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Of Place and Person
remnant of that before
that I feel
and people who were here
at this stilled place
that is yellow
and warm
brittle and dry
separate from that which I know
at rest
its sullen silence
and reverence
of dark wood and varnish
floors that break and sink
and blend to that spot
lungs that are sleepy
filled with stale air
and a veil
dust in light
and children who whisper
and I stand
and know
this temple and foyer
its faint remembrance
and haunting recollection
and murmuring of voices
that my soul hears
Cracked Paint and Violins
that broken spot
green moss
on north side of dark brick
this ancient building
and fragments of paint
on patched windows
reduced by time
that generation
of violin
still rising slowly
it moves through this space
sad, steady note
sequence of life
and humanity
as enduring as breeze
that wraps this exhausted structure
keeping it vital
Window and Light
dusty glass
opaque in its purpose
testament of past
things that were safe
and many voices reverberate in still silence
on group photos
chorus
team of forensics, basketball, baseball
prom night 1881, 1902
and it holds a warmth
strands of sallow daylight
that push through again
searching
and I stand on black tattered tile
in greeting
and reverence
calm, motionless
keenly aware of
and humbled by
this distinguished history
in moldy air and broken concrete
hanging lamps darkened by time
fallen plaster
stained ceiling
weary walls that lean and fade
vacant halls
that wrap and wind
remnant of youth
of hope
flowering of wonder
keeper of souls and smiles
My Night Shadowed Trees
black limbs fattened by time
stir in a white, crisp moon
that is vibrant in cold abyss
and slow fog suspended over my lungs
those tall black doors to the past
unused Episcopal sanctuary
planted firmly on its warm soil
amidst spongy, moist moss
stone walls that have collapsed
in deliberate surrender
and hundreds of branches caress my individuality
pulling me in
with images of life
of death
and a mysterious message
that I am not able to fully understand
but feel, deeply
this place
an intense quiet
that seeks to tell me something essential
with its breeze and whispers
this place that I come to at night
Cemetery
standing in its wake
their souls wash over me
encircling me
embracing me
out of curiosity and longing
that soft earth
that I float upon
it is buoyant and weak
I am anxious here
in quiet contemplation
of that rigid group
thirty years ago
glued together by the little one
wide brown eyes
and yellow bear
pink dress
holding Mom’s hand as Mom explains
Aunt Grace is in Heaven
we stand silently
family
and a breeze sent by the angels
that is still here
lonely air
somehow changed
at my future
and I intensely connect to a blurred past
omniscient in a sense
and they call out to me
their pillar
the respected one
Blanket of North Carolina
of air that I breathe freely
that is thin and moist
trees and baby leaves
of earth that accepts all
that I believe in
and Hollow Rock with its cool, lucid water
and smooth, round stones
of minnows and sand
that move with tender current
trickle of life and Durham
and light
in deep tradition
of my heritage and southern roots
distinctly North Carolina
and folding chairs in shade
iced tea
cold spoons in plastic cup
and roasted dogs with mustard
this open place
that I am not worthy of
this prize and breeze
to be outdoors
to loosen
of pleasant conversation
familiar people
and river mussel in coarse, wet dirt
rainbow shell
and its quiet rustling of time
they who came before
who know of moss and honeysuckle
and picnic
of kudzu and ivy
North Carolina blanket
and my shepherd
to lean on
our forest
its path and river
and three dimensional wonder
of calm place
that is alive
and autonomous
Past in Present
this hidden place
that is separate
and unaware
moving about its activity
on dark red flooring
its stained hardwood that creaks
and high ceiling of space and curiosity
hot water through cast iron
large oak doors that are ornate
and exaggerated
dull light
and stale air
of our past
that is somehow still here
in the world
not of it
where time has stopped
of youth and smiles
and respect
spring rain
and humanity
that is gentle and innocent
it whispers
and walks softly
a polite picture of yesteryear
that is tangible somehow
of powdery trees
watercolor and its brush
leaves that are dabbed onto gray winter
