June 13th, 2008 lindalarson
Armies and Orchids
(for Laurel’s brother, home from Iraq)
The little white posts
Stuck in the soil,
Markers naming the orchids
At the flower show
Mimic acres of white crosses
Sturdy and upright
Over bones ancient and fragile as
Ruby’s Dragonfly.
Orchids feed only on air,
Yet their blooms are often sacrificed,
Prey to heartless thieves, pirates
Of their ephemeral beauty–innocents,
Casualties many times over of what can be
A rich man’s pursuit. Like these
Acres and acres of
blooming white crosses,
Bedecked, celebrating holidays
With bright cheerful flags waving
Hello from those consumed
In battle, at War Meister’s Command,
Reminiscent of these prize-winning
Orchids with names like Nightfire ,
Army night goggles,
Now in the hands of the enemy.
Simple Pleasures, not Shoot or be shot
Which has a kind of lyrical cadence
All its own.
Origami Cranes suggest civilians,
Piled high at HIroshima and Nagasaki
Awaiting the attention and good luck
Of draftee gravediggers.
The Emperor’s exquisite Saffron Delicacy
Cost Japan so dearly.
Pacific fang,
Truman’s unspeakable
retort.
Babies caught in the
Tiger’s Jaw of history,
Were spat out
In its grinding wheel as
On a nearby continent
Fossils of one century
Named a blood-spattered
Specimen after Rasputin,
Sorcerer’s Kiss, and I
When my ship come in,
As one day it must,
Will name a red as deep
As pockets left by Hellfire missiles,
For Bush’s war, Soldier’s Trust.
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June 12th, 2008 lindalarson
The Old Woman and the Tree
I
The morning sun was kind to her
As she began her daily vigil at the bus stop.
Her bones were working just fine and dandy,
The crickety-crick from the cold weather
Was in remission.
She had survived another winter.
So had her companion,
An old, leaning tree
With roots buckling the pavement.
Furry, tightly-furled buds
Testify her tree has pulled through
As well.
They have closed Blessed Sacrament
On this corner
Divided it up for condo’s.
So much for her funeral plans.
Someone has taken the statue
Of the virgin out of the front yard
Of the boarded-up rectory.
So now she says her prayers outside
With the tree
Her only witness.
Before the prayers are said
Before her Daily Bread,
Her first, first touch, first contact
First good morning
Each day is for Tree.
It is that time of year
When once or twice
She had worn her apron high…
No shame in this…
She had been as captive in her day
As her weary tree is in this Spring.
Tree consoles her,
Leaning over her.
She basks in the tree’s on-goingness.
The bus will come when it comes,
I will get there when I get there.
The knot in the trunk raises its lid
And the eye of the tree opens her.
She senses
Not hyacinths, nor lilacs,
But a ruby-throated hummingbird remembered
Struck still in grace.
II
The bus driver,
A hearty soul with hair dyed
An unlikely red
Stopped as always
For her daily passenger,
The harbinger of her routine.
Only there she is
Sitting on the sidewalk
Propped up by the crusty old tree trunk,
Her familiar navy blue pillbox hat
Held in place by unapologetic bobby pins
Her back against the tree.
While she waited for the police to arrive…
Ignoring the disgruntled buzz of her riders
The driver took the old lady’s purse from her hand.
Within was bus fare,
The exact amount,
And the square of a self-embroidered
Handkerchief,
Violet and green leaves
Still immaculate, folded and tartly white.
Her hands were empty now
For all the world to see.
By the time the police arrived
The tree’s eye had turned back
Into a knot in the bark
And nothing was blooming.
They found only
Rusty-looking stains,
Tree stains,
On a pair of white cotton gloves.
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June 12th, 2008 lindalarson
The Old Woman and the Tree
I
The morning sun was kind to her
As she began her daily vigil at the bus stop.
Her bones were working just fine and dandy,
The crickety-crick from the cold weather
Was in remission.
She had survived another winter.
So had her companion,
An old, leaning tree
With roots buckling the pavement.
Furry, tightly-furled buds
Testify her tree has pulled through
As well.
They have closed Blessed Sacrament
On this corner.
Divided it up for condos.
So much for her funeral plans.
Someone has taken the statue
Of the virgin out of the front yard
Of the boarded-up rectory.
So now she says her prayers outside
With the tree
Her only witness.
Before the prayers are said,
Before her Daily Bread,
Her first, first touch, first contact
First good morning
Each day is for Tree.
It is that time of year
When once or twice
She had worn her apron high…
No shame in this…
She had been as captive in her day
As her weary tree is in this Spring.
Tree consoles her,
Leaning over her.
She basks in the tree’s on-goingness.
The bus will come when it comes,
I will get there when I get there.
The knot in the trunk raises its lid
And the eye of the tree opens her.
