Dancing On the Grave

October 6, 2010
My dear sister, Annette, asked me to pen a poem to be read at her funeral. It's not that she's dying--far from it as far as I know--she just wants to be prepared. This is actually two poems in one--she's special.


Dancing On the Grave
(A Song of Rejoicing
for the Funeral of my Sister, Annette Smith
written well before she moved on)

So you think this is a victory
because my vocal chords are silenced
and laughter no longer bounces off
my tongue through the gap in my teeth
that will fall to the floor of this box.

You think this is loss
because my hands are folded flat
and not clapping to the heartbeat
no longer beating
the song beat of a different heart.

Do you believe this is the end
because my lifeless limbs
don't sway in the Wind in the dust;
and the dust will devour my flesh,
and the Wind will blow it where it will?

This is just the beginning.
My arms now move
to a whole new groove.
I am one with the Wind
and the dust don't keep me down.

This is gain.
My hands are lifted high applauding
the one beat,
the only beat,
the eternal beat.

Ha! This is a victory.
Hear my song.


Annette's Song

The Lord has brought me through.
My God has made a way.
Jesus carried me.

Your Word lead me.
Your Spirit moved me.
Your Presence guided me.

And I lived my life in You.
And You lived Your life through me.
And we lived our life as one.

Before Your throne I kneel.
Before Your power I bow.
Before Your majesty I lay myself down.

In the company of all the saints, I lift my voice to You.
In the sight of all the angels, I sing Your praise.
In Your presence, I worship.

I worship Your name.
I adore Your name.
I love Your name.

And I have a new name.
And though I have always known Your name,
it is new.

YES!
YES!
YES!

Bless You Lord.
Bless You God.
Bless You Jesus.

Jesus.
Jesus.
Jesus.

Wholly You (A Confession)

August 31, 2010
This poem is deeply personal. It is a metaphor of amazing grace in my life. I dedicate this to my God and Saviour, Jesus Christ; and to my wife Lynn, whose love and forgiveness saved me.

It was completely you
responsible for reconciliation.

The fault is mine for crouching out the door,
walking away from the dwelling
we both built with our bare hands,
down the street and around the corner
for a tawdry, no wait,
          sleazy is a better word,
affair with a strange woman;
make believe quote/unquote love, no wait,
          sex with three x's is a better word,
in the dark fabric of the quilted streets of the city:
certainly castration is a certainty.

Nevertheless you nursed me back
to your milk-laden breasts
with words
of passionate urging, loving guidance, tender comfort.
I stained your back with tears of sludge.
Turning me over
you crossed my heart.
I hoped to die.
I must have been speaking in tongues
when I cried out “Merci! Merci!”
because my lips don't know how to formulate foreign language by themselves.

And now when we make love, no wait,
          the better word is love,
your nails painted blood-rust dig my flesh;
Oh, God! I feel the pain you provide—pain not like yours,
in comparison a tingling, an internal cutis anserina.
The foreign tongue you mastered.

The reason we are becoming one
is wholly you.

Taste and See

June 14, 2010
Straight from the printer to the blog.


Serenity lay in my arm,
left hand supporting
the bottle of formula,
ever moving fingers of her right
wrapped around my pinky;
working the nipple,
she relaxed as I rocked.

Reading the Psalms of David,
trying to hold onto Serenity—
the uncoordinated ballet
of her tiny digits
fingering the pages
as she gnaws the cover.

The Cleansing Power of Fire

November 2, 2009


I wept until I could weep no more.
          The rainbow did not
          appear in the sky.
          The ground was still rock hard.

I cried out so loud my vocal cords were raw.
          The wind did not
          blow or breeze.
          The trees did not yield their fruit.

I beat my fists bloody against the wall.
          The stars did not
          hold the answers.
          The earth continued to move.

Where else can I go?
Who else can I turn to?
          Let it burn.

The Leaning Tree

January 200?
I wrote this one night while cooking at the Waffle House. I wanted to have something to enter in the Post & Courier and South Carolina Arts Commission sponsored South Carolina Fiction Project and the deadline was only 2 days away. I wasn't able to work on it again until the day of the deadline. I spent all day editing and re-writing, managing to get it posted 5 minutes before the post office closed. I didn't win.