and baby green
unchanged
and I absorb its lull
to emerge from that void
to be in the past
that is fresh and new
Yearning
to see again
and feel presence
of laughter
and sense of expectation and faith
surrounded by dreams
and ladders
and blankets
chairs on the lawn
and charcoal smoke
and eternal people
that are unbroken
pseudo pillars of my world
always to be present
on cool grass in late afternoon
and swings
faint conversation
Aunt Marie’s occasional burst of laughter
and panels of painted wood
bear flag in breeze and sun
O’Gwin’s hand on my shoulder
and colors of red, blue, yellow
my finger paint that is rich and slippery
and creation of mind
to share
on black asphalt
of handball and wall
and puppets that move
and bag lunch with fruit
sidewalk and bikes
skateboard and shade
to see again
To Plant a Seed
my passion and warmth
and indifferent stares
of ripe soil
that is quiet
sometimes defiant
and unaware of its intention
an occasional question
a trace of eventuality
allusion of grandeur
and continuation
of way
and representation
dormant seeds in earth
that wait
of profound thoughts
and brilliance
giant trees that I will never see
Forest Rain
of dark place
green mass
drenched and dripping
standing quietly
like a dog just given a bath
of desperate summer shower
soft, moist earth
wet moss and soil and wood
sweet like perfume
giant trees that tower over me
oak, maple, walnut, dogwood, birch, elm, white ash
its bark blackened by water
a stark contrast to delicate pastel green
that float like magic
seedlings protruding up from a golden carpet
gazing into a multidimensional jungle
that enchanted place
held to this spot
like the child looking through a 3D viewfinder
perfect stillness
except drip, drip, drip
a mask for that which is within
life
thousand of varieties
absorbing the pleasure
in shadows
under carpet of rotting leaves
in deep blackness
that hardwood forest
making way for the new
and restoration
maintenance of grandeur
that is fresh and clean
and purification of soul
Mom’s Moon
soft light
faithfully there
to guide
reassure
inspire
gentle rays
a beacon
timeless
as a familiar aroma
or taste
or breeze
that makes one a child again
a soul of beauty
floats in the night sky
following its path
quietly
holding tightly to her larger power
and model
with humble reverence
unwavering in spirit
still there
that white illumination
and radiance
The Pond
that glassy mirror
reflection of hardwoods and my past
white morning cloud from still water
suspended in time
like a photograph
as if not a moment transpired
its duration
that which is unaffected
and feet that sink in soft earth
each step forward
a move further back
brown velvety cattail
dad stopping the car to cut one for his sons
on the journey back to his home
my first introduction to nature
I touched it for hours
loud frogs in water-lilies
chirp, croak, pop
then quiet
again
chirp, croak, pop
this place
its aroma of fish and wet moss
morning sun on water that shimmers
yellow rays breaking through trees
its small minnows swimming close to the shore
crane wading in shallow surf
long legs and beak
frozen
waiting for a meal
its shiny black water bugs darting
dragonflies hovering
then touching water briefly
turtle basking
a partially submerged black log
its ever so gentle wind
this place
devoid of hypocrisy and pretense
my life
the real me
a gentle massage
on tired body, emotions, mind and spirit
a small restoration
a reversal of many things
Attic Window
a dark spot
secure in its place
steadfast
calling out to they who might notice
and wonder
of its secrets behind ornate design
and calm
and silence
pseudo joy
a place of still air
and dust
on memento
and emblem of good and bad
introspection
of people and places
and voices in wood plank
that creak and moan
under heavy footsteps of mind
a single ray of morning light
that moves slowly
to encompass that niche
alone
touching each object gently
Darkness
Deep blackness
in all directions except up
thousands of bright white specks
interspersed on black velvet expanse
and on my mind
this night as clear as glass
that shimmers
and speaks to my heart
unchanged
and a dull moon casts night shadows:
fence posts, barn, bushes, trees
shadows that appear to be alive somehow
watching the universe
like me
a breeze on meadow
its coolness and memories
lying in tall blue
staring up
dad’s deep voice
“son, what you doing out here alone?”