She senses
Not hyacinths, nor lilacs,
But a ruby-throated hummingbird remembered
Struck still in grace.
II
The bus driver,
A hearty soul with hair dyed
An unlikely red
Stopped as always
For her daily passenger,
The harbinger of her routine.
Only there she is
Sitting on the sidewalk
Propped up by the crusty old tree trunk,
Her familiar robin’s egg blue pillbox hat
Held in place by unapologetic bobby pins
Her back against the tree.
While the hearty driver waited for the police to arrive…
Ignoring the disgruntled buzz of her riders,
She took the old lady’s purse from her hand.
Within was bus fare,
The exact amount,
And the square of a self-embroidered
Handkerchief,
Violet and green leaves
Still immaculate, folded and tartly white.
Her hands were empty now
For all the world to see.
By the time the police arrived
The tree’s eye had turned back
Into a knot in the bark
And nothing was blooming.
They found only
Rusty-looking stains,
Tree stains,
On a pair of white cotton gloves.
Posted in Poetry | No Comments »
June 12th, 2008 lindalarson
Buckethead
I
Buckethead
She moved into the other half of the duplex
I owned on the colored side as it was called then
Of Fortification Street-
Where Grant had broken through the Confederate lines
And turned Jackson, Mississippi,
Into Chimneyville.
With her she brought
All of two trash bags.
Her hair looked like the
Nest of a magpie
Done up in platinum blonde.
But she showed up alone,
And she was
Showing.
I couldn’t bring myself
To turn her away.
She kept to herself.
Got up in the morning,
Went somewhere,
Dressed neatly under that banshee hair-don’t.
Never brought groceries home.
Her car
Parked in the side lot
Was littered with soda cans and
Fast food wrappers.
She carried brown paper bags into the house
Clinking like liquor bottles.
Never brought any out.
One day she came over,
Knocked at my door,
Classifieds in hand.
A German shepherd?
A female spayed?
Would it be okay?
The poor pitiful thing.
What would a good shampooing and brushing do?
A trip to the beauty shop was what she needed,
A spot of lipstick,
Not a dog.
All alone she was,
Not even a pretend ring.
Her legs and arms stick thin,
I said yes…
She would have to keep it outside.
She brought the dog home
In early June
The sorriest looking dog I had ever seen.
She’s been on a chain her whole life
She apologized for the dog, now
Skulking low to the ground,
Head turned sideways,
Anticipating a blow…
She dragged it up the steps
She’ll be all right
I am going to call her Tess.
What was her name before?
She didn’t have one.
She was just chained up outside in their back yard.
They just wanted her gone.
I’ll tie her up in the yard.
She said obligingly.
It appears to me she’s done enough
Time at the end of a chain.
My tenant gave me a grateful smile before
Hauling the dog into her half of the duplex.
Moments later they reappeared,
Tess bravely adorned in red leash and collar,
Her mistress in a white sunhat pulled over
That hair’s nest, a great improvement.
But Tess didn’t know how to walk on a leash.
To walk her was hard, sweaty work for the girl.
On one of those walks, up towards
The white side of busy Fortification,
Stopping to buy a soda,
Or sitting on someone’s steps to cool off,
He must have spotted her
Taking a breather along West Fortification Street.
It was hot as Hades,
Almost the fourth of July,
Close enough so fireworks could be heard
Off and on in the neighborhood.
My main concern was keeping cool.
I turned the AC on in the bedroom
And put on my housecoat.
It was time for The Price Is Right.
And then I heard shots fired
Not cherry bombs,
Gun shots.
The shots were
Coming from my front door,
Then into the living room.
I am no fool.
I keep a loaded handgun in my nightstand,
My brother’s doing.
So I snatched up my gun and started shooting back.
The shooter hadn’t figured that the person,
The woman, who lived there would have a gun and
Be able to shoot back,
Defend herself.
Like the coward he was
He ran.
I got a good look at him.
He was white and wore a Bull Durham cap.
I knew right away he had miscalculated
Which side of the duplex she lived in.
Tess was moaning a low feral moan
Through the screen door.
Her mistress,
Whatever her name was,
Stood silent and completely still.
She knew she had to go.
Like a marionette
She headed to her car empty-handed,
Not even a toothbrush.
I went to my Bible and gave her
Four one hundred dollar bills and four twenties.
“Don’t worry about the damn dog;
I will take care of Tess.”
I cannot tell when white folks are pale or just white.
She looked gray.
Grabbed my hand and kissed it,
Held it to her cheek,
Started her car and took off.
When the rent was due
And she hadn’t contacted me,
I went inside for the first time.
It was neat and clean and empty.
She had been sleeping
On a pile of neatly folded blankets and clothes.
What I had heard clinking were pieces of pottery,
Not like any pottery I’d ever seen.
