to tenderize them, make them last.
Physical things, to nourish, sustain us.
But our name, our faith, our spirituality
also survived the Middle Passage,
along with our mathematics, our psychology,
& our cosmology. It all survived.
Underestimate us. Fine. We will all be here.
after seeing the James Baldwin movie "I am not your Negro"
Your dystopian moment could be the dark ages
before the renaissance - your zombie apocalypse
a golden opportunity for the dispossessed,
a resurrection for the marginalized whose hopes
died on the cross.
The night of doom you recommend could be
a shining star heralding a dawn on a new horizon -
a long awaited dream finally being realized.
The end of all you think you know could be
a new beginning that does not
include your past.
Before we nail the coffin shut, let's listen closely
for a pulse - the quiet beating of a tale-tell heart.
It may not be too late for even you to turn around.
May 29, 2017 - Memorial Day Sonnet
I'm selling my flat on Facebook Street.
Maybe I'll rent it out - rents keep rising.
Too many bugs in the place, laying eggs
in every crack and crevice. I tried Raid
to smoke them out - they just laughed and scurried
about. Let's not even discuss the rats
down in the basement, walking on tip-toes
at night, eating pages from my old books.
Yes, I'm selling - maybe the Orkin man
can clean it out, make it habitable.
Again. Maybe the next guy can rent it
out, clean the smell of smoke off the walls,
the stains of piss and ashes I found
under the carpet on the parquet floor.
July 14, 2017 - Postcard #11
There are no spirits lurking in the aisles
and corners. Just cartons of documents,
details of lives. Whether well-lived or ill,
these papers tell the story - marriage, birth,
land acquired, taxes. Death. It's all there.
No need for the rattling sound of zombies -
ghosts of events yet to come - in graveyards.
Might this be the judgement we fear? The words
and deeds, archived records we leave behind
won't deliver us to any heaven -
or hell. It's just a mirage, this image
of hereafter we've been trained to accept
as truth, the certain object of our faith:
dried, folded, faded, in a dusty box.
Granddaddy raised tobacco in red clay
Granddaddy raised tobacco in red clay
his whole life long – row by row –
until he got too old to continue –
life must have been tough –
year end, year out, hoping
for good weather and fair prices.
Grandma cleaned the white folks house,
did their laundry, raised their children.
That couldn’t have been much fun either –
she had her own children at home
to care for. Pop had long red hair
as a child, he told me, and thought
it was a celebration when the house
burned down one cold winter morning.
Lisbon Quintet1. Bedtime prayer, or, burial instructions
If I should die before I wake -
Oh, never mind. My soul will know
Exactly what to do when darkness
Envelops me and she is freed and free.
Stuff my mortal remains, whatever’s left
Of me, in a weighted wooden coffin
Like the ones we kept in stock overseas
In abandoned embassy warehouses.
Put me on a Navy warship – bury me
At sea just beyond the 12-mile limit –
In international waters – let me sink
Silently, peacefully to the bottom,
Where lost shipmates are still on patrol,
And my ancestors await my return.
2. Disengaging the mind from work
Each night I dream of projects I complete,
Mainly ideas I’ve been thinking about
For weeks. And I awaken each morning
feeling accomplishment & exhaustion.
No way to spend a August vacation,
I know. But today my outlaws have planned
A special lunch – Guinea-Bissau cuisine –
My favorite – and I can hardly wait!
We’ll save the nautical museum (I love
The ancient navigation instruments),
My favorite Belem bakery, &
the modern art museum for tomorrow
Or another day, any other day –
We can’t ignore a long-lost appetite.
3. Coffee with Pessoa at Martinho on the Praca
I write no more of love, the tales of woe,
Of romance that quickens a calm spirit –
Such stories that are songs of young and sweet
Naïveté - of passions’ fires aglow.
Today’s news crowds out former pleasant thoughts:
An earthquake, a mudslide kills the many;
A terror attack, abroad, at home, slays
The few and darkens the skies around us
With clouds of hate and unscaled walls of fear.
Let’s love today, each other, without shame
Or fear of censure, once more returning,
Once more forgiving acts of carelessness,
Mistakes we’ve made. Let’s journey while the sun
Is high and skies are clear and steps still firm.
4. Acknowledging the Muse – Pre-Eclipse
I think of you as my defacto Muse,
And I yours, at least until you tell me
we are not, or cannot be, or simply
just reject that source of inspiration
Our inner poets crave. The obstacles
Between us are many. The boundaries
That separate us are natural ones,
Neither fraudulent nor fake nor contrived –
It will be far easier to let things
Rest as they are, in peace and sanity,
And in denial. I would dare not blame
You or me, and life would just continue
As if our paths had never crossed, as if
This possibility had never been.
5. Watching Photos of the Total Eclipse on the Internet
Somewhere in the comings and the goings
I lost a day, or gained one, by my count –
Then I missed the total eclipse (but that
Had less to do with the time warp I’m in
And more to do with decisions I’ve made)
Because I was on the wrong continent.
I figured out it’s Monday. Tomorrow
Will be museum day – it’s all a matter
Of degree of intermediation
In the end, of what must be done to cure
The writer’s block that gets generated
By one’s own inhibitions. It’s taken
A week of full immersion to discard
Mine and let language flood these winding streets.
End of Lisbon Quintet
Last Friday of the Summer Sonnet
It’s Friday. I see the bean pie man hawk
his wares at Foggy Bottom after work.
We swap old wives’ tales about pie-making
as I pick up the coming week’s supply.
I forgot to charge my phone last night
Guess I’ll be untraceable on the grid
Until I log in to the matrix at work.
It’s Friday. At noon I hear the prayer call
from 4th Street, Bissau, Cairo, and Baghdad.
Quadraphonic stereo pronouncement
from places where I have lived and loved.
I know this commute by heart - can do it
in my sleep - a circumambulation
at an invisible, mythic black stone.
the last day of summer - the documentary
I remember watching
news reports on TV
about the war – after
supper each night –
and the day’s body count –
and soldiers’ funerals
on Sundays after church,
and mothers and girlfriends
on the front row crying,
and smelling salts.
Occasionally the president
would tell us we were winning.
And Walter Cronkite would say,
“And that’s the way it is.”
facial recognition
A college girl sang an Amy Winehouse song
at Foggy Bottom Metro this morning.
Six others nearby sold Krispy Kreme donuts
by the box, a fundraising ambush, no doubt,
intended to lure the unsuspecting
pedestrian into picking up a fresh dozen
for the office. I smiled at her - she was singing
Valerie, one of my favorite Winehouse songs.
She smiled back but by then I had stepped
onto the escalator to begin my descent.
This poem won't make it to the pages
of The New Yorker, let's acknowledge that.
But it is a true account of two human beings
whose eyes met, and who shared a smile.
Helvetica 14
a tinge of autumn crispness was in the air
and the same girl was belting out a tune
at Foggy Bottom Metro, flanked by others
hawking boxes of fresh donuts. I thought
about getting a dozen for the office,
but instead walked right by, preferring
to control my already expanding waistline.
Her singing transported me again to that zone
where words and phrases swirl in magic
syncopation just beyond my grasp. Images
slip into and out of focus - and I know how long
it takes for poems like this to suffice before
hearing and sight begin to decay and disappear.
I scribble down the words before they melt.
(not a) subway poem #5
Fourteen lines is an approximation –
fewer lines, or more, may be sufficient.
But line length must be paid attention to.
It’s Veterans Day. I’m doing laundry
and checking what folks are talking about
on Facebook and Twitter – news of the day.
And the news is not good: a coup attempt
is underway in the home of the brave –
we’ve seen the play before but no one owns
the script. I’ll be riding no trains to work
for the rest of the weekend. My office
is closed and a couplet is all that’s left.
It took me all these years to figure out
I might be the spook who sat by the door.
Sonnet For Maria M.
Your eyes - so steely dark and determined -
a bit too young for the roads you've travelled.
You asked me about your lips, about my notice
of their curvature - and those curly locks
that frame, adorn such perfect symmetry.
Our conversation could last forever,
or at least three more years inside a chat box -
and yes, I could write you a poem - a couple
of Rondeaux or a sonnet on my own terms?
But all my bad poetry - encouraged
and inspired by exclamations of puppy love,
your puppy love and mine - spilling off the stage
of our distant lives like waves of lava
from volcanic eruptions - fails to satisfy.
