Eclipse/summer solstice/Juneteenth sonnet

(I lifted some phrases at the start and the finish from Cornell West. He won’t mind. “It’s not where you take it from – but where you take it to.”)

Some say we are in for grim times. They say
We should fortify our souls for the storms
Headed soon this way – put on the armor,
Set our sights on a distant unnamed star.

I am studying the constellations
Like our ancestors used to do. I stand
On their shoulders – holy ground. Through their eyes
I learn how they armed themselves and endured.

An annular eclipse coincided
With summer solstice this year. An omen
Of things to come, a lunar ring of fire
Not visible to seeking western eyes.

I saw it on YouTube. A ring of fire.
Let no man steal your joy, your sense of style.

Poems from the crucible, pt. 6

Did They Ever Find His Body? An Elegy for Christopher Dorner

I had forgotten about Chris Dorner
Until Dave Chappelle’s mention. I recall
secretly pulling for him, hoping he’d
escape being swiss-cheesed by 400
Of his fellow cops. Did they ever find
his body? I found his manifesto,
living and breathing on the internet.
He left behind a lot for us to read
and digest. Hyperlinks . . . all over the place.
Did they ever find his body? We’ve not
heard from him since. We must assume he died
in that shitstorm, transitioned this life.
Still, the mention of him makes me want to smoke.
The burned body they found was never identified.

confined to quarters – a sonnet and a farewell to Wilson’s ten-play cycle

What must we conclude when the cycle ends?
Is there cause for hope, for optimism,
A balm we can surely find in Gilead?
Or isn’t all just a wink and a nod,
Yet another slave narrative that shows
the futility of our pleas for peace?

As a teen I thought Robert Redford might
Someday be President. I mean, Bobby Seale
Didn’t really stand a chance and Redford
Was at least a man of action. But there
was no great art in his films, well, except
in that spy flick he did with Dunaway –
Who had been my secret crush forever –
Where, under duress, she said, “This is . . . unfair!”

#NaPoWriMo2020 Day #29

To my shipmate, Wendy

Some might say this work/life has given us
A warped sense of humor. We cast a glance
At each other and smile. Yes, I was there
With you in Baghdad, dodging mortar rounds
On selected days, and on the tarmac
Overnight in Kuwait City where we
had to have a special sense of humor
To survive war’s absurd insanity.

Time passes. The wounds heal. The scars remain.
We write the future, it does not write us.
We arrange and describe our past to fit
truth’s narrative arc. It doesn’t matter
That we spent nights in the Palace
Fearful of those whose lands we invaded.

#NaPoWriMo2020 Day #28

Loss of innocence/Rite of passage

She said, “I’ll be your lover if you wish.”
That forwardness was new to me. I paused,
But dared not respond, fearing I’d foreclose
My hope for a happy ending. She spoke,
“I’m a hippie, it won’t mean much to me.”
That’s odd, I thought, it’d mean so much to me.

A sudden death for my virginity
Was averted. I still recall it, clear
as day, perhaps, well, clear as yesterday.
All good things must end, and my time would come
To cross the line, to break the sacred plane,
To taste the fruit of the tree of knowledge
Of good and evil. The time, soon enough,
Would arrive and my soul would be prepared.

**********************************

#NaPoWriMo2020 Day #23 – A Thursday sonnet

For Maria

It might be time for a shape shift moment.
This kernel of time, wedged between the walls
Of two more standardized realities
Only points us backwards on the path
Of forward growth. You can write your own poem –
This one holds out hope for a revival
And a different direction for our dreams.

Old ways benefited the chosen few.
Their poets and prophets sing of better
Days to come. They have playwrights and Netflix
Producers on the job around the clock,
Promising to protect the status quo.
I can’t say I wish them ill. Their vision
Is a museum object, best preserved, mute.

**********************************

From the archives – Sonnet

April 3, 2016 – Sonnet

it may all be lost in a masquerade –
that’s what Benson used to say
in the song that criss-crossed
between jazz and rhythm & blues –

maybe the universe is a giant hologram –
two dimensions projected over a 3d space,
and we all live in a simulated lab
of our own making – or our enemy’s –

which would explain the gaps
and limitations that often present themselves
in our silent hopes and daydreams –

and all the chit-chat we engage in
about race and sex and intersectionality.
Stop, the love you save may be your own.

#NaPoWriMo2020 #21 #GloPoWriMo2020

Reflections on listening to a podcast about Afropessimism
(because the author’s book tour was cancelled)

Can I tell you something? A deep secret?
I am exhausted by your shallowness
And as of this morning at 7AM
I will no longer give a good goddamn
What you think about my talent and skill
As a bureaucrat. What about yours?
Where is your tact? Your sense of fairness?
Your appreciation for the art form?
I have a fairly good, if wicked notion
What you are thinking when you see my face –
My black face that does not apologize
When undermining your hypocrisy.
Fuck all this. I’m going to work TODAY.
Keep six feet away from me. Wash your hands.

