Sunday, January 25, 2015

Southern poetry is sold

from backs of pickup trucks on country roads.
Hand-lettered signs for miles say
POEMS
HOT BOILED POEMS
BOILED POEMS
JUST AHEAD

Saturday, January 24, 2015

Heavell and Hen

1.
God I howl
for friends who are dead,
for friends who are dying,
for children of Iraq, Afghanistan, Palestine,
for all children.,
for polar bears drowning
who have no ice,
for blizzards, tornadoes, flood,
for those who die in cars
on interstate highways to the sky
that day, some days, any day.
For those addicted to pills, to booze,
to heroin and crack,
for all those who can't find the road home.

Help us keep looking for the road home,
help us keep looking for the road home,
help us keep looking for the road home.

 2.
Beloved God you have named the road home.
Friends who are dead,
friends who are dying,
children of Iraq, Afghanistan, Palestine,
all children,
all polar bears,
blizzards, tornadoes,
all cars,
all highways,
pills, booze, heroin, crack,
all the road home,
all the road home,
(and yes)
rainbows and unicorns,
all the road home.
as our hearts are purified,
as our spirits grow strong,
all the road home.


Friday, January 9, 2015

2014

You've been a mean year.
Mudslides, floods, blizzards,
heat waves, earthquakes, tsunamis,
so many gone we loved so much
when you arrived.
Robin Williams left us
one lonely morning when
no-one else was home.
Bill Cosby, the only dad
some of us ever had,
is lost behind a cloud of allegation,
dark fog that rise will never
above the sound of fading laughter.
The year of the One Percent
I just don't get, I wonder so
how many pairs of diamond-crusted pants
I could put on one leg at a time?
Chelsea Manning, Edward Snowden,
Michael Brown,
Iraq, Afghanistan.

And still I see
a full moon rise
above the live oaks,
above the collards and the broccoli.

It all means what the stars are singing,
lullabies we can't quite hear.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

Gray Day



It’s Thanksgiving and I’m entertaining ghosts:
 
Uncle Seth drunkenly carving a turkey, 
one eye on his old beat-up TV set.  
Aunt Florence screaming at my shrieking, circling cousins, 
mashing potatoes with one hand, draining turnips with the other. 
  
My Baptist grandmother threatening to leave, doesn't need a ride home, will walk,
just found out wine is going to be served with dinner.   
She probably would, strengthened by the enormity of her moral rectitude, 
except her house is five miles down the road and it’s bitching cold. 

I never thought I would miss them, but I do today, 
just a little. 
We were alive then and our little circle of purgatory enfolded by a gray and silver world,
 by tapestries of black branches, by winter birds.   
We had dreams.

Saturday, October 18, 2014

Big Words



Armageddon stretches out
a long judgmental arm,
Geddon!  Geddon!
Little Babylon!
Darwinian canticle of embryonic destinations,
Frankensteins in farthingales,
Geddon!  Geddon!
Gesthemene’s gossoon,
His howling hallelujahs
Kaleidoscopic meditations,
Salvation’s tintinnabulations,
Geddon!  Geddon!

Thursday, July 3, 2014