I turn
he is not there
grass in night wind
in perfect unison
like the surf
a country ocean
I look up
again becoming absorbed in the sky
and the past
Steps on My Path
they are weathered
and broken
stained concrete
that serves its purpose
again
that others have come to
and contemplated
a necessary place
that is aged
a world beyond my world
footsteps
and aspirations
dreams
and presidents
events that I know but can not feel
except for that step
lift, lift, lift
and the sun
and morning wind
and chill under coat
and desire to rise
within a vibrant past
that is not gone
but a wide river of style
music, voices, fads
that flows through my soul
among empty swings that still move
Bus Stop
colossal rays of sparkling light
massive bars
fanned out across my wet morning world
many trees of varied shape and size
dripping
heavy limbs moving in a wind
breaking its illumination
creating a dazzling kaleidoscope
white light and shadows
about my small frame
set upon fresh and exhilarating soil
cool air in lungs
life climbing out of slumber
on its intricate web
making repairs where needed
floppy ears and twitching nose
that watch me
morning glories
the jay
and distant call of crow that echoes for miles
fence posts coated in wet tar
each barb a single drop of scintillating moisture
all the time
those massive bars of light
through every crevice
as that great ball of fire moves slowly into the sky
a fresh day
somehow erasing all before
an excitement that accompanies its newness
its undertones of hope
that great spectacle
Absence
and I ask if I belong
at this place
alive beyond my years
perhaps beyond my time
all so strange
new faces
and things that I do not understand
life that is anxious
and impatient with my slowness
and I humbly wait
and smile
outwardly content
grasping tightly to that which I know
somewhat confused
and sad
pretending daily
The Oak
that giant tree
on its perch
of love and respect
and awe
at our gravel drive
food for hornets and black ants
protector of memories
standing alone
swaying
waiting
head bent backward
air empty and still
soft bands of yellow light
multi-layer of thick, dark green canopy
varied patches
irregular shapes of illumination on moist ground and moss
dust and gnats float in serene enchantment
that timeless oak
its limbs
glued to that spot
suspended in time
and wild purple violets
Dignity
in attentive consideration
of they who walk near
cautiously, I bow and wait
and watch
amused and disturbed
uncomfortable at times
in reverence of
this dignity that I hold
in open palm
above my head
in shimmering reflection of life
in hope
of a lost time and place
that I see in my mind
that I possess of my parents
that I cherish
with self-discipline
and steadfast resolve
to honor the past
a beacon
of air that is pure
and white light
that envelops hurt
Angel
that print that I trust
angel and two children
and dark bridge
that I whisper to
as a child
in that room and bed
and I climb a tree that has no top
and blow away stubborn dust
in perpetual silence
that I am resigned to accept
sadly
slowly
and that silence becomes a wall
that wraps around me
its myth
that I do not want
and I wait
for that angel
her outstretched hand
to guide
and to love
Newness
a chilled, wet air
in its purest form
that talks to my soul
and gently electrifies anxious skin
lines that are fresh
a perspective of structure
moving harmoniously in new directions
cluster of ancient trees
branches to be examined
and cherished
and remembered
I am a guest on this aged soil
that watches me
seemingly curious
a walkway of chipped brick
its unfamiliar buoyancy
and twists and turns
steam heat from cast iron radiator
that clicks and clanks
that touches bone
and slows breathing
in an idyllic world that is real
beauty that I swim in
gracefully and gratefully
The Wall
dusk and old stone
home to moss and dark wetness
a draw from that stick
sweet heavy smoke rises
under that oak
my place and friend
at Christmas eve
watching that church
its perplexed stares
mutual curiosity
during ice
spring, summer, fall
after each mental trauma
it is there
that cloud
and expanse
an occasional smile
or nod
a place to recover
reorganize
prepare
soft breezes that touch me
reminding me that I have been here before
telling me that I am safe
and in control
Becky
that spot that I go to
south side steps of Playmaker’s Theater
hanging light
bare bulb
brick steps that are unchanged
this place befuddled by that stubborn question
did you know
during heartfelt conversation that night
the two of us
souls entwined
bathed in warm moonlight
embracing a soft, clean breeze
two gentle and naive youth
quiet spirits
somewhat uncertain of our futures
slowly gaining knowledge of the world
did you know
that I would return to this spot
