NaPoWriMo 2024 – April 5

Mercury retrograde, the solar eclipse, and taxes are due

Many won’t consider or acknowledge
the capacity of Mercury upgrade
to color, upend human events

Let the unbelievers beware –
something strange is happening
to cause all this drama,
war and earthquakes in the land.

And the eclipse –
you know it’s coming next week,
total darkness during broad daylight.
What a mindfuck that may be.

And taxes are due. No one is thinking
about the power and certainty
(as Marvin Gaye reminded us)
of taxes, death and trouble.

NaPoWriMo 2024 – April 4

the special language of bees
(from The Strangest Things in the World)

https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/67223/pg67223-images.html

“And your Lord revealed to the Bee:
Build hives in the mountains and the trees,
and in human habitations: then eat of all the produce
and find with skill the spacious paths of the Lord.
There issues forth from within their bodies
a drink of various colors wherein there is healing
for men. Verily this is a sign for those who reflect.”

Holy Qur’an 16:68-69

Bees speak to one another in a supersonic spectrum
that humans cannot hear. They see colors in an ultraviolet
range that humans cannot see. They dance with
a precision that measures accurately the distance
between their hives and the place where they forage.
Bees don’t forage red-blossoming flowers –
they leave them for the birds and butterflies.

Younger worker bees emit less odor than older ones:
Older queens have a stronger odor than young queens;
young drones have a lesser odor then old drones;
All offsprings from the same queen have a similar odor.
Emily Dickinson mentions bees scores of times
in her poetry. She studied them in her garden.
Maybe she knew something we don’t know.

NaPoWriMo 2024 – April 3

a surreal prose poem

Karma

My mother wanted a better life for her children.  
She put us in all types of extra-curricular programs
and got me a scholarship to fancy prep school
to give me a better start. My father didn’t care
for any of that stuff but much of it was useful.
I broke her heart, and my own, again and again.
It’s only karma that now the doctors tell me
I have permanent heart failure. So I have to do
a reset, change my life, my ways.
I know Mama forgives me, Daddy told me so
in a dream. And the doctors say I can expect
to live a normal lifespan if I’m careful and remember
to take my meds on time. And regular exercise
and eating the right foods (no french fries!).

NaPoWriMo 2024 – April 2nd

I have an ancient love affair with books.
Looks like an obsession when unread tomes
and well read ones fill our small apartment,
tumbling off their shelves. I’ve tried telling them
goodbye so many times. It’s just no use
parting as I find them once again.
Becoming a librarian so late
in life was bound to be a heart-breaker.
Never make the thing you love your job –
It all ends in despair. “Can’t buy me love,”

NaPoWriMo 2024 – April 2nd

a short poem about a novel I read
a long time ago (without going back to check)

The memories are pretty fuzzy –
A history professor returns home
to visit a sick, elderly uncle who taught him
all about hunting and tracking wild game
when he was but a boy.

He has a young wife who doesn’t understand
the connection between the hunt
for one and the hunt for the other –
a different incompatibility

In seeking to make sense of it all he uncovers
some old game he’d rather not have
from a deep and distant, unknowable past.
His wife is unsympathetic and his uncle is dying
and a hidden family secret reveals itself.

NaPoWriMo 2024 – April 1, 2024

I haven’t made a poem for months.
Not since they cracked open my chest
and realigned my heartbeat.

It’s said Billy Strayhorn
wrote Lush Life at 16.

How did he do it? Such depth of feeling.
Such maturity of thought and emotions.

I learned that in the Duke Ellington group
that meets virtually at the public library.

In a bit of meta folklore in a different group
I learned God keeps making creation
until he fully makes himself.
Then he starts all over again.

NC State is killing Duke with three minutes
to go. Still, never sleep on Duke.

NC State is killing Duke with three minutes
to go. Still, never sleep on Duke.

Farewell 2023, Hail 2024!

We’re in the final quarter of regulation game.
Look to your left and right – many here today
Won’t be among us one year hence, gone on
To their reward. We’d be well advised
to make our peace now – while hearts still beat –
With ourselves and others.

Don’t rely on overtime – all ties go to the runner,
And the runner is time itself. Each player
must decide, at the appointed hour,
to stay in comfort with the pain one knows,
Or take the steps into eternity.
Either way there are choices to be made,
Preparations and promises to keep.

Time flees to the final destination.
Tick tock. There are no referees to call a foul
Or to delay the game, no penalty flags
Will wave or hit the ground. No two-minute
Warning will sound, just the final buzzer.