1/31/2018 - subway poem #11
It was a cold morning in the Bottom.
Reading “Trading Twelves” on the Orange Line
I missed my Red Line stop, so I continued
riding (and reading) to the Yellow Line
crossing at L’Enfant Plaza. Already late
for work anyway, I made a detour
and grabbed a hot breakfast to go at Saints’
Paradise Cafe. Picked up The Hill paper
for an update on Tuesday’s #SOTU speech
because it went on forever and I had
my bedtime to keep. Turns out the Negro Caucus
was grumpy all night, sad-faced and wearing
the kente of their African ancestry
around their necks to make a statement.
2/2/2018
Let’s memorialize this in verse before
truth decays, before it dies a slow death
in its own vomit and built-in obsolescence -
I told them years ago their intel was garbage,
and I stopped consuming it, and I stand
by that. They should have listened.
They have been eating recycled garbage
from the trough for so long now, stewed,
deep-fried, boiled, lightly sauteed, al dente,
and their only language is “oink, oink.”
The Memo is released and the Dow is falling.
I thank the Gods for Fridays and Duke Ellington
Money Jungle (full album on YouTube).
"We have Art in order not to die of the Truth.”
2/7/2018 - sonnet
Each universe with which we interact
demands of us a level of respect
and complicity, yes, complicity,
while we wonder if we are hypocrites,
or merely disbelievers. As if it
even matters. And what doesn’t kill us
endows us, becomes our strength and power,
our shelter in a storm. The paths we trod
we tread, the record of our deeds becomes
our judgment day, our immortality.
Be patient with me - I’m not finished yet.
Pay no attention to my southern charm,
that folksiness you underestimate
is just a steady cadence for my march.
2/24/2018
some days I think my poetry making
is done. I try to turn a verse or two
and it all falls flat - no rhythm, no rhymes,
no magic, just words and punctuation.
I need some time at sea to stir things up
a bit. A trans-Atlantic crossing would
be optimum - a paddleboat up the river
will suffice. I’ll always and forever
be a man of simple pleasure. But the air
we breathe is full of negativity.
All the canaries are dead, heaven-bound
in this brave new world where skepticism
is not allowed. A heavy fog surrounds us.
Which sentinel species is next in line?
NaPoWriMo #2 - Voice
I hear a song in the early morning
before the roar and crash of the city’s
various idolatries silence it —
a calming, peaceful voice. She sings a song
of memories, near and far, reminding
us all of what we’d prefer to forget,
just let the day get on with its pursuits.
Somewhere we lost our song – that missing link
between the escaped oral thought and piles
of useless records, homeless, without rhyme
or order. Random catalogs of facts
and deeds won’t soothe our souls nor give us peace
of mind. We need to find that voice again,
I need to find my song to bridge the gap.
NaPoWriMo #7
Buried deep within my superpowers,
rests my secret vulnerability.
The silent fear I’ll be discovered haunts
me night and day. I never want my friends
to know I won life's Lotto many years
ago. Sometimes I even forget it
myself - the wealth, the riches in my grasp,
the things that money cannot buy exist
within my reach. The threat that I’ll be called
to account for withholding my talent
paralyzes my every waking thought.
At length my hope to be released at last
from this obsession emboldens me while
it shatters my every reverie.
Unfinished heroic sonnet crown Nat Turner
(1 of 15)
Ahlan wa Sahlan. Urbi et Orbi.
Magic words that unite and entice us
until the divisions and fables
corrupt our thoughts. We saw a play last night
that gave us pause. A slave revolt. Shockwaves
throughout the land. But was it a false flag?
A justification to pour terror
on top of existing shock and awe?
The truth of history will manifest
soon or late. ‘Til then we have magic words
and incantations showing us the path
to the inner sanctum, the holy ground
on which we stand. Consider this: were we
ordained for some great purpose in His Hand?
(2 of 15)
Ordained for some great purpose in His hand -
the subject of our study claimed the source
of his truth was the Almighty himself -
by all accounts he was a man of faith -
The sign of blood in the corn, leaves forming
hieroglyphs, unusual birthmarks all
convinced his family a special child
was born among them - a future leader -
As a child he learned to read words and signs
in nature, in the skies above, the crops
that grew in season, his place as a man
enslaved in this land of the free, the brave.
Indeed he was called to some great purpose.
The Savior laid down the yoke he had borne.
(3 of 15)
The Savior laid down the yoke he had borne
for the sins of men. Judgement day’s at hand.
Turner heard and testified under oath –
the same spirit who spoke to the prophets.
He prayed for two years. Continuously.
Then he saw white and black spirits engaged
in battle, the sun darkened, blood flowing.
Such was his luck. Such he was called to see.
The Serpent loosened, Christ laid down the yoke
for Nat to seize to fight with the Serpent.
The time was fast approaching, he heard, when
the first shall be last – the last shall be first.
Then after the February eclipse –
Slay thine enemies with their own weapons.
(4 of 15)
Slay thine enemies with their own weapons.
The confessor, the defense attorney
(so he claims) wrote down these words from Turner’s
prison cell the night before his hanging.
No doubt the doubting Thomas may have stretched
the truth of Nat’s confession just a taste
to suit his unfulfilled aspirations,
to meet political requirements
of the moment, or to please his father.
We don’t really know. But what we do know
is that a band of slaves killed their masters
with weapons from the house - axes and knives -
men, women and children - a bloody mess.
Neither age nor sex would escape from death.
(5 of 15)
Neither age nor sex would escape death.
In the end sixty slave owners and kin
were slaughtered under Turner’s leadership.
Hundreds of enslaved Negroes, innocent,
were killed in retribution. Laws were made
outlawing education of Negroes,
black codes restricting movement, slave or free.
Severed Negro heads were placed on fence posts
as a living reminder of the crimes.
After weeks in hiding Nat surrendered
to be tried by a jury of his peers.
News spread across the country like wildfire,
connecting Turner to other revolts.
Stories were embellished about his deeds.
(6 of 15)
Stories were embellished about his deeds.
We grow up hearing echoes of these tales
passed down, distilled, to each generation.
For a man enslaved Maslow doesn’t speak.
unless one has an eye to read between
the lines - the process is not linear
at all - when human beings are nor free.
And yet, there is always a freedom
for the soul. This our hero understood
in a convoluted way - surviving
in a convoluted world. Let’s not judge
too severely. But let’s not leap ahead
to false conclusions. He had a just cause
against injustice weighing on his soul.
(7 of 15)
Against injustice weighing on his soul
he had no normal recourse. A deeper
dive into Turner’s motivations calls
us to the task. Maslow provides the key.
Survival needs. Basic necessities
were controlled, regulated, weaponized.
No slave was safe against the master’s whims.
Connection to a group – tenuous at best.
Appreciation for the slave’s labor
and his pay accrued to the master.
Self-actualization as a goal
was not possible. The ultimate stage,
self-transcendence, was not outside his reach –
but it’d require landing a heavy blow.
(8 of 15)
But it’d require landing a heavy blow,
so early before emancipation’s
glow had dawned in the American soul.
Decision and execution alone
would not suffice. The final blow required
velocity and direction. An aim.
An intent. Accuracy. Precision.
Furthermore, it would have to fill the space
of white imagination, emptying
every emotion, every thought and fear
of black retaliation were the roles
reversed, owner and his chattel, master
and slave. Not just a costume and a song,
it had to be a total work of art.
(9 of 15)
It had to be a total work of art.
A half, a third, a fourth of a movement
would not suffice. A huge splash was required
to capture Americans’ attention –
enslaved and free – to rock a boat steering
on a faulty course. He knew it would be
all or nothing, a tiny mustard seed
planted in a rocky soil – without hope
for immediate success. A symbol –
political, spiritual – for future
generations when freedom’s wind would blow
to every compass point across the land.
With no chance of victory he labored,
meticulously planning each detail.
Unfinished End of Heroic Sonnet Crown
23 - Sonnet
I subscribe to the obituary
page of my hometown daily newspaper.
Obviously black people do not die
in the city of my birth - I never
see their faces. I know it’s just not true.
I left my hometown many years ago,
but I never stopped hoping to return,
wishing her well. Every poet wishes
he could play guitar - the grass is always
greener on the other side of the road -
or whatever it is that divides us
from our origin, the root of our being.