still remembering you
still thinking of you
thirty years removed
and soft words that death can not take
of warm summer night
did I see it in your eyes
did I hear it in your voice
did I know then, somehow
that I would continue on
as your angels reassure and uphold you
did I realize then
amidst aroma of spruce and pine
on the beautiful UNC campus
while watching translucent eyes sparkle
a beautiful smile
soft fair skin
silky brown hair
that I was to become a keeper of your memory
that you would live on in my mind and heart
I wonder if you knew, somehow
I wonder, as I speak to others on a day-to-day basis
which one might be that same keeper for me
someday, somehow
Sanctuary
smiles
on a steel kitchen table
yellow Formica
black outside two large windows
Mom’s white translucent curtains
that are cheerful and carefully cut
Tommy and Wanda
and crickets
no phone, television or radio
just ice tea, vanilla wafers
laughter
cigarettes
and that ceaseless chirp, chirp, chirp
and distant screech of jar fly
our country home
far removed
pieces spread over table
green houses, red hotels
Reading Railroad, Pennsylvania Avenue, Community Chest
all completely lost in that perfect game
arguments with smiles and laughter
roll of the dice
leaning over to see where they fall
children in the living room asleep on the sofa
an awareness of our separation
wrapped in that colorful board
North Carolina evening
at a place on my path
and aroma of honeysuckle and cattle
our lighted sanctuary
amidst many miles of great nothingness
darkness and wind
and crickets
Morning Flood Plain
flat expanse of foliage
a straight horizon
that is full
and thick white fog
bright with morning sun
and mist
round trees
barely visible
blurred in moisture
and time
a moment
alive
electrifying
to see and feel
that explosion
on flood plain
and wet earth
this privilege
that I cherish
and grasp
retreat of soul
and rest
Driveway
evening mist rising from cooled earth
rolling meadows
and soft white cloud
low against ground
its contour and great distance
single trees
apple, pear, peach
that are lost
and an ocean of tall yellow grass
alive with movement
arms and fingers outstretched
a celebration of dark blue sky
and its bright star
vividly on my horizon
a dazzling speck of truth
that watches me
gently
and aroma
North Carolina evening
fresh musky earth
clean air cooled by the onset of darkness
cattle
and that distinctive, deep, rich fragrance
sweet honeysuckle growing thick
that path of crickets
and gravel
and well-being
Ag Fair
of classroom and grain
and soil
new sprouts
rich nitrate
and eternal structure
that is warm
proud parents
chainsaw and tractors
oil
and Indian corn
bales of crisp yellow straw
barley
soybean, cotton
cattle, pigs, chickens
and abundance of projects
miniature buildings
soil conservation
lizards and snakes
and bright lamps
sense of place and well-being
rooted in tradition
and pumpkins
this place that I know
of gladness
momentary haven
of community and soul
sanctuary
be it rest
this institution
and cherished name
my place of great hope
and anticipation
on concrete flooring
and sawdust
Starling Place
hundreds dive, sail, climb, chase
wings arched back
missing each other by inches
with each sudden pass
evening sky ablaze
electrifying
random movement that excites my soul
that dark mass
and nightly ritual
precision flight
celebration of days end
and my life
again, as in youth
I focus on one
and follow its path
it weaves through the others
effortless continuity and grace
and they who look up
the mesmerized
and that gust of crisp air
it rushes skyward
lifting birds
that rapidly react
representations of youth
as a balloon released
that rises unconstrained
Back Porch at Night
cold chills
and bare bulb dangling
loose cord
dad’s nylon string burning
its miniscule illumination
and infinity of deep blackness
behind our abode
miles of desolation
that pushes on my soul
field and forest
and giant winding river
distant sound of tree surf
that sway
predominant feeling fear
and a door too close
that I will not open
moths fluttering on screen
wanting the light
my steady gaze
and wonderment
of that beyond crickets
and potato cellar
built into concrete
far away screech
a possible clue
my world
nature’s convention
and we are visitors
at this eternal place
set upon soil
our temporary structure
wood frame house
its little screen porch
and yellow bulb
and our relevance
in contemplation of immensity
Rain
strong and steady rain
that finds me
unceasingly hammering tin roof
giant drops that thrash wet ground forcefully
each strike a powerful impact
that drapes earth in heavy gusts
fine mist rising from torrential flow
fresh, clean
wetness on face
and memories that wash over my soul
wind like an ocean surf
constant
