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.

Reading the Bible by Moonlight

September 15, 2010
I actually attempted to read by moonlight. It was early morning, the moon was full and bright, but not bright enough.

Reading the Bible by moonlight
words are blurred and smeared
on a not so white surface
only thing clear the white space
the margins that surround ink
jot tittle blend indistinguishable
from alpha and omega

Dawn, increasing clarity;
words are ordered in steps.
O's are opened, I's made straight;
more white space is evident
in the pores of the P's and the Q's:
each letter clearly delineated.
Even the punctuation is comprehensible.

When I Was A Child

September 11, 2010
Reminiscent of a simpler time.

Gumby,
Gunsmoke,
no one was voted off
     Gilligan's Island;
Bozo, Batman (in gray tights);
Dragnet;
wrestling greats Bobo Brazil,
Flying Fred Curry,
The Sheik;
I always lost at marbles,
     little league baseball,
     Webeloes and Awanas;
yellow Huffy bicycle, banana seat,
     sissy bar, chopper handle bars,
     no helmet, no pads;
Detroit Tigers on the transistor radio,
Hank Williams on the console stereo;
drive-ins;
station wagon,
bench seats, seat belts not required;
black cherry Kool-Aid™,
fried oatmeal, bread pudding,
     both with raisins,
goulash, Sunday pot roast;
weeping willow in the front yard,
cherry on the side, wild apple across the fence,
rhubarb and clover.
When I was four I was allowed
to walk a quarter mile
down the tree-lined road by myself
to play with my friend Ruth.

Developing Voice

August 27, 2010
from notes on drafts:
[Develop your voice
your singular voice.
Huh?
But I have many voices.]

at last stanza:
When I'm dead will the things that I've said (written) still matter?


Developing Voice
"The voice you hear when you read to yourself
is the clearest voice: you speak it
speaking to you."
          Thomas Lux, "The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently"


The black & white home movies of the early sixties
silenced my infant voice;
until the reel-to-reel recorded it again one
Christmas morning singing Jingle Bells into the taste
of the aluminum microphone.
A decade later, the tape had stretched its vocal chords
and was no longer recognizable.

I once lost my voice
in high school, auditioning for a role in “The Fantastiks.”
I sang one line and then it just stopped...
as if someone had flicked a switch or a fuse had popped
and I didn't have a penny to fix it.

I found it again
proposing pacifism, debating doctrine, singing psalms;
and again on the sidewalks for the unborn, the uninformed;
and again parading prophetic in ecstatic glossolalia utterance.

There's the voice my children have heard.
There's the voice my grandchildren hear.
There's one for the dog.

My wife knows my voice
          when I'm setting up a bad pun,
          when I'm up on my soap box,
          when I'm asking a question
          or broaching a sensitive subject.
          There is one only she knows
                    when our door is closed
                    or when we're not talking.

I have a telephone voice
and a cell phone voice:
they are different.

It actually goes up
          about half an octave
                    when I'm waiting tables.
This phenomenon seems to affect most servers.

When I try to talk to you,
what if
what if I stut...stut...stutter;
          suppose my syllables slip into lisp;
                    perhaps the words no longer exist.
And what if we don't speak the same language?
¿Y si no hablamos el mismo idioma?
Where I come from, we don't have an accent.

And when my lips are peeled back from my teeth,
and my tongue has been eaten by worms,
will my voice still be heard in the heads of my kids
when they speak to kids of their own?

The Lost Art of Walking

August 13, 2010
Nobody walks anywhere anymore. It seems that the younger generation needs some form of transportation just to get around the block. But there's more to walking than putting one foot in front of the other. It's noticing things along the way. And it's a nice metaphor for life. Besides, even God enjoys a good walk (Genesis 3:8).