Life continues, the struggle continues,
as long as a single ray of hope lights the path.
#NaPoWriMo #26
Many millenia elapsed between
the random grunt and coherent language.
Many more still between oralizing
and writing symbols, words as surrogates
for feelings and thoughts. Now that we are here
and all the pieces have come together,
we can spend a moment in reflection.
The faculties of sight, smell, sound, taste, touch -
are channels for engagement with the world
that surrounds us. Not separate things, they merge
and blend in our deep imagination
and in dreams. If our impressions reflect
an impure sensory response, our words -
oral and written - mirror their shadows.
End of NaPoWriMo 2018 sonnet
I know this coffee's gonna be the end
of me. I’ve weathered storms, outlived a few
of my best friends and my worst enemies.
Each day I write a poem. Most are garbage
that revisions cannot save. Still, the past
fades and the future beckons – poetry
to write for the living and the unborn,
for those yet to come, and their tomorrows.
Two pennies in my pocket, two gold coins
to pay for the passage, two wings to veil
my face. We are going to the City:
a new level of organization,
a higher plane. Y’all know what all it means.
Put on your life vests. The ride is bumpy
Anticipating NaPoWriMo 2019
I always remember – one teaspoon per cup and one
for the pot – a simple recipe that solves all ills.
Sometimes I forget not everyone’s been exposed
to nautical rules of the road – not everybody
alters course to starboard to pass port to port
in a meeting situation – though they should –
nor do folks automatically maintain course
and speed if stand on in an overtaking –
though it’d be better for them if they did.
I try to remember to walk a mile in others shoes
before passing judgement, and to pay attention
to running lights at any crossing of paths –
And always give the older ones the final word
in an argument that’s of no consequence anyway.
#NaPoWriMo2019 #7 Elegy for A. – A sonnet
Our tribesman battles for her life –
small things we lose can be replaced.
A sister’s love we replicate
with sadness near the end,
and joy that soon, her journey done,
and celebration knowing that
her contributions were not made in vain.
We mourn our own unfinished lives:
the goodbyes that we failed to say;
the compliments we should have paid
at little costs but great reward.
We recognize our end must come –
embraceable at every stage
of life. Avoid the waste, the vain.
#NaPoWriMo #14 – boring collections
I have a very boring collection
of fountain pens. None of them
are fancy or expensive, just your
garden variety everyday writing utensils.
I clean them out monthly with hot
running water to dislodge all the old
encrusted ink. In my imagination they are
my brushes and palette with which
I create works of art, poetry
I hope will stand the test of time.
My favorite color ink is a mixture
of forest green and empyrean blue.
I name it navy green. My wife insists
I mix it near the kitchen sink.
#NaPoWriMo #15 – sonnet for a Saturday morning
This story has a happy ending.
I’m telling you up front so you know
what you can expect – how to overcome
any temporary darkness that may
attempt to cloud out the light we emit.
This story is not a pop video.
It won’t make you dance or sing. Ain’t no blues
to wail, to welp, to beg, to plead, to scream.
This story ends in celebration.
But Twitter and Instagram won’t tell you
what’s really going on. You have to read
between the lines, between the images
that flash past you faster than light or sound.
Don’t be depressed. Arise & celebrate.
#NaPoWriMo #18 – Sunday night before the storm sonnet
It is not my wish to be a center,
the center of anyone’s attention
save my own, and maybe not even that
most days. It’s too much work, too much effort
to keep all the little pieces on track,
all the debts paid, the payroll met each week.
Instead, take me to the periphery
where I can read my books and write my poems
in total peace, not concerned with no one’s
interiority except my own,
a river flowing gently to the sea.
Plant my seed deeply before the storm comes,
irrigating the dry soil above it,
leaving my future calmly in its place.
Lunchbreak sonnet - NaPoWriMo #19
I don’t know all the answers –
Hell, I don’t have half the questions!
It’s not like chemistry or physics
Where if you memorized the equation
You can plug and chug until
All the units cancel.
No. Life is much more complex
Than experiments in a science lab.
More complicated even than nuke school
with mandatory study hall.
The beginning of it all is obscure.
The end is an unknown unknown.
The middle is a spring thunderstorm –
Where dark clouds gather – lightning pierces the sky.
#NaPoWriMo #20 – machines
Ray wants to write Haiku tonight
but I won’t let him – I decide
what gets written & how & why.
Ray’s at his best operating machines –
processing inputs that produce output,
while he minds gages and thermometers
that measure the machine’s internals.
Ray also likes to garden – I let him
do it every now and then. He loves to see things
pop out of the ground, break the surface
and lean towards the sun. I think it’s odd
but I let him because I know machines
capture his soul and try to convert him
while gardening brings out his soul’s sweetness.
#NaPoWriMo #26 – should have/would have
Maybe I should have
stayed in St. Louis
and finished that PhD.
By ’96 I would have been done –
maybe – then off to green pastures
and academic pursuits.
Instead of discovering Bissau,
and London and Filomena,
and all our adventures together,
And Angola, and Ghana,
and Cairo, and Damascus,
and all the silly spy shit we did –
calling ourselves diplomats
instead of cannon fodder.
Poetries
There is poetry
one writes on long walks
beside a slow river.
And a different poetry
on the subway, mindlessly hustling
hustling to and from work.
And a different poetry still,
inspired by music’s sound,
the sculptor’s vision,
the painter’s emotion,
the architect’s dream
come true. All reflections
off a mirror that darkens
at the edges as time passes.
#NaPoWriMo #28 – bullets
I’ve dodged some bullets
in this life. Cigarettes
won’t take me out,
nor alcohol or drugs
though I may get run over
by a car in the crosswalks
in this town. And there’s poison
all around, in the food,
in the water and air
that might just be the cause
of my eventual demise.
But it won’t be sudden death
or overtime. No, this game
will end in regulation time.
August 17, 2019 - Re-reading Moby Dick, pt. 6
Between engineering watches
I would hangout at the navigation station,
Learning how to plot points and lay tracks.
Except we weren’t hunting for whales -
We were tracking submarines
Of our alleged foes. The same thing,
Perhaps. Learning about the world.
At work I’m building an IR theory
Model, based on archived sources,
To test how we understand world events.
Still chasing that white whale,
Still tracking enemy submarines.
My life is a strange series
of inter-nested do-loops.
becoming a librarian
I’m grateful for those middle school years
when I learned to play viola, to read
and write music notes I could play myself,
to create sound that was my very own.
In 8th grade industrial arts I learned
carpentry, building stuff, and poetry.
I may never have acquired those skills
otherwise. After that, teamwork learning
came easily – merit badges, football,
middle distance running, until the cramps
started feeling like little heart attacks
and I quit. Perhaps it was just as well.
Somewhere along the way the library
called. I’ve been hanging out there ever since.
Memorable things.
I have no memory of learning how to read -
There wasn't a time in my consciousness
When I didn't know what to do with a book.
There was a time I didn’t know how to swim -
The lake water was cold in early morning
And I constantly feared swallowing a tadpole.
The camp instructor tuned right in to my need
And said, “It’s ok to swallow a bit of the water.”
I remember the first time I fell in love -
I was helping my classmate with the subjunctive
In advanced Spanish when our lines of vision met.
She told me she lived with her grandparents
And wanted to get married and move away.
Moving away was the farthest thing from my mind.
To Conrad Kent Rivers – a sonnet
“To teach? To write. Above all . . to learn how to write and rid myself of color consciousness and ignorance.” – Conrad Kent Rivers
The internet won’t tell me why you died.
Or how. You were young, your best years ahead.
It was tragic – life snatched away so early
and with so much more poetry still pent up,
unexpressed, unshared with a cruel world
unworthy of your gift to it, to us.
I found your letter in our collection*:
I still see traces of your unfulfilled
trajectory. Well acquainted with your
hopes and fears, I’ve learned the “private idiom”
you sought, still feel the “joy in the seeking.”
I left two lines aside to close this poem –
your words work best: “I wish time had no end
for black poets; we need time to forget . . . ”
100 Days of Dante at 66
Although I’m only half way up the mount
of Purgatorio, I need to pause, to recapitulate,
to organize the things I’ve seen and heard
since getting lost, mid-aged, in these dark woods.
I’ve been mixing and matching, gathering
every spillover and overlap with
my winter reading list - all drenched in references
I’d find to Dante, to my joyful surprise!