Watching movies with Filomena

Here is the part where I cry:
The warmth of familial or collegial love –
The heat of passionate union –
the thrill of patriotic success (to borrow
A line from my favorite English writer) –
Scenes that make me boo-hoo like a baby.

Here is the part where I cry:
I don’t hide my tears from my Filomena.
She won’t think any less of me if I shed
a tear of two. She is a saint, my saint,
The only saint I know in this life.
She hear my every prayer, my supplication.
There’s no emotional response I need to hide.

This is the part where I cry:
Big crocodile tears form and fall –
Some I catch with my sleeve, some end up
Elsewhere or on the floor – the earth –
An appropriate place for an unclaimed teardrop.

Here is the part where I cry:
There is little warning before it happens.
I carry a handkerchief to the movies
For just this task. I try to be ready.

Distilled at Santa Maria Hospital

Mid-September, 2023, after the first operation

My post-operation dreams
are all a drug-induced illusion –
cross-country races I used to run
back when my legs actually worked,
Appointments i was always rushing to keep.

But as surely as I am brushing my teeth
I predict there will be a return
to mobility, a regaining of manual dexterity,
a chance, a hope to redeem
what dreams I still have,
what dreams may still come.

These thoughts are not the mere babbling
of a now crippled man, but a demonstration,
an assertion of a determined one.

Distilled at Santa Maria

one late night in October, 2023

So I prowl these corridors at night,
sometime past midnight,
learning how to walk again,
how to balance between
inhalation and exhalation.

If I keep practicing,
this road to recovery
may be shorter than it seems.
And there is always the writing about it.

My war poem/last will

Folks familiar with the Peruvian modernist, Cesar Vallejo, will recognize my liberal use of the tone and structure of his poem, Black Stone on a White Stone, written under the influence, I suspect, of his observation of the Spanish Civil War. War brings out the best and the worst in all of us, in different ways, as we see nightly on the TV. There’s also a whiff of an influence from the Afro-Cuban poet, Plácido, Gabriel de la Concepción Valdés in his Despedida a Mi Madre. Both poems are worthy of your attention and both are available in English translation.

My war poem (written during my hospital stay at Santa Maria)

After Cesar Vallejo

I shall die in Lisbon, my adopted home,
On a crisp Spring day. No birds
will be singing – too many children
Are dying, innocent little babies who did no wrong.

Death can be arbitrary, but it can be coldly
And precisely calculated. The world is too
Interlocked to wish retribution on the evildoers
Without including the same fate on one’s self.

So we struggle, we grieve quietly
Against an evil whose name we dare not mention.

On a cool crisp Spring day in Lisbon
I will face death resolutely, not as a punishment
Or a penalty, but as one whose debt in life
Is paid in full. There are no other options.

April 3, 2023 – Why do the heathen rage

I will not trivialize this condition
with a meme or a metaphor –
We tried that before and it fell flat –
It’s just a state of being
requiring new drugs and a different attitude.

There is no pain in this story,
just a too-frequent cough interrupting
my storytelling and swelling in my legs
that had a combined negative effect
in the long term.

There is also no sorrow in this story,
as it’s told. Its speed alone sealed off
many options for redress, but you should
know a slower telling opens up more grief.
The heathen raged, “Crucify him!” with
little cause, the scribes in their blue suits
marching to the uptown beat.

Wow! They really want him dead!
It frightened me but they don’t care.

The sorrow unwound made a song
I couldn’t sing, unused as I was
to the many sharps and flats
in the extended version. Compressed it was all
a percussive flash of sound
the skilled could make with ease.

April 2, 2023 – Monsters Come Out At Night

Monsters come out at night.
They tie you up with tubes and wires
across your body, flashing buzzing lights
that traumatize you when you’re barely awake.
I wake up with tangled wires. The nurse is mad
because she got a call in the middle of the night.
I have to pee. My god how do I use the bathroom
with all these tubes connected to machines
with wires attached to my arms?
I call the nurse again. She’s not happy, again
She asks me my name. Today’s date.
I know what she’s doing. More lights blink and buzz,
more rolling sounds tighten around my arms.
I blink. The lights go out. It was all a bad dream.

NaPoWriMo 2023

My April this year was interceded by a short hospital stay. And as hospital stays are fairly infrequent for me, I’m making a bid deal about it, and making it and related topics, like healing, recuperation, relief from pain and suffering, all subjects for my April poems. Hope to keep it on the positive as the dreams and images keep flowing.

April 1, 2023

In modern healing,​ ​one seeks
a linear path across states of being,
from ill-health to recuperation,
from pain to its absence,
from suffering to ease.