The Lost Art of Walking
Does not matter where you start or started;
comfortable shoes are wise, a bottle of water necessary;
any and all weather acceptable, sunny with a breeze preferable.

through the school playground littered with jungle gyms, swings, and slides
wads of paper tucked between the grass blades
chewing gum tattooed on the sidewalk
crossing over railroad tracks cutting perspective through trees
tight-rope walking narrow shoulders too close to oncoming traffic
soft shoulders sprinkled with litter like shed tears
full-blast electric hum, buzz of insects in the powerline cut
cigarette butts congregating against the curb
multicolored mulches
close-up, slow-motion landscaping
     every untrimmed branch standing out in hi-def, bold relief
question mark butterfly--what is it's taxonomic label in Latin?
deserted service station
     oily parking lot, empty abandoned cracked pavement fading lines
red clay, rocks, grass (carefully manicured this side, gone to seed that side)
anthills
back roads and small businesses you cannot see from the highway
there's a picnic table behind the firehouse
there's another one in the cemetery--go figure
sidewalks end

arriving home is like walking into your hometown
that you haven't been to since you were a kid
it's old and familiar and surreal and new

Serenity's First Birthday

August 6, 2010

I'll miss you when you're gone:

          pointy finger
          squint your eyes
          purse your lips
          slobber drool
          wobbley dance
          crab walking
          waddle down the hall
          peek-a-boo
          numma numma breakfast
          yay--clap, clap

I'll see you in the morning
for our walk among the trees.

Instruction in Omelette

March 16, 2010
Another fun little assignment from Creative Writing 238. Write a poem giving instruction for making or doing something. Bon appetit!


The question of which came first
     is irrelevant:
you need to start with eggs.
Open them carefully,
     avoid the jagged pieces of shell
     that may slip through,
into a clean bowl.
Beat vigorously, whip emphatically
     into a frothy foam
     in which albumen and yolk,
     white and yellow
are inseparable.
Peel an onion--
     white, yellow, red--
     the choice is yours.
Slice this onion.
Chop this onion.
     The tears are unavoidable.
Set aside.
Place a teflon coated pan
     upon the burner--
     medium heat.
A little oil to lubricate,
     form a layer of protection
          from the hot surface,
     impart a little flavor.
Gently pour the beaten mixture
     into the heated pan--
     allow it to form--
          slowly.
Layer upon layer of shredded cheese--
     cheddar, mild or sharp,
     maybe mozzarella or monterey jack.
Heap onion,
fold,
slide to plate.
Enjoy.

To Everything There is a Season Suite

February 22, 2010
This started as an assignment in Creative Writing 238: take a cliche and give it fresh life. I had picked from the list "freezing to death" and wrote a poem. I liked it. I wanted to do more. So I dug out other seasonal cliches (or not so seasonal) and created a pastoral suite. The suite itself is cliche with my usual twists. From consummation and birth to the hereafter. Oh, how cliche.


Spring Has Sprung

Spring has sprung
          in a bed of love
          to the flow'ry bed
Spring has come.

Springs are sprung
          in an upstream swarm,
          a race to become
Sprung into one.

Spring has sprung
          in a seed that's sown
          to sprout and to grow,
Springing to one.

Spring! Sprung!
          fountains of the deep
          waters have broken—
Springing son.

Springs are sprung
          on the hands of time
          to the infant mind
Spring is one.


Dog Days

of summer moons
          howlings
          barkings
          yippings and yappings
          at silent sights and scents

of sniffing this and that
          and the other
          fresh smell
          stale odor
          butt hole
          connoisseur of pooh
          and all things aromatic
          master of the olfactory

of humping legs
          and pillows
          and oversized teddy bears
          anything with
          fur and four legs
          in heat

of pissing on trees
          and fences and
          grass and tires
          whatever presents
          itself as being worthy
          of being pissed upon
          for the pleasure of pissing
          piss piss piss

of chasing after
          cars
          cats
          tails
          sticks and balls
          tails
          cats
          cars

of laying about
          with nothing but
          to nip at fleas
          snooze and dream

of summer moons


Leaves: Much To Be Desired

The crowns of the deciduous morph from green to brown in varying degrees and stages of gold, pumpkin, and rust, signaling the end of endless days, portending the approach of cold and frost. From a distance, the colors mix and blend: a panoramic landscape destined for desktops and calendars.

Dun branches and twigs clutch each changing leaf, holding it high until, fingers splayed, it lets go to reach for something higher.

Now they're scattered all over the lawn. They need to be raked and bagged. Even with gloves, blisters form before the first pile is crammed and compressed into thick brown paper bags. It's only natural to want to jump in.


Freezing To Death

…his breath
                              hung in the air
                              like a ghost.
The heavens likewise with stone gray expiration
entombed the barren countryside.