And even in August Wilson’s plays, such
tragicomedies all, I’ve found coded traces
of The Divine Comedy. I still wonder
who will be my Virgil, show me the ropes,
calm my every fear? And who, my Beatrice,
to intercede in the end on my behalf?
2020
Twenty-twenty has an ominous ring
To it. Excitement on the horizon,
Or even better, just beyond the break.
A simple thing of wonder, this passage
Around the sun that makes another year:
We make resolutions of health and love
And pray for the resolve to see them through.
A plot meanders – it takes a few weeks
To learn its language, the syntax and all
With which to tell the story, a fable
Of a circumambulation – a curse,
Perhaps, masquerading as a blessing.
Beyond ritual it is truth we seek,
But truth is not always in the middle.
On Robert Burns Night, 2020
Everything’s autobiographical. I’m 12% Scot –
I take my single malt with soda water
And my dark chocolate with hazelnuts.
Lift your glasses high – we recognize
Our absentee Scottish fathers, sneaking
Out to the quarters at the midnight hour
To rape our enslaved mothers.
A special toast for our stepfathers –
who did their best to raise us anyway.
They stepped into the breach again
and again, overlooking our mothers’ pain
And their own. We are forever in their debt.
Still, the blood runs deep – in dreams
and nightmares we hear our mothers’ screams.
2020 Lockdown Sonnets
Lockdown sonnet #1
Silly me. I always thought
sitting on the dock of the bay
was about Seattle and Bremerton –
It was the only bay I knew,
it fed and housed me well
and gave me countless hours
of solace and meditation.
Time and distant love altered the equation.
One seeks to close the gap
that separates and isolates.
Today we are socially distant,
trying to flatten the curve.
We stay at home. We elbow bump
instead of a goodnight kiss.
Lockdown sonnet #2
Nobody has bandwidth
To focus on the senators
Who profited from inside information.
We are at that point
In late empire. Justice has removed
Her blindfold to put on
A breathing mask.
It’s a good time for thieves
And rogues. And dirty politicians.
And it’s a good day for poets
Witnessing the birth of new genre.
We’ll all be safe. Besides, we’re in lockdown,
And the pens are full, and the coffee is hot,
And the bookshelves are overflowing.
Lockdown sonnet #3
Writing my own poems gave me
A deeper appreciation for poetry
Just like writing my own play
Helped me better understand drama.
Keeping a written record
is a small “d” democratic Art and
the expressed urge to write
is a small “r” republican Virtue.
Both strengthen the body politic.
But both require a voyage, not a visit,
as Mrs. Brooks’s The Chicago Picasso
would be pleased to know we learned.
The present quasi lockdown provides us
Space and time to take the journey.
Lockdown sonnet #4
Work meetings on Zoom today –
Two confirmed cases on campus
Mean shutdown until further notice.
But the library can never completely close
So there’s telework for all library staff –
Eight hours per week on site.
This ain’t a poem, it’s a list, too much
Is happening to restrict it to 14 lines.
Taxes postponed. What if it’s all a fraud?
Read some good Angolan history today –
Precolonial stuff, and an Amilcar Cabral
Essay: History is a weapon – all for my
Docent course, even though this week’s
Walk-through at the museum is cancelled.
Lockdown sonnet #5
See the line at Trader Joes this morning?
Wrapped down the block and around the corner –
Each shopper six feet apart from the next?
Whole Foods is still out of Vitamin C
And limiting frozen pizza to four
Per shopper. Good prices on naval oranges –
Stocking up to stave off scurvy, rickets.
Press conference on standby – gotta get
Latest developments on the crisis.
Never mind the moral imbecility
Of the press corps – the message seeps through
Their banterings and raillery
(And that’s being charitable. My goodness!)
The time to learn the news is nigh.
Lockdown sonnet #6
A new fountain pen arrived. Nice feel, heft.
German import. Overstock. Priced to sell.
A bit slow on capillary action
At first, as new pens often are. An ink drop
Spilled on my hand and down to the floor.
Should have done this in the kitchen. Trouble.
In paradise. Wife will be enraged.
No refuge will there be from her scorn.
We are both going crazy trying to predict
the unknown unknown. When will it all end?
Meanwhile, I’m preparing a short talk
About how the Portuguese invented
The plantation system memorialized
In the Cape Verdean art form: Morna.
Lockdown sonnet #7
I’m reading Transgenerational Trauma.
I should be planning my day of telework
at home, surrounded by distractions.
No one sits within six feet of me –
social distancing is the new rule.
Garland Nixon is broadcasting
On Radio Sputnik. At noon the pope
is giving a special prayer and Fatima
in Portugal is consecrating the world.
My mask is not stylish but effective.
Everybody on Twitter has something
Snarky to say about the corona virus.
I took my Vitamin C with coffee –
We’ll keep the barking hounds at bay.
Lockdown sonnet #8
I compare every new and pretty voice
To my safe bets, Mariza and Amalia,
And that’s not fair. How can the new ones meet
That standard? But they try and they deserve
To be heard. Fado is my antidote
For the blues the lockdown brought. But the songs
Of old don’t really address the anguish
and the uncertainly of the present.
Never mind. Folks are starting to panic,
Important events and milestones cancelled
Or postponed. Isolation takes its toll
In time. Mariza told us she was tired
Of singing all these sad old weary songs.
Lockdown sonnet #9
There is a sort of spiritual healing
taking place in government today,
thanks to Rona. Forced into party strait
jackets to support various sides
of the impeachment hoax, many
Unwillingly, members can finally seek
the unity of purpose and collegiality
that heals their souls. All our souls.
The black ladies are making a quilt
with large, oversized white hands.
And there is a peeping Tom in the window,
maybe the artist himself. Maybe some other.
A black cat creeps across the floor,
and a new world is forming outside.
Lockdown sonnet #10
The volunteer activities I cram into my weekends
Bring me great joy and fulfillment, satisfaction.
Even with the requirement to juggle things
From one Saturday to the next, I thrive on it.
But today, in the midst, we hope, of the lockdown,
The chores that once occupied my mind are absent.
So I am doing a binge on Amazon Prime selections
Since we terminated our subscription to Netflix
To avoid the social programming therein.
What’s in store for today? A friend recommends
Counterpart, Cold War spy thriller, supposedly,
Though we know what that deal was. And then
There is Star Trek – Discovery, not quite my cup of tea,
Although I was an early saint to outer space’s devotion.
Lockdown sonnet #11
To Rona (AKA, the corona virus, COVID19)
Rona, you were never a passing thing,
A good time girl who tiptoed daintily
Through the sweetness of our days,
Leaving a faint trace of a summer memory.
OH. HELL. NAW! Rona, you came upending
All our ho-hum lives, taking us
To new levels of thinking and being.
Rona, you were never a one-night stand.
I knew you were trouble when you
stuck your head in the doorway
And flashed that cunning smile.
My mother warned me about girls
Like you. Still, instead of chasing you away,
I brought you fully into my embrace.
Lockdown sonnet #12
I just listened to the new Bob Dylan drop.
Some kind of weird incantation –
A forced repetition, for a hypnotic effect,
a magic ritual in an ancient oral tradition.
Also, a shout out to the musical ancestors,
Invoking each of the gods by name.
An African conceptualization is what Toledo
would call it. Oh, you don’t know Toledo?
How could you? He was Ma Rainey’s piano player.
Ain’t never been the same fool twice. Don’t worry,
You’ll see it on Netflix when it comes out.
A piano lesson disguises the real drama.
Old Bob gives the devil his due. Play that funky
music white boy. Spell it with a K in B flat.
End of Lockdown Sonnets
NaPoWriMo #9 – Not a concrete poem
This poem defies the concept of concreteness.
It bubbles over the top of the walls
Of its container, like a boiling liquid –
Then flashes to steam, releasing its perfume.
Would that that were its final material state.
The perfume gets distilled into haiku,
Then changes state to sound, to melody,
Seeking eager and open noses and ears
Simultaneously in asynchronous effect.
It is still not at its end. Invisible
Atoms infiltrate the blood-brain barrier
And find a resting place. There it awaits
Retrieval as an oral combination, a word,
A passing thought, a feeling unexpressed.
A Thursday sonnet
It might be time for a shape shift moment.