puddles and smiles
with a breath
wet grass and leaves and earth
and that little boy
drenched
laughing with brothers and sisters and Spot
running circles in its wonder
oak limbs that move wildly
that we cling to
loose pieces of tin on barn roof
flapping
trying to break free
Mom in her green apron
the screen door on porch and a call
leaning out
worried expression
low black clouds
strange and exciting patterns
and that constant roar of wind
that creeps closer to my heart
darkness and goose bumps
and excitement
then quiet
and yellow sky
and calm
City of Ghosts
tobacco factory of ancient brick
and elongated structures that enclose a street
aroma, sweet, rich, unchanged
industry and thousands of trees
like those pictured in history books
grand homes that sink amongst shrubbery
new and old side-by-side
one-room grocery, broken windows
hiding in forest
industrial smokestacks that are red with rust
Durham High draped upon hard soil
a yellow and brown school
and the ghosts of my family
on broken concrete
in mold and mildew
and oaks, pines
screen back porch in the city
tree roots that cling to clay
and familiar names: Duke, Gregson, Gary, Miami
this city
the monument of my family
keeper of vaults
and I see them all
in its sky and air
and yellow grass
Home
chilled at gate
broken stone in moonlight
and night wind pushing
its foundation
scattered bricks and wood
that place
quiet, empty, desolate
wind in my front yard
of dirt and toy truck
and plastic farm set
myself talking to Spot under the oak
absence of adversity
and my soul whispers in desperation
I am here
searching
calling
waiting
wind brushing hardwood and pine
and dark limbs
that touch a white moon
and Mom’s voice
that soft whisper
still here
Victoria
cradle of warm earth and yellow grass
atop hills that rise far then drop
loose landscape
that is flexible
and I hold on
ocean wind roaring in ears
hundreds of miles from the sea
that rises from meadow
salt water and sand
and that tiny brown ant
in great jungle
over boulders
giant fallen trees
deep blackness
I poke at its path with a twig
blinded by daylight
and imagination
and hawk riding thermals
hypnotically
a squint
hand over eyes
and substance of my life
that resides in this moment
Night
open house
on warm curb
asphalt and twig
Mom and teachers
this place at night
its lighted windows
and safety
people moving about inside
pines silhouette against a bright white moon
and ghostly haze rising from drive
my moment
Ann Latta with parents
and smile in passing
my heart and eternity
and boyish dark eyebrows
that perfect brown dress
that is poised
black shirt and belt
and soft light
that lingers
my illumination of past
and future
that is with me
Antithesis
an immediate contrast
ancient building in its final breath
and yellow flower
new and exhilarating life
bubble gum popping
ragged jeans
clearly uninhibited
and unconcerned
hugs and a dance
a light twirl
soft smiles
in exploration
eyes that ensnare
and hold tightly
each movement precise
clean, pure
a dazzling force at Murphey Hall
presence that alters place
and person
unaware of her vitality
and meaning
this emerald in time
a picture of past
and hopeful future
whose spirit is cherished
who brushes dust off souls
in stale air
a cheerful invitation to live
to know
to feel
To Write
stones that are too quiet
cross, angel, statue of the virgin
testaments somehow to people
so very gone
as lost as monuments are cold
be it that knowledge
and words
a gentle smile from place
and past
I am still here
that warmth
that I reach for
Distant Dance
a corridor to the past
that twists and turns
and baby grand
glossy black that moves
comfortable at round tables
dim light in colorful glass
red, orange, yellow, blue
and darkness
a newness of person
pressed tightly together
slow rhythm
fluid through flame
and gowns that glitter
pink and yellow feathers
an occasional smile
tall, thin ladies
jeweled caps
and flower
satin, lace, and spirits
painted faces
white, red, green
and that steady beat
slow wail
and trumpet, sax, deep base
braided hair
and pearls
dark blue suits that are pinstriped
with its bow
sipping a precedent
from black ceiling of soft white brilliance
conversation
Chinese checkers, backgammon, cards, dominos
and anticipation of future
that sparkles
at this place
implanted in time and sweet perfume
Light Under the Door
sounds and illumination
that ask me to be alive
and aware
that touch my gentle soul
that are safe
at this haven
and faucet drip
curtains rising rhythmically
clock that is steady
and blanket
of gaze transfixed at a pale light
under my door
laughter
and television
voices that linger
as the bell chimes
Mom and Dad
long passed
but I watch
and slumber
still
and that light under the door
precise
unchanged
Schuyler, Va.