#NaPoWriMo2020 Day #20 #GloPoWriMo2020 – a homemade thing

To my favorite Turkish librarian, Gozde Torun

A lovely homemade thing
From a far off distant land,
Woven with yarn and lace:
A cushion steadies my coffee cup
A pad where the mouse can rest.
How’d you know it’d be so useful?
A treasured gift of grace –
A token that holds a place –
Folded carefully in the liquor bar drawer
between the shot glasses and candles,
the napkins and cork replacements.
Woven with yarn and lace –
A lovely homemade thing,
From a far off distant land.

#NaPoWriMo2020 #17 – obsolete technologies

I am surrounded
By ancient sacred texts
Preserved on technologies
That no longer exist.

How will I extract
The wisdom they contain?

It might as well
Be stones, pebbles,
Grains of sand on the beach –

Objects on display
In an alien museum,
Words memorized
In a drunkened brain,
Recited by slobbering lips.

********************

Cairns, by John White Alexander. Library of Congress.

from the archives – another praise song – April 16, 2013

In the hustle and the bustle
as we go our chosen way;
in the winning and the losing
keeping score throughout the day –
in the seeking and the striving
as our plans oft go astray;
in the comings and the goings
and the things we do, and say –
in the kicking and the screaming
of war’s battles, of the fray;
in the plotting and the scheming
of our deep naivete –
Our pure love knows no decay.
Stay in my arms forever.

#NaPoWriMo2020 #16 – The best ever

Everything is infinitely praiseworthy
In its own unique and special way –
The sunrise, the sunset, filtered water’s
Taste, the coffee the water produces.

And even overlooked external things.
I’ve read so many perfect poems,
And heard so much wonderful music
During my limited sojourn on Earth.

Didn’t I grow up with Motown and Stax
And the Philadelphia Sound? And played
viola and recorder? And awoke
To my father’s recitation of verse

From the masters? And the coolest teachers
And mentors? And the best shipmates ever?

*************

From the archives – The day Prince died

The day Prince died (originally posted 04/23/2016)

When I heard the learn’d oceanographer
(it was Earth Day, and our shining Prince had fallen),
When the volume, velocity and variability
of data-rich information overwhelmed the deep,
When I examined the core skills of data management
(data is just an artifact, a document, an object witness),
When I listened to it, the oceanographer’s lecture
excited our minds, with much applause from the librarians.

After the talk we walked to Brookland Metro, the full moon
overhead brightly illuminating a city in mourning, darkened
by uncertainty (our Prince had fallen like the rain).
As we approached Foggy Bottom Station, I caught a faint whiff
of the swamp beneath us, the sound of the river beyond
slowly turning, emptying into the sea.

#NaPoWriMo2020 #8 – repeating a line from an ancient poem – celebrating two modern songwriters

From Odes of Pindar, Olympian II

For Bill Withers and John Prine

Ye hymns that rule the lyre,
What gods, what heroes shall we celebrate?
This week we lost two men I never met
But truly adored. Songwriters whose lyrics filled
My life, at various times, with sweetened thoughts
Transferred from their words and melodies.
Both served their countries first –
Non sibi sed patriae –
Both discovered in mid life they had a song
To sing, and thankfully, to share.
Both refused to sell out to the white ghost
Who peddles fame and fortune in exchange
For one’s soul. Bill Withers and John Prine.
Rest you both in peace down by life’s river.

#NaPoWriMo2020 #6 – Bosch’s Garden, an ekphrastic poem

(take the tour here: https://archief.ntr.nl/tuinderlusten/en.html)

My body is missing that uphill walk
Each day from the Metro to the Mecca.
Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights
affords me reprieve as I start the week.

The dragon tree – a plant that heals and dyes
A crimson red – is my first stop. I drink
Her blood and feel at once her curing power.
Reptiles seek terra firm where they can.

The owl is a nighttime bird of prey
Always watching, eyes wide open, spirit
Beast of the gods. A lion devours
A deer without compunction. His nature

Dictates relieving hunger pangs. So what?
A serpent wraps himself around a tree
That bears sweet fruit – tree of good and evil.
The pink fountain no doubt is feminine:

Her dotted eggs await incoming seed.
The darkened Moors below also await.

#NaPoWriMo2020 #4 – a recurrent nightmare

My nightmare is always the same –
I am working in a hot, noisy engine room
And I have to pee. But the watertight hatch,
For some reason, is closed and locked.
So I pee in the bilge. Then, when I go
To pump the bilge, the pump breaks –
So I have to fix the pump. But the parts
I need are on the other side of the hatch.
It’s a centrifugal pump with close clearances.
Who the hell came up with that design?
Soon it starts to stink (because I’m not
The only one peeing in the bilge – it could be
Worse. Let’s not even go there.)
My nightmare always ends unresolved.

#NaPoWriMo2020 #2 – The Ritual of Coffee

The prompt: a self-portrait poem in which you make a specific action a metaphor for your life

I measure the chilled, filtered water.
I grind the beans manually for consistency
Then place the coffee in the upper chamber.
I add three grains of Portuguese sea salt
(Because everything loves the sea
And the sea is in everything).
I turn the gas flame down low.
While I wait, I check my email.