This kernel of time, wedged between the walls
Of two more standardized realities
Only points us backwards on the path
Of forward growth. You can write your own poem –
This one holds out hope for a revival
And a different direction for our dreams.
Old ways benefited the chosen few.
Their poets and prophets sing of better
Days to come. They have playwrights and Netflix
Producers on the job around the clock,
Promising to protect the status quo.
I can’t say I wish them ill. Their vision
Is a museum object, best preserved, mute.
To my shipmate, Wendy
Some might say this work/life has given us
A warped sense of humor. We cast a glance
At each other and smile. Yes, I was there
With you in Baghdad, dodging mortar rounds
On selected days, and on the tarmac
Overnight in Kuwait City where we
had to have a special sense of humor
To survive war’s absurd insanity.
Time passes. The wounds heal. The scars remain.
We write the future, it does not write us.
We arrange and describe our past to fit
truth’s narrative arc. It doesn’t matter
That we spent nights in the Palace
Fearful of those whose lands we invaded.
Auto-ethnography
I straddle multiple dualities:
Settler and native, assimilated
And separate, conqueror and conquered.
Crossing lines is my favorite pastime,
Assuming opposing identities,
Walking a mile in my enemy’s shoes.
Still, there are certain things I will not do:
I’ll never hurt a child, or kick a man
Who’s already down, or ignore a plea
For help from anyone. A warrior
To my bones, if you cross me I will pause
And think before I act: it’s likely I
won’t turn the other cheek. I’ll telegraph
my ev’ry move, give you the choice to strike.
Confined to quarters
What must we conclude when the cycle ends?
Is there cause for hope, for optimism,
A balm we can surely find in Gilead?
Or isn’t all just a wink and a nod,
Yet another slave narrative that shows
the futility of our pleas for peace?
As a teen I thought Robert Redford might
Someday be President. I mean, Bobby Seale
Didn’t really stand a chance and Redford
Was at least a man of action. But there
was no great art in his films, well, except
in that spy flick he did with Dunaway –
Who had been my secret crush forever –
Where, under duress, she said, “This is . . . unfair!”
Memento mori
One day we’ll all lie down
In a narrow box. For a time
Our neglected hair and nails
Will continue to grow.
But our eyes won’t move
And our ears will no longer
Hear the ennobling sound of music.
Our fingertips will forget
The caring touch of our beloved.
When that time comes for me
Don’t put no shoes or socks
On my feet - there’ll be no reason
to walk any more - but my toes will need
freedom to wiggle if they want.
Poems from the Crucible
pt. nought – 14 lines for a rainy Thursday morning
“I once studied viruses like this one. They are immensely complex and according to some, not even living.” — My friend Myra, a poet
I woke up to rioting and looting
in Minneapolis, faux apologies
in New York, unsolved, unanswered
questions in Brunswick, GA,
and dementia in Dover, Delaware.
What the actual fuck? Pardon my French.
This virus might not be a living thing
But it is wrecking havoc in all our lives.
Then there are rumors about a veto
And an executive order that’s gonna stir
Some feathers in the head of the beast.
And somebody wrote on Twitter,
“Ain’t no shame in their game.”
I see shame all over the place.
a facebook status I posted that i thought was pretty poetic
Slavery in the United States
is not mythological.
It is not the expropriation
of an ancient biblical bedtime story.
Slavery was brutal and inhumane
and it etched itself into the American psyche
in ways we have not even discovered,
much less acknowledged.
Yet, it is a unifying event as it weaves
together into perpetuity
the lives and fortunes of the descendants
of both the formerly enslaved
and the former slave holders.
Didn’t they know this would happen?
Poems from the crucible, pt. 6
Did They Ever Find His Body? An Elegy for Christopher Dorner
I had forgotten about Chris Dorner
Until Dave Chappelle’s mention. I recall
secretly pulling for him, hoping he’d
escape being swiss-cheesed by 400
Of his fellow cops. Did they ever find
his body? I found his manifesto,
living and breathing on the internet.
He left behind a lot for us to read
and digest. Hyperlinks . . . all over the place.
Did they ever find his body? We’ve not
heard from him since. We must assume he died
in that shitstorm, transitioned this life.
Still, the mention of him makes me want to smoke.
The burned body they found was never identified.
Poems from the crucible #8
Some say we are in for grim times. They say
We should fortify our souls for the storms
Headed soon this way – put on the armor,
Set our sights on a distant unnamed star.
I am studying the constellations
Like our ancestors used to do. We stand
On their shoulders – holy ground. Through their eyes
We learn how they armed themselves and endured.
An annular eclipse coincided
With summer solstice this year. An omen
Of things to come, a lunar ring of fire
Not visible to seeking western eyes.
I saw it on YouTube. A ring of fire.
Let no man steal your joy, your sense of style.
End of the Poems from the Crucible A February Sonnet
Lift every voice and sing was always a blues song –
Poery of inclusion and uplift – infused with a melody.
Never improvised, never syncopated, just overcoming,
adapting. Emerging rapidly from a downbeat,
a flat note at the beginning and the end of time.
We called it our Negro national anthem growing up.
Then in college it became our Black national anthem,
though the words and tune remained the same.
It was we who changed. Our outlook matured.
Nation time! The song was always just a poem
put to music. When it became our hymn, we ennobled
and universalized it – we had a song worth singing.
The ancestors are with us on this one. Believe me.
The eagle landed. “Excuse me while I kiss the sky.”
A response to The Pieces I Am – a sonnet
I don’t have a “great migration” story.
My folks stayed where they were, where they’d been born.
No one way train rides punctuated life
For us: my parents cast their buckets down
And made their peace, I guess, with all the lines
That circumscribed their lives. And their parents,
And their parents, and their parents, and on
And on. Oh yeah they ventured forth from time
To time, but always came back to the home
They knew and loved. We grew up with the ghosts
Of generations past. They spoke to us
And taught us things not learnable from books,
Like how to deal with loss, and love’s delay,
And death, the ever present end of all.
On Sunday morning Full Measure is better than Meet the Press – a sonnet
I don’t really know or care what “troll” means,
and I have lost track of who follows me
on Facebook. What I know about events
in Michigan could fill a thimble, maybe,
though what I do know is that the far left
and the far right have consensual sex
whenever it suits them. All these group names
are a distraction – focus on the signal,
not the noise. The volta is late, it seems,
but don’t count it out. Good disruption hides
beyond the fear and hate that plague us,
that’d nail us to a tree. All that’s left
is the resolution couplet – the close,
a dangling modifier lost in space.
Sailor memories
I never made it to Olongapo.
Had orders once, but didn’t understand
the meanings of the words. Instead I traded
for a Norfolk fast boat, long and black.
Other places I might have tried but didn’t –
names and addresses I seldom remember,
just fragrances of sweat and tastes of tears –
memories of what futures might have been.
My claims to fame were straits I navigated,
deals I negotiated on the fly,
troubles I avoided, not from knowing,
oh no, not from knowledge, but from respect
for the unknown. My lights burn dimmer now –
I barely recognize those tracings from the past.
a vision sonnet
A painting included a nude subject,
a woman of immense beauty, seated
at a table having coffee. The steam
slowly rises from her cup (I love how
the painter captured that!). Her left hand
holds a fountain pen – she writes a letter –
perhaps to a distant lover, maybe
to her child away at college. She stares
out into space – a pregnant thought commands
her attention. Her thoughts leave the canvas
and mingle with my own as I am drawn
into her world. She must work out, such tone
in her muscular limbs. I back away –
distance and perspective change what I see.
Fourteen liner on the current crisis, pt. 1
Most Americans don’t know scarcity –
the store shelves are always stocked
and there’s plenty in the land of plenty.
But when supply chains weaken – and they
will with the coming reset –
there will be empty shelves.
The first casualty has already fallen:
election ethics. Half our citizens
ignore it because their favored guy won.
What shortage can that cause? It can’t be
like that run on toilet paper last Spring.
What empty shelves? What about the voters
defrauded by stuffed ballots and algorithms?
How are you ever gonna make them whole?
Fourteen liner on the current crisis, pt. 2
The second casualty is honest people
participating in the electoral process.
Next year or next election they’ll stay home,
leaving empty places at polling stations.
Zuckerberg’s money won’t be there to pay
off thugs. The third and greatest casualty
will be truth. With our reputation razed,
we’ll be one more banana republic
with kangaroo courts. No white wash will work.