that mountain bowl
and sheltered spot
that is hidden
of tall trees and earth and grass
its wide river
a slow thick fluid
that is black
that glimmers
in shadows and light
and fog
its giant mass moving steadily
that dam
a fresh roar and white water
crisp air that pops
ruins of past
that mill and stone
and chimney that stands apart
of broken brick and charred hearth
twisted iron that is brown
and school
window to their world
place of dreams and curiosity
shiny yellow hardwood
its small stage and heavy blue drape
1930 graduating class of twenty
fresh smiles
combed hair
its stone church
and final place
monuments of this sanctuary
and sunken earth
that is quiet
be it those smiles
and voice of picnic
and Christmas play
faint echo of Schuyler
The Apple Trees
that neat row
fattened by time and neglect
and warm August days
a most significant task
youthful spirit
unstained, idealistic
focused on my world
its boundary and scope
and low limbs weighted
large sweet green apples
on tree and moist ground
of varied size
that wither in heavy sun
dark brown, red, yellow
sweet aroma
apple sauce in toes
and yellow-jackets, honey bees
taking their share
one apple, then another
and brothers and sisters
basking on sturdy gray limbs
dirty t-shirt
and a sweet, wet bite
that drips through my heart
Refuge and Root Beer
that warm place again
that I can not see
but feel
city lights and rain
of cross and book
engines, rubber and oil
and vinyl seat
and that sacred shrine
A&W
our night
of crowded street
headlight and horns
laughter and cigarettes
and rich dark liquid
sweet
sharp
heavy flavor of childhood
satisfying suds
and frosted mug
those steps that I take
that are guarded
on pavement
wiper blades
and cold drops
that we savor
and small fingers
that trace its brown and white design
in my distant past
and mind
eyes that explore and watch
a pleasing taste
of root beer and time
that is tangible somehow
Spectacle
crisp, cool air
richness
that appears one day
breaking still heat
that elicits memory
and anticipation of wonder
pumpkins
costumes and orange candy
brown earth and musky soil
soft shower of yellow leaves
that twirl
harmoniously
haunted house
ghosts, goblins
spiders
gray stone and sunken grass
state fair
warm jacket and boots
and turkey
Time to See
a grove of life
its intricate pattern
tangled limbs that reach out to me
and sunlight
wrapped in cool morning
together
with grass and plant
I stop to see
to watch
to know
my sameness
this parlor of peace and flowers
and hushed voices
of air and light and place
and poetry
that saves me
this soft earth
that holds my being
and oaks and buildings
to see people
and formation of things
that are eternal
and separate from distress
I am stilled
and touched by wind
as I stand alone
at this crowed spot
to see and feel this ancient place
that I belong to
Time to Listen
of quiet voices
and warmth
that wraps around they who will stop
to listen and feel
of time and people and essential things
forgotten
hope and tranquility
cleansing of soul
this place
always divine
of black slate and chalk
and tall window of light
dusty pane
empty hall of faded tile
its auditorium of grand space
and memories
harmony of voice and youth
and parental smiles
fear and successes
laughter and tears
of perfect stillness
and gymnasium of shattered floor
this barn of air and high ceiling
to reach and jump
to celebrate this occurrence
of present that is past
and carefree
Sam
place of angels
and Sam
dark, moist yard of moss and purple violets
and giant oaks
varied strands of yellow
piercing multi-layer of thick canopy
it quivers gently
patches of light in assorted shapes
on shadowed ground
and soul
dust and gnats in quiet evening
floating timelessly
in groups
that harmoniously stay together
the old oak swing
swaying
hundreds of wild roses on broken fence
honeysuckle and wet North Carolina
and Sam
by the front porch door
bright brown eyes
and hugs
genuinely excited by her mission
two and one half feet tall
dark hair
worn coat
floppy wool toboggan
gazing steadily
toward open expanse
miles of wheat in all directions
rolling contour of land
appearing buoyant somehow
like an ocean
that life before her
and a small angel
of youth
independence of thought
and squinted eyes
seriousness of endeavor
that is most significant
and recognized
Daddy
that empty structure
and salty, dry wind
my beach
and they who are mournful
family and Lisa
giant brown eyes
that are inquisitive
and sons
a dispirited gaze
that we share
peanut butter and jelly sandwich
and grasshopper on sandal
its picnic canopy
and they who are not there
but in my mind
be it a question
that I feel
Mommy, why is Daddy alone?
