Memorial Fountain

Feeling good, the Mississippi boy from Money whistled loudly.
Living, we know only the silt at the edge of the black water.
Living, we are fully showered by the fountain's luminous ascent.

Emmett Till's mutilation;
The photograph of his bloated body
in an open casket;
His mother's torment;

His body exhumed for testing;
His identity proven;
Yet his executioner's
justice still undone;

He grave resold;
His body moved;
Money donated
in his memory gone;

Emmett Till's fountain still showers the shore of our abyss.

Just checking

Every now and again I check to see if there is any life on the farm.


BLUE OXEN

When I called her Babe, I thought
blue oxen. Our assumptions
never meshed. When grandchildren
called her Nana, I thought nut bread,
not goddess of sex and war.
My desires were a secret.
Camelotizing her past
and future, she hoped to marry
a knight who slayed memory.
It Ain’t Me Babe played quietly
in my head. Chivalry was dead
and loneliness more dreadful
than betraying any dream.
We were doomed from the moment
we said, “I do” on Folly Beach.
She needed my name to cash
her paycheck. I needed
a designated driver.
For twenty years I tinkered
with a lie until there was
nothing left to fix.
“I’m sorry” is another lie,
when “I was wrong” is the truth.

Bagman and Butler Live

Bagman and Butler live! See their new blog at http://bagmanslogorrhea.blogspot.com/

Shudder

Don't touch that. The fork's sharp
on his wrist. Dean's guarding his pie,
but his look says he felt the touch
like skin to skin same as Sam.

Oh yeah try and stop me.
Twitched fingers and a mischievous grin.
Pressed, the fork breaks skin.
Sonovabitch!
Wait your turn, Dean retorts.

Side by side in the motel mirror, one arm up,
a hand to graze his cheek. Just a gash, he bluffs,
not that bad. He gets a frown. Yes it is.

They are both stripped. Bare souls.
Pink again? How come nothing
ever comes out clean anymore?
It’s so dark right now, Sam. Can’t see. Sammy…?

in the morning he yawns
presses against protracted time
feels the heat of him
whose heart holds them against
the stretch of eternity
in one moment

alarm blare vibrates along the hair of his arm,
attenuated time from the slap of his palm to the
grip on the halo of warmth around his waist

There’s sweetness curling in my chest.
It spirals when you’re safe, twists inside me.
I will keep you safe (for a kiss)
I will keep your soul


I had to share this. It was entirely unintended to turn into a poem. This was an exercise between 5 friends, to try to write a short story about two characters (named Sam and Dean) using only 140 characters, including spaces and punctuation. Only two of the works were intended to compliment each other (the two about pie, and the two about waking up in the morning.)

But I strung them all together, and look what happened. Cool, hmm?

I've been writing poetry again, so I'll try to post some soon. Also, my website is finally back up, here.

Hope all are well.

Visits

Bagman and I had a nice visit and lunch in Charleston last week. He's okay...no, I mean really! He's driving around in this sweet little red Honda sports car, a convertible no less; and I'm jealous. I thought we would surely draw some babes to our lair, wherever that may be. No such luck, but that's only because none of them actually saw the car. I shall return for another ride across the bridge into James Island, the wind slicing through my, uh, scalp. Thanks Mark. We must do this again... and bring the others along. They would not fit into the car, of course. They'll have to just follow us to some nice seedy dive. I have dibs on the shotgun seat.

New Poem

I PRAYED

I prayed for fire and found enough
strength to burn the lies that bound me
to an unforgiving wife.
I prayed for fire and found enough
healing to believe the dawn
does not destroy my dreams.
I prayed for fire and found enough
inspiration to tell you the truth
and the truth and the truth.
I prayed for fire and found enough
passion to hold you naked,
smouldering in my arms.
I prayed for fire.

Of squirrels, buzzards, and babies

The wheel of life keeps turning, and I love the Tibetans' take on being alive: it is a glorious opportunity, we're very fortunate to have been born human, because we therefore have the ability to end our own suffering.

Today is my birthday. I always thought I would live a long life, so I feel very young (even though I'm nearing retirement age). The Hindus believe that life comes in stages: the first 20 years is for youth and learning to be responsible, the second 20 years is for starting and raising a family, the third 20 is for the career and making the world a better place, and the final 20 is for rest and spiritual practice. I like that notion.

It's delightful to hear from almost all of you, and I hope you're all being poets (in various ways). I'm working on a birthday poem, but my mother is here for the day so I haven't made a lot of progress. Today is really a day to honor her, b/c she's the one who delivered me, and from what she says, it wasn't easy!