The Leaning Tree

          He rode out on Purpose, the gray-white mare he’d left on the farm three years ago when he went away to school. The sun had already been up for an hour, hidden by a ceiling of slate gray clouds. Probably going to snow. His breath hung in the still air like a ghost. The only sound, the muffled crunch of snow under the horse’s hooves. Everyone in the house was still asleep. Spent. Unprepared for the effort of the past few days; stress they thought they had prepared for.
          The horse sauntered through the farmyard; past the rusting F150; past the bare clothesline, tiny icicles dripping off the sagging lines; past the dog pens, now empty; through the already open gate to the woods on the other side of the field.
          The sweet scent of pine caressed his nostrils like a friendly cat. Purpose gingerly picked her way along the deeply rutted two-track cut by Dad's Ford, the John Deere, and mother nature. The road wound and forked through the forty acres of forest that surrounded the main house and farmyard. He and his three older brothers, all of them moved away from home and starting their own families, had hunted deer and ‘coon and rabbit with their dogs out here. Large mounds of snow-covered branches and roots were scattered in clearings on either side of the road. Dad had said something about selling some of the trees to help pay Mom’s hospital bills.
          A year and a half ago he had learned about his mother’s cancer. His first year at State had been more intense than he'd expected, but he kept to the books. Being the first to go to college made him push harder. Now with Mom gone it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Maybe I should just quit. Save time and money. Come home and help Dad.
          The two-track rolled out to an open field. Brown and broken stalks poked up through the snow. The bleached gray slat barn was supposed to protect the aging John Deere from the weather, but little mounds of snow sat on top of the huge tires and seat. He had made some weak promises to his father to fix the roof. Animal tracks criss-crossed the whitened field like impatient doodles. A hawk circled over the far end, the future looking bleak for some rabbit or squirrel.
          The cornfield butted against the apple orchard. Harvested fruit (the farm’s main source of income for over two generations) was now applesauce or cider vinegar. Large empty crates, stacked rank and file, stood around the perimeter of the orchard; a makeshift fortress. Smaller crates cluttered the orchard floor; some stacked two and three high near the trunks, others strewn about carelessly under the unprotecting canopy of the leafless trees. As a boy, he had learned hard work picking up drops. And he had watched as Mexican migrant workers worked even harder to pick the red ripe fruit for their few dollars; all seemingly content.
          Leaving the fruitless trees, the land slowly sloped up. A small ridge—open, unplowed, and left to its own. Dried up Queen Anne’s Lace stabbed the snow here and there. Clumps of dead grasses not flattened by the snow peeked out at the world. A single maple tree stood at the top of the ridge. Three main trunks rose to form a wide canopy. The trunk to his left had been recently struck by lightning, its deadened limbs bent to the earth.

          He slid from the saddle to the ground and let the reins drop.
          When I was a kid I used to pack up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, and pop to eat out here.
          I smoked my first...and last...cigar by this tree. I thought I was so cool, until I coughed my lungs out and puked my guts up.
          My back was against this rough bark when Darlene first kissed me. A few weeks later we discovered more than a kiss under this tree.
          My hunting dog, Bones, is buried right over there.
          Mostly, I just came out here to watch the clouds slide by and the breeze blow the grass.
          Yeah, this is where I made my decision to go to school upstate. Stayed out here until it got dark. Mom was so proud that I was going to college. Any college.

          And in the shelter of naked branches, he leaned back and wept. For as long as it took, he wept and sobbed. Puffy snowflakes floated down to frozen earth. Wiping his chapped cheeks, he took the reins of Purpose and walked her home.

Angel

April 30, 2009

Catherine, should you ever read this blog, I want you to know that this poem is as much for you as it is for the baby. Love you, Sweetie. Dad


Angel
(for my Little Angel and her Mom)

Fear not,
               my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
There is peace,
               my little angel.
Bring peace.

Fear not,
               my little angel.
Do not be scared.
Be strong,
               my little angel.
Have strength.

And though you are unexpected
               (as all angels are)
God has found a place for you,
               my little angel,
here within my heart.

So, fear not,
               my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
You are loved.

Of Priests and Prostitutes

April 2, 2009

My wife Lynn gave out several exclamations as she read this for the first time. I suppose it does border on the "R" rating. But how often do we sanitize the scriptures to fit our Sunday school view. God became flesh and dwelt among us. US. It's not always very pretty "among us". Stuff happens in the "flesh". But Jesus endured. He resisted temptation. And he was victorious. Jesus can sympathize with us. "For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin." (Hebrews 4:15, ESV)

I have combined two separate incidents from the life of Jesus; two different women with similar issues. If you have a problem reading this type of material, please do not read the Song of Solomon. I read this book of the Bible for the first time as a single man in the U.S. Navy. It made me blush.