His arms
          wrapped about his torso
                    like winding sheets.
Tree limbs creaked
                    like old bones
          in the flurry.

His feet
buried in his boots,
frigid markers in the snow.
The ground experiencing the last stages of rigor
interred the pastoral setting for a seasonal eternity.


Hope Springs, Eternal

Better than Hot Springs, Eternal.

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.

Watching My Husband Dress

(to me from my wife)
July 1, 2009
I wrote this from Lynn's point of view. She said I nailed it.


I like to watch my husband
     dress for work;
everything is always done
     the same.

It starts when he's shaving.
I don't know why
but that just fascinates me.
Pulling the razor
over the curve of
his neck
with self assured movement
to the line of his beard
under his chin
scraping away the day-
old stubble.

When he tucks in his shirt
     zips his fly
               notches his belt
                              I hate him—
the notch has moved in.
I don't want him to lose
his Buddha belly. It's just big enough.

As he looks in the mirror,
adjusts his tie and
arranges himself,
he is so focused.
I feel that if I interfered
at any time
during this entire process
he would push me aside.

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.

A Short Dash

April 15, 2009

Contemplating headstones.
Information minimal.
FULL NAME.
Date born.
Date dead.
In between—a dash.

The race starts with a bang;
               cheers of joy and pain
               pushing you through the gate.
The crowded pack vies for position;
               spikes threaten your calves, elbows your nose.
               Ultimately, you race self…alone.
Settling in to a rhythm, muscles warming;
               preparing for the stretch ahead,
               setting a pace for the miles before.
The course varies, testing entire being:
               strength, will, stamina, mental fortitude
               stretched, pushed, moving ahead, lagging behind.
Uphill sprints, downhill control;
               sand and grass, pine bark and pavement
               pounding up through sinew and pore.
Weather, with you, against you,
               rain on face, wind at back;
               wool socks cover hands in cold.
Home stretch stretching out, every breath
               breathed through snot. Face set
               finish line, heart racing to the end.

It's a short dash—
defining the name
               on the headstone.

Gettin' His Hands Dirty From the Start

(March 10, 2009)

I was really tired that night. Really tried to sleep. I was already in bed when a line for another poem I was working on came to me; so, I had to write it before I lost it. Then another thought for another poem (I had notes for 2 or 3 in progress). I brought the flashlight into the bedroom so I wouldn't disturb Lynn. I really wanted to sleep, but if the inspiration kept coming I wanted to be prepared. Yet, I really wanted to sleep. This was merely part of a list of poems I would like to write exploring the divininty within humanity in the form of Christ or more precisely that God ain't afraid of getting dirty. I only slept for 3 hours that night.


Gettin' His Hands Dirty From the Start

I was out in the field the other day
just lookin' things over—
it was such a nice day and all.
I was just kickin' dirt clods,
when I came across one
kind of looked like my Grandpa Massey.
And lookin' at that clod of dirt,
               that looked like Grandpa,
got me thinkin'
about something I read in the Bible.

And in the beginning
there wasn't much of nothing.
So God made something,
and comparatively speaking,
it was kind of messy.

And the angels stood back,
amazed and afraid,
as God rolled up his sleeves
and stuck his hands elbow deep
in the mud.

Now to you and me
this mud was about as clean
as any mud can get.
After all, it's God-made mud.

But to God, who ain't had dirt
tracked into his kingdom for ever
('cept for maybe that Satan fellow),
mud is mud.

But he done it any way.
And by the time He was done
moldin' and pattin' and shapin'
this stuff,
He had done made a man.

Well, He wasn't quite done yet.
The fellow wasn't quite alive.
So what does God do?
Now at this point,
when the angels see God
start to do what He's about to do,
the angels gasp
(that's right—gasp)
'cause God begins to give
mouth-to-mouth to this mud-man.

And lo and behold,
the guy starts to breathe.
And to walk and to talk.
And he names all the animals
and tends to this garden God made.
And then he ends up
doing something stupid later on
that gets him kicked out of this nice place
to places where he has to break up clods of dirt.

But God really took a shine
to this guy anyway.
And the angels are still amazed
at how much God cares
about these walking clumps of dirt.

Me.
I kicked the clod that looked like Grandpa.