Our place in history will be preserved
among the ignoble – the sacrifices
of our ancestors flushed down the toilet.
And we, this generation, shall be known
by history as the sellers of our birthright.
Equality
Not everybody is going to Heaven.
It’s not an equal outcome thing at all.
Hell, I might not make it in myself.
I try to live a good life, but I’ve made
Plenty of mistakes. Times I knew I was
Slipping into darkness something saved me,
Passed me a lifeline that I didn’t deserve.
People get away with murder and worse.
It seems like folks will never pay the price
For their wrong, and since nobody pays,
It must on OK. My mother is in Heaven.
My father is too. I would be welcome there.
I’d like to join them when the right time comes.
But it’s not for everybody. Only some.
Romare Bearden – The Piano Lesson, 1984
The black mirror invites my inspection –
A scaled representation of the whole.
The wooden metronome in its foreground
Reminds one of rhythm and time’s passage,
The pendulum’s swing until the winding
Dies. The young girl, black like the mirror, plays
As her mother directs. The mother’s face,
More blue than black, leans in attentively.
A non-flowering plant rests in a vase.
A paintbrush seems out of place. It could be
A missing conductor’s baton. The sun
Bursts through the window as a slight breeze blows
The curtains askew. A ceiling lamp and
A table lamp compete to light the room.
#13 - Gardening
Going to work in my garden this morning,
Gonna try hard to ignore the intense evil
that surrounds, the crisis at the border,
Our adversaries’ threats. Just a few hours
in the garden and everything will be alright.
Sometimes in passing moments of weakness
I feel anxious about finding a new job,
a hobby, an appropriate past time,
But I know I won’t keep it long, too long,
I’ll just create a reason to leave it.
Cause I stopped needing more stinking money,
Slave wages you think you are entitled
to pay for my contribution to your bottom line.
I’d rather spend my time writing these poems.
#15 - A Habit From My Mother
My mother put salt in the coffee pot –
not enough to make it salty, or even
to affect the taste at all: just enough
to change the chemistry, the bitterness,
just a few grains on top of the grounds.
I continue now when I make coffee –
just a few grains. I learned in Africa
to add a bit of freshly ground pepper
and a couple shakes of cinnamon
in with the salt grains. In her memory.
Every morning I honor my mother
and remember her grace and dignity
In this small way. Sometimes making coffee
and drinking it is much more than it seems.
Echochrome dreams
“Change the way you perceive the world and the path will be revealed.”
I never played Sony video games –
But I recognize a good string quartet
When I hear one – all those years of playing
Viola were not for naught. Music moves,
One learns so much from its forward motion –
Pathways that touch form continuities,
And if you jump from one path you will land
On another. The gap that’s blocked from view
Between connected paths should not be feared;
A hole that’s blocked from views may not exist –
Until you step in it, of course, and then
You fall to lower levels. Closer things
Overlap things more distant – you see more
Detail in near objects than those afar.
Loom of time
With these hands I weave my own destiny.
The threads I twist and spin together form
The basis, whether cotton, wool, or silk,
For weaving every cloth and tapestry
That results. Color and texture inform
The ultimate Design. Repetition
And precision make the underlying
pattern strong. The crosswise stitch overlaps
to reinforce borders of interface
With new threads introduced. The surface fills
with dust for a moment – I blow it off
And continue. I reach a point where I
can see the end. I may undo a stitch
Here and there for a more complete outcome.
To do list
It may not be true for everybody –
My story has beginnings that don’t end.
So a proper to-do list must include
Going back in time and picking up balls
I dropped. Not many and not all the time,
Mind you, but often little things, not small
Enough to be inconsequential, add
Up to many over time, so they say.
My temporal to-do list would include:
continuing to play the viola;
staying with Scouting to reach Eagle rank;
writing more poetry and song lyrics;
joining the Navy sooner, not later.
I’d spend less time pining over lost love.
Junk Drawer Blues
My life was contained by boxes of junk.
Then you came and gave my life arrangement.
Now I have a single box for items
that rejected your organizing skills:
Embroidered patches from submarines,
Track medals, rusted dog tags, lapel pins,
Green and orange honor cords, medals from work,
A key to the door of the embassy
I built. Old rusted belt buckles, name tags,
Cash money from countries I visited
In Africa, the Levant and the Gulf.
“We’re in the middle of the making,” words
From my favorite song, Master Blaster. “Still
jamming, jamming until the break of dawn.”
A Sunday sonnet
I don’t know what it does for my soul,
For good or for ill, when I listen
To the music and sounds of my youth
For hours on end. My wife thinks I’m crazy
When I bob my head and tap the base line
With my fingers on the table. Oh man!
Minnie Riperton just showed up!
That YouTube algorithm is on the one!
Luther and Aretha arrive. Tracy
With those sweet locks and that guitar picks
And strums the blues like nobody’s business!
Amy, before the drugs and booze conspired
to rob her and us, pops up. All my loving,
All my loving, I will send to you.
King Hedley II blues
They ask us to require this sacrifice.
Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth. Blood for blood.
This sacrifice will somehow make us whole,
Cure our ailments, fill the gaps you left
When they sold you down river for a song.
Those who bought you never knew stolen goods
Was all you were, living on borrowed time
And leaving casualties in your wake.
You were the sacrifice, the fatted calf,
your unwilling blood a fitting offering
To the gods. Once. Spilled on the seeded ground
Of hopes and dreams – your intoxication.
There’s no balm in revenge. So there’s no need
For a present value calculation.
After Robert Frost - The Road Not Taken
The cherry blossoms are in full display
Today. We didn’t have to end that war
The way we chose. I can’t make up for what
The people lost but still I feel their pain.
We fought another war that both sides lost:
A sacred cause that should have been resolved
By smarter minds at a dinner table,
Not on battlefields. Dogwoods remind me
of cherry blossoms, white petals, not pink.
The tree that formed the cross where Jesus died –
A passing Easter thought not apropos.
Too much is lost in war, too many lives
foreclosed, the product of labor foregone.
I think about their roads and choices lost.
January night
I wake up to pee. It happens in your sixties.
Enlarged prostate, the doctor says. There are pills,
but with a long list of side effects. TMI.
Black cumin seed oil cures everything, they say.
It’s 1:34 am, a frosty January night. I check the temperature
on the window. 10 degrees. Polar vortex. The apartment
is warm, even without running the heat. I check
the inside thermometer: 76F. I peep out of the window
that insulates and separates us from the elements –
No one, not one is stirring in the Bottom tonight.
I hope and pray the homeless have all found
Shelter and protection from the freezing weather.
I return to bed. My wife rolls over and clings to me.
Love is warm for the lucky.
Earth Day blues
She said whale songs sound sad.
I felt the same way about the blues
For years. I only heard the mourning,
And never focused on the swing,
The affirmation at its core.
This is a short poem for Earth Day,
A reminder that the whale’s song
Is a swinging celebration:
A modal mixture from the deep,
Interacting with all life in its rise.
Listen to some whale songs today.
You will see what I’m saying here.
There’s a triumph and a healing,
A discovery, a coordination.
Grandola Vila Morena
It’s a song that fills my eyes with tears
Whenever I hear it. Grandola
Vila Morena. The sound of soldiers
Marching, a signal on the radio
To free men in the countryside:
Rise up against corrupt government!
“It is the people who lead!”
Not leaders who buy expensive houses.
The villanelle reminds us what freedom
Used to sound like, used to seem to be.
Place a carnation in the barrel
Of the rifle. Here in freedom land,
We march in step with the machinery.
Disaster lurks as rivals bide their time.
#26 Live from the Oscars!
If you stay long enough at the fair
You’ll see played out in living color
The many intersecting timelines
Of projected realities – right in your face.
They always return to the scene
Of their crimes – or to be biblical,
The dog returns to his vomit:
The fool repeats his folly.
I went to bed early and missed
The Glenn Close live action short –
Hey, you lose when you snooze!
But I have School Daze around here
Somewhere, probably on cassette.
I’ll have to dig it up and check it out.
#27 - From the dictionary of obscure sorrows
Midsummer, n. A feast celebrated on your 26th birthday
I don’t recall when I turned twenty-six:
There would have been no feast, just supper
As normal in the crew’s mess – pot roast
Maybe, with carrots and potatoes.