Though doctors may differ
on superimposing  high and low points
in the treatment path, the truth is
the path may not be a linear one
and distortions that result
may additionally cause new pain.

Might a core element be the simple passage
of time? The alternation of daylight
with darkness may incline us to believe
time’s passage is a digital thing.
In fact, any passage of “healing” time
is merely a series of approximations,
from points of high activity to low,
from progress along a path to chaos
irrevocably interrupting that same path.

Doctors seek daily goals, as do patients,
but “daily” is an illusion. The timing of
your hospital stay may float –
don’t let its duration disappoint you.

I’ve got the Jonah’s Gourd Vine Blues

Y’all know me.
I cry like a baby
when I’ve heard a sweet sound.

Not the music.
I’m talking about the pure sounds
of words as they enter and exit
an unnamed space.
As they twist and shout.
and compress and relax.
As they flow, one to another
to the ends of a mystical river.
Y’all have to really listen
to hear a sweet sound.

Y’all ain’t listening.
Maybe you’ve never hear a sweet sound,
a pure sound like a secret cry or a moan,
a grief that cannot be waylaid nor detained,
the tender uncertainly of a long voyage,
and the unutterable fear that remains undisclosed.

Have you ever seen a great musician
lay down his instrument in honor
and recognition of a sound he heard,
of a sweet sound, a pure sound
not contained by his instrument?

It’s a rarity but it happens.
And when it does, there’s a hip name for it –
It’s called the Jonah’s Gourd Vine Blues.

Law and order versus the Woke Mob

I had a pestering cough. My wife
offered to pick up cough syrup
at CVS. But the shelves were empty.
She asked at the counter. The CVS lady
said the DC Council passed a law
decriminalizing the stealing of medications.
Then I checked Google. And Google said
“Medication supply chain shortages.” OK.
So I drove to the Arlington, Virginia CVS
And plenty of cough syrup was available.

February 19, 2023 – three parts of grief combined

part 1.

Perhaps this will happen every Sunday or thereabout,
A detour, like last week, from an already plotted course.
I wanted to write a poem today for my classmates,
gathered in various email chains for our upcoming 50th.
Then I received an instagram message this afternoon
from an old friend telling me her sister passed away
last week after a long illness. How can I write a poem
reminiscing about high school pranks at a time like this?

Maybe I’ll inject some line breaks and call this the poem –
All the action happens in high school anyway.
And what shall I say to her children who have lost their mother,
and to her siblings who have lost their big sister?
What shall I say to her mother who never really liked me?
Let bygones be bygones. Love your neighbor.

part 2.

There’s only so much RAM.
What happened to those stored memory banks?
A cataclysmic event crashed my hard drive,
wiped clean all prior thoughts, hopes.

These shocks to the system happen. So why
was mine the harbinger of such loss?
I may never name it, but I felt it
When I learned the lost of an ancient friend.

The cramps I used to get distance running
were not cramps – they were small cavitations
of a pump – I’d later learn. Intense pain
that almost broke my heart. Those memories

are my only surviving recollection from that time.
Don’t be ashamed to shed tears for your loss.

part 3.

18 months ago . . .
“Hello. I’m doing well. It’s been six years with the cancer,
Grateful for the favor of God keeping me here.
Thank you for reaching out and thinking of me.
The adult children are all in their thirties and also well
And in healthy relationships.”

18 months later (today) . . .
“Hello sir, I just wanted you to know that my beloved sister
Passed on Wednesday morning.”

The loss is painful, gut-wrenching. I am without words.
I remember her as a vivacious teenager, stealing my heart
In a most innocent way. I spoke with my wife
And my sister seeking solace, shelter from the storm.
We are at that age, I guess, approaching 3 score & 10.
Many have gone on ahead, joined the slow-moving
Caravan, deployed on eternal patrol. No man knows
Who will be the first or the last to go. Not that it matters.
All that matters is to be surrounded by loving family
When the hour approaches. Please love one another.

still grieving – day #3

18 months ago . . .
“Hello. I’m doing well. It’s been six years with the cancer,
Grateful for the favor of God keeping me here.
Thank you for reaching out and thinking of me.
The adult children are all in their thirties and also well
And in healthy relationships.”

18 months later . . .
“Hello sir, I just wanted you to know that my beloved sister
Passed on Wednesday morning.”