Road Trip

(January 25, 2008)

Staring through the heat haze
               rising from the road in the distance
skewing the view and vision,
               wondering when this trip will ever end
                              'cause you've gotta pee
                                             gotta pee
                                             gotta pee.
And you can't pull over—
               there's no trees,
                              no bushes,
                              no cover.
And the next rest stop is 55 miles away
               with no exits in between.
And the gnawing in your gut
               informs you that beef jerky
               is no substitute for a full meal.
Wish you hadn't passed up
               McDonald's an hour,
                              a lifetime ago.
And what's that noise?
               That rattle.
               That hum.
               That annoying squeak.
Is my roadside service insurance up-to-date?
There's no way I can fix
               whatever that is
                              myself.
Hey! Was that a lion?
                              Really. A lion. On a farm.
                              ? ? !
               A giant Jesus. Carved in butter.
                              Hmm.
               And why would anyone make
                              a ball of string that big anyway?
So, where was I going anyway?
Should have listened to mom and dad.
               Use the bathroom before you leave home.
               Pack a lunch.
               Know where you're going. Have a plan. Carry a map. Use the map.
               Side trips are fun and educational,
                              however, don't forget your destination.
Destination.
Vacation.
Relaxation.
Forever R & R.
Am I there yet?

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.

The Darkened Firmament Is A Blank Page

(October 2, 2007)

…and the stars
          of a clear Autumn night
blink and shimmer;
          pinpricks of light
          in a blue black sky;
tiny dots
          as close as the back of my eye,
          faraway;
          forgotten
in the light of day;
          lost
in the blur of city lights;
          real worlds,
          humungous suns,
          fantastic galaxies
that glitter in imagination,
because at the end of the day
          of a clear Autumn night
it's all we have left.

Life in the Fast Lane

(July 11, 2007)

…and life oozed past:
every passing year;
month after month;
paycheck to paycheck;
day in, day out;
endless hours, stolen minutes, ticking seconds;
every minute infinity
leaking out at breakneck
          stop motion speed.
And at every turn of the hand I think—
          There's fifteen minutes of my life
          I'll never get back.

Love Is Butter Pecan Ice Cream

(May 15, 2007)
OK. So I was talking to this elderly couple at the restaraunt one day, and they were telling me how they met and how she "reeled" him in with butter pecan ice cream. Somehow, we got discussing poetry, when she asked me to write her a poem. I asked her what she wanted me to write and she said, "Write me a poem about...love."


Sitting on the front porch
          watching the sun set
behind the Spanish moss covered live oaks;
          watching butter pecan ice cream
melt in bowls that have been filled
          with chicken noodle soup,
          Spaghetti-O's, and oatmeal;
watching the dusk settle in
          and snuggle up to the horizon,
like you and me
          and butter pecan ice cream
                    on the front porch.

Life In A Fishbowl

(July 20, 2006)
This poem was inspired by one of Gary Larson's Far Side cartoons.

Floating endless circles
around pretend castles
and plastic treasures;
past a helmeted figurine
of a man
bubbling air that doesn't pass
through lungs;
looking out
at a magnified world
appearing larger than life,
wetter than aerated H2O;
masticating
in personal defecation
and crud covered pebbles
thinking…
                    Should the castle burn
                    and I escape the flame
                    to flop a slimy stain
                    upon the tablecloth—
                    Am I not now more screwed?

Death of a Prophet (dedicated to Ron Gatrelle; pastor, brother, friend)

(May 2006)

And the man of God was laid to rest today.
The speaker used the word prophet
     with an uncapitalized “p”
     (I don't think he dared).
     He didn't personally know the man—
          the man of God—
          the vessel that
          though cracked and chipped and scratched
               poured out
               what was poured in.
               (How could that hold water?)

Well, they said,
He's dead…
     guess we were
     wrong/right
     about him.

But Prophets die,
(they're not immortal you know)
     and occasionally another one
     comes along behind him.
     (Faster. Stronger. Better than before.)

Besides,
     does the Truth die?
     Do prophesies fade?
     The grass still grows
          after the tree is but a stump.

Anyway,
     the man of God moved on,
     shedding the cocoon of this life
     for the wings of the next.

And whether we liked
     the coarse, imperfect human being,
     (how many true prophets are really well-liked?)
     the facts of the words
          that were not his
          remain.