Place
toes that sink
that spongy place
salty air
and dryness
endless pushing
and cry of dirty gulls
that float on gusts
and beg
children laughing
kite that flaps loudly
of bright white sun
and ceaseless pounding of daytime wave
that rolls
its muffled shout
through wind
and little things that swim in shallow surf
perfect unison
darting quickly
of small sea shells in toes
rubbery ocean weed on ankles
and a sea that tugs and pulls
of brittle water, sand and coconut oil
fluorescent pink and orange bikinis
young girls as a group
aloof
with youthful curiosity
and hum of small plane
its banner far behind
that bounces
and struggles
that straight horizon
as a razor’s edge
broken by black dolphins
who want to see
of white sand and joy
and sparkling light
Pier
wood plank that is gray
and dirty fish
bag of shrimp
and swaying
a dark surf
ceaseless wind
that pushes
distant glimmer
of hotels and homes
and fireworks over black sea
a distant pop
then miniscule explosion of dull light
and a veiled expanse
an enigma
with its ship and lights
and wonder
and my life
that I come back to
its significance
of water and land
sunburn and caps
and oversized jackets
old men holding poles tightly
personification of stillness
solitary stares and gray stubble beard
of shark and crab
and spot
and strange, cool air rising
dark green water below
that is transparent
red, white and orange bobbers
in false illumination
that move rhythmically with the rise and fall
of slow current
from deep ocean
Festival and Hand
that I hold
cool skin
and explosion of color
in light of June
and humidity
warm leaves and earth
bluegrass and Elvis
of vigorous smile and cheer
and curiosity
of crafts and glass and wood
and silly hats
barbeque, slaw and sauce
and mirror of sea shell
fresh squeezed lemonade
long lines
mustard and dog
antique cars under tall trees
that are also aged
luminosity of charm
blue jeans and leather
and crunch of gravel under feet
its slow creek
Indian display
of feathers and beads and pipe
walking into that bowl
of peculiar things
glimmer of rainbow prism that twirl
stones and jewelry
shimmering strand of foil and stars
pink, yellow, blue
and that breeze of trees
and gentle sway
of an ancient place
that is alive
summer and rest and security
to unwind and breathe
in hand and spirit
of gentle freedom
and string puppets that dance
harmoniously
of soft buzz
voices and simplicity
bird houses of bark
and rocking chairs
You Don’t Know Me
my perfect place
a soft wind
cool against tight and bitter skin
and aroma of burning cedar
crisp winter morn
revival of senses
and memory of hope
that one and my life
as a boy
crawling down lazy country road
in summer
its honeysuckle and blackberry
with sun and clouds
and birds
and gravel
I imagined you
visualized you
spoke softly to you
a keeper of fire
and holidays
The Barn
aged door that creaks
breaking still silence of that fluid structure
draped upon earth
warm air, stale straw
musky dirt and grain
and its massive rise
my hushed cathedral
and closet
sturdy brace
and its things
on slick dirt flooring
and empty stalls
that are black and strange
deathly quiet
its streams of sunlight
that pierce loose siding
tiny strands that are precise
that surround and tickle
and that piece of dust
suspended
that floats silently
in time and my life
of thunder and rain
and rusty tin roof
and shadows
Return to the River
pebble in still water of Little River
and a ripple that spreads instantly
water spiders that are quick and silent
skip away from its wake
long legs over surface
and a glassy circle
sunlight and disruption
eyes fixed steadily
momentarily mesmerized
air on giant hardwoods
above that place
that single maple leaf
green life
that floats
twirling confidently
an eternal journey
that slows my world
it rests on water
to begin its next phase
and the vanguard of night
breaks still humidity
moving down through large ferns
with its aroma of moss and wet earth
in the midst of nature
that wants me to know
and feel
its enduring presence
Mom’s Candles
graceful table
and soft light
streams of love