The loss is painful, gut-wrenching. I am without words.
I remember her as a vivacious teenager, stealing my heart
In a most innocent way. I spoke with my wife
And my sister seeking solace, shelter from the storm.
We are at that age, I guess, approaching 3 score & 10.
Many have gone on ahead, joined the slow-moving
Caravan, deployed on eternal patrol. No man knows
Who will be the first or the last to go. Not that it matters.
All that matters is to be surrounded by loving family
When the hour approaches. Please love one another.

p.s. 2020 post to this blog: https://thisismypoetryblog.wordpress.com/2020/05/30/from-the-archives-first-time-appearing-here/

grieving the loss of a friend – day #2

There’s only so much RAM.
What happened to those stored memory banks?
A cataclysmic event crashed my hard drive,
wiped clean all prior thoughts, hopes.

These shocks to the system happen. So why
was mine the harbinger of such loss?
I may never name it, but I felt it
When I learned the lost of an ancient friend.

The cramps I used to get distance running
were not cramps – they were small cavitations
of a pump – I’d later learn. Intense pain
that almost broke my heart. Those memories

are my only surviving recollection from that time.
Don’t be ashamed to shed tears for your loss.

In memoriam. From the Mayport Sonnets.

Sonnet #21 – Towanna’s Sonnet (1991)

Remember years ago when we first met?
You selling books, me browsing, reading books
At Brandon’s store? We were so young, and life
So unrevealed, so full of promises
And boundless hopes and dreams, and guarantees
And opportunities. You went away.
I stayed and made mistakes. We met again,
You east, me west, you school, me ships and seas.
Confused, we erred and severed friendship’s bond,
And all seemed lost between us save a thread,
A laser beam of hope that, over time,
Compressed, distilled and purified, survived
Until today. We meet again. What fate
Awaits is ours to plan, to recommend

February 12, 2023 – How can I write poetry at a time like this?

to the ladyllama

Perhaps this will happen every Sunday or thereabout,
A detour, like last week, from an already plotted course.
I wanted to write a poem today for my classmates,
gathered in various email chains for our upcoming 50th.
Then I received an instagram message this afternoon
from an old friend telling me her sister passed away
last week after a long illness. How can I write a poem
reminiscing about high school pranks at a time like this?

Maybe I’ll inject some line breaks and call this the poem.
All the action happens in high school anyway.
And what shall I say to her children who have lost their mother,
and to her siblings who have lost their big sister?
What shall I say to her mother who never really liked me?
Let bygones be bygones. Love your neighbor.

In memoriam.

Countee Cullen – Sonnet
From Early, Gerald, ed. 1991. My Soul’s High Song

These are no wind-blown rumors, soft say-sos,
No garden-whispered hearsays, lightly heard:
I know that summer never spares the rose,
That spring is faithless to the brightest bird.
I know that nothing lovely shall prevail
To win from Time and Death a moment’s grace;
At Beauty’s birth the scythe was honed, the nail
Dipped for her hands, the cowl clipped for her face.
And yet I cannot think that this my faith,
My winged joy, my pride, my utmost mirth,
Centered in you shall ever taste of death,
Or perish from the false, forgetting earth
You are with time as wind and weather are,
As is the sun, and every nailed star.

January 3, 2023 – 2nd Psalm

January 3, 2023 – Psalm #2

January 2, 2023 post on Shakespeare’s Sonnet #1

January 2, 2023 – Shakespeare’s Sonnet #1

lost sonnet #43 – (found in the 2013 archives)

The songwriting teacher said all I needed
was a thesaurus and a rhyming dictionary –
but it hasn’t proven sufficient – and there
are no final words, anyway, no bridge,
no chorus, no refrain, just a tight hug,
a soft sigh, a tender kiss, a throw-away
“see-you-tomorrow,” maybe, if you’re lucky.
And all my countrymen are poets, and sailors.

We will continue writing poems: by day
together in small groups, and at home, alone,
in the midnight hour that is not midnight,
but that floats between isha and fajr –
the darkest part of night – when passions die,
and distractions fall to the side.

January 1, 2023 post on Psalm 1

Happy New Year, poetry friends!

January 1, 2023 – Psalm 1

Happy birthday, Jean Toomer! from the archives, edited.

On Jean Toomer’s Birthday

My Cane is yellowed, spine cracked, page edges
brittle from age, wear. Words that used to stream
from it like molten lava, now percolate
slowly like coffee in Mama’s kitchen.

“Delete all spam messages now.” Don’t think
twice about it – don’t look back to see if
anything is worth saving – it’s all spam,
click bait to trick you into opening
your inbox to viruses you don’t need.

Words that once spilled from his lips like diamonds
and fully formed pearls, now remain buried
in his head and heart awaiting new birth
and inspiration. My Cane is yellow-edged.
Oracular. Deep-rooted in my soul.