Of Priests and Prostitutes

Thrown down into the dust,
her tunic torn exposing silky thighs
that beg to be touched,
revealing full breasts glistening with sweat,
a glimpse of a nipple.
                         (Come on. You know you want to look.)
Reviewed by the local Sanhedrin,
                         (Are those names being written in the sand?)
they require judgement.
The scent of her lovers still clings to her loins
and rocks are poised
             to pounce,
             to pummel,
             to purge her
sin, their guilt.
Looking past the passion,
the verdict is pronounced.
All are guilty,
one is forgiven.

As evening wraps its arms around the city;
as the sun caresses and deeply kisses the horizon,
she comes to you.
She has nothing to offer you, save herself.
So she kneels before you.
Hot tears spill from her eyes,
moisten your feet.
She lets down her hair,
stroking
your feet
with her thick tresses,
washing away the dust of the day.
Sobbing.
Bending.
Cleavage bared.
Heaving before you.
Were it anyone else…
And we know you were a man.
You were circumcised—
all the parts were evident
or someone would have said something.

They need not indignantly ask.
You both know
who you are touching.

Sheep Dung in the Upper Room

March 30, 2009

I suppose this could be categorized as an Easter poem. It takes place the day of the Last Supper. This is another piece that I want to include in my series concerning God getting dirty. The original inspiration came from one of our pastor's sermons (Cal Woods, Pointe North Community Church, Moncks Corner, SC) in which he related an experience in which he stepped in dog doo and tracked it into a church conference room.


Sheep Dung in the Upper Room

I jump out of the boat
and into the muddy water.
Dragging the boat to shore
silt and sand slide under my feet
and through my toes.
It has been a good day for fishing.
Hauling basket after basket
of flopping fish flinging
water and scales,
I think of the Passover meal
to be shared with the Master this night.

But the nets, dripping with kelp and fish crap,
need to be tended. Sand gnats
nip at my ankles as I hurriedly finish my tasks.
Running up the bank,
wet sand from my sandals
splat my calves. Rushing through
the pasture, tall field grasses slap my shins,
leaving their seed clinging to the sweat,
hiding in the hairs of my legs.

I push through the crowded market
of the multitudes making last minute
preparations for Passover.
The streets are covered
with discarded rotted figs and grapes
mingling with the dust of ages and
the urine of goats and dogs and sheep.
Heedless of where I place my steps,
I almost fall
when my foot finds the fresh leavings
of a sheep.

Vaguely aware of the odor
from my freshly soiled sandal,
I enter the upper room
and partake of the supper
with my brethren and the Master.
And though I try to ignore it,
the trail of dust and dung
I have imprinted upon the floor behind me
is evident to all.

Then,
at the end of the meal
after the bread has been broken
and the wine has been shared,
the Master girds himself with a towel
and washes our feet.

Shooting Star (for Douglas)

(November 13, 2007)
Douglas was my nephew. He was barely in his twenties when he was hit by a car while riding his bicycle.


I saw a shooting star
          last night
in a foggy sky,
quickly shot through the dark—
          too quick.
A glance away
          and you would miss it.
I guess that's what makes them
          special.

A speck of light falling
          to wherever stars go.
And if you happened to glance
          it's descent,
you've connected with the heavens.

But the connection is cut short
          and regardless of your ties
          or knots untied;
no matter the light years
          or miles that separate,
we are all still connected
to the shooting star.

Field of Balloons

(December 16, 2005)

And so, he grabbed all the comic book dialogue balloons that appeared above his head and colored them with the worn and broken crayons from the box of 64 (he couldn't afford 120) and filled them with helium to the breaking point and tied them to the antennas of pre-owned vehicles in the used car lot with shoe laces, fishing line, strands of hair in hope…

And the people bought the cars and for the most part just popped the balloons, while others let them dangle and blow in the wind of 55 miles per; though a few—just a few—cut them loose to rise to the clouds and fall wherever dead balloons fall…

                                                                      * * *

Today's Farm Report has been brought to you by
White Cloud Motors—
“Seeking to Satisfy with Quality”
since 1962.

The Deceitfulness of Sin (Hope in a Straw)

(August 1991)


My face is bloodied
          from tripping over my own feet
                    while holding my hands behind my back.

I murmur and complain
          in the numbing pain,
                    but refuse to untie the laces.

Can I continue this pace;
          this macabre up and down dance
                    with no movement?

I am on the outside on the inside
          and it is my duty
to reach up to pull myself out
                    as I push myself down.

The blood has been shed.
          My testimony stands still.

The blood has been shed.
          The Spirit moves on.

The blood has been shed.

Grasp at the straw that is big enough
          to break the dragon's back.

Cauterize the putrifying sores of my mind;
Purge out the dregs of the wine
          from the fruit of the forbidden tree.

Grasp at the straw.