Glistening and strange,
More varieties than a body could dream up
Or want or wish for,
Some I could figure out a use for,
Some I couldn’t.
I started out with good intentions.
I would pick up some corn-husk tamales
On Farish Street and walk the dog at the same time.
There I was dragging Tess by her leash and of a sudden
I jerked her up to where I was standing.
I took the leash off.
Go on now, Tess.
Time to find another friend.
Tess wouldn’t budge,
Wouldn’t even look at me.
So I gave her a shove.
She still cowered beside me.
I kicked in her direction,
Raised my voice.
Still wouldn’t move.
I hollered at her and
Tried to hit her with my open hand.
Then with the leash.
Kicked at her again
And missed again.
Raised my hand to her
Off she ran.
II
Again it’s early summer time,
This time a scorcher.
I have plugged my fan in,
Set it outside to blow on me
As I sit on the porch.
Even so my scalp is wet with sweat.
I am still working nights,
Going to the same job.
Still not part of a couple,
Sitting and reading the Clarion Ledger,
Locally known as the Carrion Dredger.
On the front page,
A photo of a dog,
A shepherd with a plastic bucket over its head
Held by two
Police officers caught in the act
Of removing the bucket.
The cutline reads:
This dog nicknamed Bucket Head
By the children in this Jackson neighborhood
Has eluded capture for many months
Surviving only by the kindness of families
Who over the winter put out food for her.
Posted in Poetry, Stars Over Mississippi | No Comments »
June 12th, 2008 lindalarson
When I,
Jumped into this world feet first
They cut my mother from stem to stern
To rescue my airwaves.
It was a Catholic hospital
Doctors sworn to save the infant
At any cost.
Mother would tell me the story
Over and over again when she was woozy
Bourbon and water calling the shots.
My mother’s outrage
A tattered Cook County certificate
Among my souvenirs.
Posted in Only an Only Child, Poetry | No Comments »
May 28th, 2008 lindalarson
In the alley
Behind our flat
The old man walks.
He leans heavily between two canes,
One a blue broom, one a brown mop handle.
His winter-killed eyes signal their shoe button salutations.
Aquarius is too cold to bed with;
His water freezes in his well-balanced buckets.
I keep my eye on him
From inside the window where I wait
Feeling widowed by the ice inside.
The sparrows teem around him,
Like soap bubbles blown from a pipe.
It’s Valentine’s Day
And the old man’s saliva freezes into stalactites
As piercing as thorns. ††
When winter dies I will weep for him
One blonde diamond.
I study him from the window,
Unbeknownst to me,
In training for a part of his drama,
Cast finally as the bag lady of hearts
Which will become my stock and trade.
(c)2005
Posted in Chesapeake: How Sweet the Sound, Poetry | No Comments »
May 28th, 2008 markorton
Rocky Springs Farewell
Dedicated to Willie Joe Namath
We didn’t really have a plan.
We ended up here.
A cold brook gives the place its name,
Runs clear along a stony, sandy bed,
So cold it makes the bones ache.
He held my hand
So I wouldn’t slip and break a hip.
When he was little he loved bananas
Couldn’t get the word out
I became Naner for always having
Naners in the kitchen for him.
Even though I was under strict orders
Not to climb anything at all
We climbed the hill where the young girls
Are buried and it made him quiet.
Downed by Tuberculosis, Malaria,
Redundant Diphtheria, sounding like Latin
Names for flowering killers that might have
Pursued Marie Antoinette if
She had not already been spoken for.
He grew alarmed-
We were alerted to danger by an oncoming
Swarm of mosquitoes.
Such desolate graves might be contagious.
Running for the car, I turned my ankle, and Otha
Practically carried me, we abandoned the
Tombstones, with their fading carved-in-stone dates, that
In a few lifetimes will be gone altogether.
His real going-away party was that evening.
He would be deployed for nine months.
We stopped at Cock of the Walk,
A catfish house on the Ross Barnett Reservoir.
My grandbaby toasted the Mississippi Legends
With Rolling Rock…
“Forrest! Van Dorn! Pemberton! Davis!
Brilliantly outfoxed even Ulysses and Tecumseh!
At least for a spell. “
I reminded him
The pride of Dixie and
Its Sons
Sleep under the red clay
We stand on.
Don’t you fall asleep!
Don’t you fall asleep!
I had never told Otha
I had buried his shot
Dead in the back
Father and what a farce his
Daddy’s death had been–
Killed in an accident
In another misguided war–
I brought this one up on
Honor and sacrifice!
We salted our beers,
And it was the bubbles
Not the South
That rose again,
Tickled our noses and
Made us laugh.
I had to laugh.
Letting him go like this
Behind a lie…
His whole life
A let’s pretend.
Whatever happens
To my little one in Iraq,
Black umbrellas or no
I’ll wear that smile like a flag.
We drank up,
And he drove his Naner home.
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