When the pot gurgles and sputters
The coffee is ready to be served.
I add a teaspoon of raw honey (Trader
Joe’s is best) to dull the bitterness,
And one dollop of half and half
for presentation.

#NaPoWriMo2020 #1 – Chico, the African Grey, chained to his perch

The prompt for the first day of NaPoWriMo is to write a poem about a favorite bird. Poe comes to mind, and “Once upon a midnight dreary.” My effort is much shorter.

A parrot, an African Grey named Chico,
Lived in captivity in Amalia’s kitchen
For eight years before her death.

Still in the cage, twenty years later,
now chained to his perch, Chico continues
his life in the kitchen of his home
that has become a house museum.

I stood next to the cage and hummed
a few bars of Cancao do Mar.
Chico turned his head. He tugged at his chain.
Perhaps he recognized the tune.

Maybe he remembered Amalia singing
as she prepared bacalhau com natas
or frango cafriela in her kitchen.

Lockdown sonnet #12

I just listened to the new Bob Dylan drop.
Some kind of weird incantation –
A forced repetition, for a hypnotic effect,
a magic ritual in an ancient oral tradition.

Also, a shout out to the musical ancestors,
Invoking each of the gods by name.
An African conceptualization is what Toledo
would call it. Oh, you don’t know Toledo?

How could you? He was Ma Rainey’s piano player.
Ain’t never been the same fool twice. Don’t worry,
You’ll see it on Netflix when it comes out.
A piano lesson disguises the real drama.

Old Bob gives the devil his due. Play that funky
music white boy. Spell it with a K in B flat.

Lockdown sonnet #11

To Rona (AKA, the corona virus, COVID19)

Rona, you were never a passing thing,
A good time girl who tiptoed daintily
Through the sweetness of our days,
Leaving a faint trace of a summer memory.
OH. HELL. NAW! Rona, you came upending
All our ho-hum lives, taking us
To new levels of thinking and being.
Rona, you were never a one-night stand.

I knew you were trouble when you
stuck your head in the doorway
And flashed that cunning smile.
My mother warned me about girls
Like you. Still, instead of chasing you away,
I brought you fully into my embrace.

Lockdown sonnet #10

The volunteer activities I cram into my weekends
Bring me great joy and fulfillment, satisfaction.
Even with the requirement to juggle things
From one Saturday to the next, I thrive on it.
But today, in the midst, we hope, of the lockdown,
The chores that once occupied my mind are absent.
So I am doing a binge on Amazon Prime selections
Since we terminated our subscription to Netflix
To avoid the social programming therein.
What’s in store for today? A friend recommends
Counterpart, Cold War spy thriller, supposedly,
Though we know what that deal was. And then
There is Star Trek – Discovery, not quite my cup of tea,
Although I was an early saint to outer space’s devotion.

Lockdown sonnet #9

There is a sort of spiritual healing
taking place in government today,
thanks to Rona. Forced into party strait
jackets to support various sides
of the impeachment hoax, many
Unwillingly, members can finally seek
the unity of purpose and collegiality
that heals their souls. All our souls.

The black ladies are making a quilt
with large, oversized white hands.
And there is a peeping Tom in the window,
maybe the artist himself. Maybe some other.
A black cat creeps across the floor,
and a new world is forming outside.

Lockdown sonnet #8

For Vanda

I compare every new and pretty voice
To my safe bets, Mariza and Amalia,
And that’s not fair. How can the new ones meet
That standard? But they try and they deserve
To be heard. Fado is my antidote
For the blues the lockdown brought. But the songs
Of old don’t really address the anguish
and the uncertainly of the present.
Never mind. Folks are starting to panic,
Important events and milestones cancelled
Or postponed. Isolation takes its toll
In time. Mariza told us she was tired
Of singing all these sad old weary songs.

Lockdown sonnet #7

I’m reading Transgenerational Trauma.
I should be planning my day of telework
at home, surrounded by distractions.

No one sits within six feet of me –
social distancing is the new rule.
Garland Nixon is broadcasting

On Radio Sputnik. At noon the pope
is giving a special prayer and Fatima
in Portugal is consecrating the world.

My mask is not stylish but effective.
Everybody on Twitter has something
Snarky to say about the corona virus.

I took my Vitamin C with coffee –
We’ll keep the barking hounds at bay.

Lockdown sonnet #6

A new fountain pen arrived. Nice feel, heft.
German import. Overstock. Priced to sell.
A bit slow on capillary action
At first, as new pens often are. An ink drop
Spilled on my hand and down to the floor.
Should have done this in the kitchen. Trouble.
In paradise. Wife will be enraged.
No refuge will there be from her scorn.

We are both going crazy trying to predict
the unknown unknown. When will it all end?
Meanwhile, I’m preparing a short talk
About how the Portuguese invented
The plantation system memorialized
In the Cape Verdean art form: Morna.