But I do remember when the days
Started feeling shorter as they passed,
When the tide rushing in for a quick kiss
Began to ebb, the twilight of our time
Together. Youth, the wasted source of strength,
Spilled over the top of the containers
We carried, whether cup or bucket,
Then hastened its retreat into the depth
Of our experience. It shows up now
And then, a trace of paths we chose. Or not.
#31 - End of the cycle
Always there’s an upbeat to end on –
A U-shaped curve. Life’s narrative arc
Is a comedy, at least we hope,
In the strictest sense of the word.
Another Cycle comes to an end –
A resolution and a denouement
That gathers and ties up every loose end
like rope, whipped to prevent unravelling.
A free body diagram dangles
In space, never showing its constraints
Or the forces it exerts. Good drama
Is the same. It withholds conclusions
Until every jot and tittle is laid bare –
And the finish is as clear as the start.
Memoir writing blues
It is useful to go back & fill in the details,
to add a bit of color to the black & white.
I omitted some details in the first draft,
perhaps thoughts not yet processed, maybe stuff
I wanted to avoid, to forget. It is not
all goodness and light, you know, and
“life ain’t been no crystal stair.” I have broken hearts,
including my own, and buried broken bodies
too hastily in shallow graves out back,
including my own, or deep in the sand
of soft, wet beachfront where sunbathers dwell.
The first draft sheds light on darkened areas,
but it’s the rewrite that quickens the resolve
To clear the air and to finish the deed.
If it rains tomorrow morning
If it rains tomorrow morning I’ll brew
A pot of Vietnamese robusta
And slowly ramble through O’Hara poems –
Meditations in An Emergency.
But if it’s clear, we’ll take the morning tour
Of Lafayette Square with our new friends from
The National Civic Art Society.
And maybe later, brunch at Hay Adams,
And maybe take some snapshots of buildings
Up and down 16th Street. We’ll imagine
Being way uptown and seeing the dome
Of the Jefferson Memorial sit
Atop the White House. Or so it’d seem –
Like two stars in the heavens that appear as one.
Mayakovsky
Reading Frank O’Hara first introduced me
to Mayakovsky’s poetry.
Then I stumbled upon the Langston Hughes
translations purely by chance –
it was during Hughes’ Picasso period
decades before O’Hara’s enlightenment.
But have you seen The Red Queen?
You know, the film about the Soviet
fashion model of humble origin?
She credited reciting Mayakovsky
for the perfect rhythm of her steps
on the catwalk.
Having many lovers doesn’t
make one a whore, does it?
Day #2
Sometimes when a poem comes out
its stanzas are in the wrong order.
Once typed it’s easy to cut and paste.
I tried today’s prompt but couldn’t find a fit.
I did follow Haggard Hawks on Twitter –
a most unusual collection of tweets –
and found some great word derivations,
like “by and large,” a nautical expression
from the days of sail, and “vulgarizer,”
an early word for “influencer.” And who knew
“reupholster” is merely an anagram
for “restore plush” in old worn furniture?
My favorite – abvolate – to fly away.
But I just couldn’t write about it in a poem.
Day #3
I love Emily’s mention of mills –
Of course, the mills all moved
From New England to NC
After the war – where labor was cheaper.
Then the same mills all moved
From NC to Vietnam – after that war.
When mills move, jobs also depart –
And that’s how we know who lost.
I found a 14-liner among the rest.
I dare not call it a sonnet – the experts
Might protest. But it was there,
Plain as day to any eyes that see
Or minds that count. It even had a volta
In its place. I read my sentence – steadily –
Day #4: A Poem of Prompts
I have some prompts for evoking memories
of growing up and youth. Write a poem or story
about passionate unrequited love in high school.
Making it past second base disqualifies –
use your imagination if necessary.
Write a sonnet about a musical instrument
you learned to play, or wish you’d learned.
Recall the first distasteful experience
you had with a grown-up. Yes, they should have
known better. Better yet, make it haiku,
break all the rules if you need to. Describe
your first job for which you received a paycheck –
household chores are acceptable. Beside
above, describe the first time you fell in love.
off the prompts, a sonnet to fake news
A volcano erupted in the Azores –
those Portuguese islands have always
fascinated me, though we never took
the trip for one reason or another.
The new judge is soft on kiddie porn crimes –
or so they say – children will no longer
be safe in this land of the free, new world.
Yes, I’m shaking my head. They’re coming for
our guns, but i don’t have any. Just don’t
burn my books. And don’t leave out the hunter’s
laptop – more crimes preserved for the high,
the mighty. This madness will be over soon,
and prices can come back down to earth,
at least if they don’t steal the thing again.
Day #10: a love poem
Love evolved for mutual survival –
Adam didn’t know Eve, much less love her,
but there they were, in the garden,
fighting all those crawling things
that sought their space inside the boundary.
Luckily they spoke the same language.
And then, when the babies came,
They had no choice but to fall in love.
Neither loved God either, but they feared
his warning not to venture past the mark –
they needed his protection. Love was still
not in the garden vocabulary.
Over time, affection grew, but again,
survival was the truest motivation.
Day #16: curtal sonnet
This poem won’t have meaning in the future:
after the fall, after the sheer collapse
of all our forevers. Why write it then?
Some scholar, looking back will try to piece
it all together, try to understand
at what point the inescapable fate
began to unfold. Ruins will remain –
some buildings will survive the blast intact,
as will the internet – all our April poems –
when they figure out its reconstruction –
once the ashes cool.
Day #17: Completion of the 100th Canto
Where begins this triune explanation?
This three-in-one, this sacred trinity?
“Up from the grave he arose.” Each person
has her own chronology. Ours began
with God’s resurrection; the first sighting
of the triple mysteries. Second was
the exodus from slavery – passover –
but for us it was more than a fable,
mythology for children at bedtime –
it was our own – just four generations
removed for the lash of the evil whip.
What’s left, you ask? No pope can comprehend.
Surviving the middle passage completes
the soul’s circuitry. How can we forget?
Roe-Wade Day
I’m reading Volume 3 of Ed Sanders’ America:
A History in Verse, the 60’s, trying to figure out today
who is playing trumpet and who, hard bop bass
in this Supreme Court performance of a lifetime.
Yet, all this commotion about Roe and Wade
is nothing compared to the Cuban Missile Crisis,
or Rachel Carson finishing writing Silent Spring
between daily crude radiation treatments
for a raging breast cancer. Nothing when
we reflect on how the poet Marilyn Monroe
was cancelled and conveniently erased.
We need to put it all in perspective.
And the contrived new cold war is just
a way to launder bad money going after good.
Roe-Wade Day - the day after
Turns out the peaceful protestors, dressed in black
for a formal “night of rage,” did not burn down the city
as anticipated. Not yet. I’m still seeking refuge in history
(and partly in poetry when rhymes exist). Seeing too many
parallels between Biden and LBJ: both Senators who
became VP’s to “balance” the ticket after losing; both
finally becoming Prez in, at best, mired circumstances;
both with domestic and foreign obsessions – LBJ’s war
on poverty and Great Society, Biden’s green new deal,
LBJ’s flawed adventures in Vietnam and Biden’s missteps
in Afghanistan and Ukraine. But still, in many ways,
Biden’s performance is just incomparable. Johnson was
too smart to try to undermine the Supreme Court – Biden,
shamelessly, recites whatever “they” put on the teleprompter.
Roe-Wade Day - One for the road
It matters the name you give a thing
if you hope to turn it into a movement.
“Roe v. Wade” as a name was never an inspirer,
especially after Norma found the Lord
and recanted her rape story in a memoir.
It’s frankly difficult to find a proper euphemism
for sucking a living thing out of a woman’s body
then killing it. Yet here they all are, protestors
protesting. Will all this energy, all this disruption,
fizzle into history without a bibliographic entry?
What will we name a movement to overturn
the overturning and make it all sound honorable?
Or is that possible given the circumstances?
We clearly have more questions than answers.
Memorial Day, 2021 Sonnet
Ancestry.com found me a new cousin.
He’s a third or a fourth counting all
Our common DNA threads. I recognize
His great grandfather’s name, same as my Mama’s
Uncle, who served in France during the war
To end all wars. Same uncle who used to pray
Long prayers in the cold country church heated
By a coal-burning potbellied stove
Just in front of the pulpit. Mama, I’d whisper,
Shivering, why are Uncle Ben’s prayers so long?
She’d whisper back, “Hush boy, your uncle is
Talking with God.” I remember feeling
Empowered to know that someone so close
Had such contact with the Almighty.
A sonnet for Nikki
November 1, 2021
A poet named Nikki Giovanni
came to Greensboro back in the 70’s
and read for a small group of students.
Somehow or other I found myself
in the mix. Can I just say I plumb fell
in love? She was younger then and I was
even younger and couldn’t find the words
to make an absolute fool of myself.
Since then, Poetry’s been my mistress
and my erstwhile Muse, guiding my vessels
through high seas and low, missteps and false starts
aplenty. I ride the nightwinds, trusting in
and steering by the stars I’ve learned to read,
making up the harmony as I go.
November 22, 1963
What were you doing on that fateful day?
In second grade our teachers huddled
together, softly weeping, trying not
to let us see the grief their faces wore.
They cancelled school and we went home early.
Our mothers, like our teachers, were weeping,
as if a family member had been lost.
Our fathers got home around 6, just in time
to watch Walter Cronkite read the news
on the black and white TV. Mine just shook
his head as if some tragic end was near.
(We didn’t know about his drinking then.)
It seems so long ago. The pain we saw
on adult faces scarred us in our souls.
A LinkedIn Message 06302022
The years of toil and strain, the boats,
the ships, the third world country living
are all finally catching up with me:
pre-diabetes, hypertension, heart disease,
all the illnesses that have plagued
my ancestors are stopping in for a visit.
I still have some good years left and
so I am making up for lost time
by reaching out to old friends.
Still writing bad poetry. Nothing rhymes.
Too often too much of current events
gets entangled in my storytelling.
But that is also part of the story.
Let me send you my latest collection!
another Saturday night sonnet
I live in DC and had no knowledge
of Ari Lennox. She from DC? Sounds
too much like Erykah Badu for my tastes.
There’s only one Badu! Good news, though, is
the YouTube algorithm felt my need and
served up Pharoah Sanders – Harvest Time next.
My soul needed a soft blues cleansing
after that light porn. Think I’ll wait and see
what else is on tap. More Pharoah Sanders? Nice.
’71. Wash my soul clean, pure, white like snow.
It’s not too late to read some poetry –
O’Hara is on the stack. Along with
Owen Dodson. Both wrote sweet elegies
for Lady Day. The circle is complete.
On Jean Toomer’s Birthday (December 26)
My Cane is yellowed, spine cracked, page edges
brittle from age, wear. Words that used to stream
from it like molten lava, now percolate
slowly like coffee in Mama’s kitchen.
“Delete all spam messages now.” Don’t think
twice about it – don’t look back to see if
anything is worth saving – it’s all spam,
click bait to trick you into opening
your inbox to viruses you don’t need.
Words that once spilled from his lips like diamonds
and fully formed pearls, now remain buried
in his head and heart awaiting new birth
and inspiration. My Cane is yellow-edged.
Oracular. Deep-rooted in my soul.
Facing another new year, 2023
I was born under the archer, a sign
of things to come. Perhaps. I don’t put stock
in that kind of thing. A good God-fearing
woman became my wife, pleasing the prayers
of my mother’s resting soul. That’s as much
as one can hope for – so fleeting a life.
As this. I met my demons along the way
and learned to keep them at arm’s length:
my angels I’ve embraced with devotion
and passion, their kind words, gentle mercies
always at my beck and call. Open roads
await, invite me: I pause, declining
options. My blessings in these golden years
outweigh my curses’ woes.
grieving the loss of a friend – day #2
There’s only so much RAM.
What happened to those stored memory banks?
A cataclysmic event crashed my hard drive,
wiped clean all prior thoughts, hopes.
These shocks to the system happen. So why
was mine the harbinger of such loss?
I may never name it, but I felt it
When I learned the lost of an ancient friend.
The cramps I used to get distance running
were not cramps – they were small cavitations
of a pump – I’d later learn. Intense pain
that almost broke my heart. Those memories
are my only surviving recollection from that time.
Don’t be ashamed to shed tears for your loss.
February 12, 2023 – How can I write poetry at a time like this?
Perhaps this will happen every Sunday or thereabout,
A detour, like last week, from an already plotted course.
I wanted to write a poem today for my classmates,
gathered in various email chains for our upcoming 50th.
Then I received an instagram message this afternoon
from an old friend telling me her sister passed away
last week after a long illness. How can I write a poem
reminiscing about high school pranks at a time like this?
Maybe I’ll inject some line breaks and call this the poem.
All the action happens in high school anyway.
And what shall I say to her children who have lost their mother,
and to her siblings who have lost their big sister?
What shall I say to her mother who never really liked me?
Let bygones be bygones. Love your neighbor.
Monsters come out at night.
Monsters come out at night.
They tie you up with tubes and wires
across your body, flashing buzzing lights
that traumatize you when you’re barely awake.
I wake up with tangled wires. The nurse is mad
because she got a call in the middle of the night.
I have to pee. My god how do I use the bathroom
with all these tubes connected to machines
with wires attached to my arms?
I call the nurse again. She’s not happy, again
She asks me my name. Today’s date.
I know what she’s doing. More lights blink and buzz,
more rolling sounds tighten around my arms.
I blink. The lights go out. It was all a bad dream.
Karma
My mother wanted a better life for her children.
She put us in all types of extra-curricular programs
and got me a scholarship to fancy prep school
to give me a better start. My father didn’t care
for any of that stuff but much of it was useful.
I broke her heart, and my own, again and again.
It’s only karma that now the doctors tell me
I have permanent heart failure. So I have to do
a reset, change my life, my ways.
I know Mama forgives me, Daddy told me so
in a dream. And the doctors say I can expect
to live a normal lifespan if I’m careful and remember
to take my meds on time. And regular exercise
and eating the right foods (no french fries!).
the special language of bees
“And your Lord revealed to the Bee:
Build hives in the mountains and the trees,
and in human habitations: then eat of all the produce
and find with skill the spacious paths of the Lord.
There issues forth from within their bodies
a drink of various colors wherein there is healing
for men. Verily this is a sign for those who reflect.”
Holy Qur’an 16:68-69
Bees speak to one another in a supersonic spectrum
that humans cannot hear. They see colors in an ultraviolet
range that humans cannot see. They dance with
a precision that measures accurately the distance
between their hives and the place where they forage.
Bees don’t forage red-blossoming flowers –
they leave them for the birds and butterflies.
Younger worker bees emit less odor than older ones:
Older queens have a stronger odor than young queens;
young drones have a lesser odor then old drones;
All offsprings from the same queen have a similar odor.
Emily Dickinson mentions bees scores of times
in her poetry. She studied them in her garden.
Maybe she knew something we don’t know. Last Will
Folks familiar with the Peruvian modernist, Cesar Vallejo, will recognize my liberal use of the tone and structure of his poem, Black Stone on a White Stone, written under the influence, I suspect, of his observation of the Spanish Civil War. War brings out the best and the worst in all of us, in different ways, as we see nightly on the TV. There’s also a whiff of an influence from the Afro-Cuban poet, Plácido, Gabriel de la Concepción Valdés in his Despedida a Mi Madre. Both poems are worthy of your attention and both are available in English translation.
— After Cesar Vallejo
I shall die in Lisbon, my adopted home,
On a crisp Spring day. No birds
will be singing – too many children
Are dying, innocent little babies who did no wrong.
Death can be arbitrary, but it can be coldly
And precisely calculated. The world is too
Interlocked to wish retribution on the evildoers
Without including the same fate on one’s self.
So we struggle, we grieve quietly
Against an evil whose name we dare not mention.
On a cool crisp Spring day in Lisbon
I will face death resolutely, not as a punishment
Or a penalty, but as one whose debt in life
Is paid in full. There are no other options.
A Prayer for America on Inauguration Day 2025
Y’all can imagine Washington, DC today
Abuzz with all the pomp and celebration
Of Trump’s second coming. It’s too cold
To go outside. We watch several channels
At home on various streaming devices.
This poem is a prayer for America.
As much as I want it to sound upbeat,
It must not demonstrate faith and adherence
To any narrative that is another American lie.
Poetry must always rise above the lie.
Let the country of my birth be true
To its principles: One Nation, indivisible,
A republic built on a rock -- to withstand
All storms, all tides and shifting sands.
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A time traveling poet! So cool.