that rise slowly
shadows that dance
in flickering flame
and colorful glass
with flowers
in that dim room
burning wax that drips
and time that beckons
Mom’s arrangement
carefully placed
as her life
and steps
and words
of elegance
and wealth
and compassion
Ice Lodge
pajamas and slippers
in awe
on ice-covered blades of grass
that crunch and break
and castle
that stands like a cold tower
and a gift from my angels
with giant oaks that sparkle like diamonds
each limb coated
crystal clear
and peculiar
far across open field
a luminous forest of glass
white, clean, glistening
as it reflects a bright white sun
branches breaking
unable to hold weight
the sound of a snap
like a distant shotgun
then a deep rumbling
as hundreds of glass chandeliers
simultaneously falling from a ceiling
pines and cedar bend forward
bowing graciously
reaching for crisp ground
smiles and ice
that tickle cold tongue
and it drips steadily
to be abandoned by mid-day
the magic
wonder of winter
and marvel of my youth
Revival
great oak doors
heavy with significance
familiar patterns in wood grain
faint traces of a world within a world
and several men on cinderblock steps
in darkness
of strong cologne
cigarette smoke and gentle smiles
crickets and frogs
and open windows
summer night air
and our other family
paper fans
Walker’s funeral home on the front
our purpose
and five year old Rosie
her box of crayons and coloring book
red hat and coat
treasured
she who steals the preacher’s show
Mrs. Wheeler who is ninety-six
her front pew
and cushioned seat
rocking, clapping hands
born during Reconstruction of the South
still thanking god for her good sons
who passed thirty years ago
Ann Blalock
14 years old
of smooth white skin
soft and straight dark hair
shimmering in light of brass chandelier
bright brown eyes
that wait to begin a Mrs. Wheeler life
she who is excited by the prospect
and that same blue dress
a weeping preacher who begs for souls
and money
to shout and sing
large yellow guitar
and its colorful strap
that same song
Just As I am, I Come
a half-tuned piano
that few who rise
and a sigh of relief
the preacher is satisfied
when it is over
the true service begins
in foyer
in dark parking lot
in basement
each of my family finding that friend
or group of friends
and conversation for hours
weather
husbands who won’t come to church
school
other people in the church
new boyfriends and girlfriends softly hold hands
and whisper in darkness
Pine Cone
holding magic
a large, cold wet pine cone
cupped in two small hands
each barb open for investigation
my sheltered joy
and innocence
in snow
as the world is reduced
and its thorns prick my skin
that most difficult thing to see
an old friend
still here
and ear-to-ear grin
both obscured by time
Waiting
for that perfect day and time and place
that moment
a complete smile that is not forced
limbs that are lighted
as in water
shoulders that do not hurt
waiting
for a fresh breath
ecstatic ambiance
childish laughter
and energy to run, to rise
waiting
to feel valid joy
in my first abode
a place that should not ache
nor be strained
La Puente Suburb
dry yellow hills
that sail high
distant and profound
weathered and mysterious
an enigma
that tumble across open wind
and brown tarantula in headlight
sidewalk
its broken concrete
clumps of green grass protruding
at each fracture
pulled by heavy air
rich, musky fertilizer
newly landscaped space
fresh earth
and diesel
those giant yellow tractors
slow and constant roar
making way for more of us
matching houses
plastered onto this spot
and geraniums
red, pink
a hill of Agave Victoria
that succulent plant
to break and explore
and ski down on cardboard
dogs and pigeons
cooped
that hole under the fence
Dad’s Ford station wagon
and its heavy green steering wheel
gasoline and oil
Budweiser and cigarettes
at night
Batman, Robin, and Cat Woman
Car 54, Dragnet on the lawn
outdoor drive-in
and the breezeway
and net
dried starfish and iced tea
spaghetti and meatballs on Sunday
family
Eddie Arnold, Ray Price, Marty Robins, Elvis
a school and butterflies
at recess
nap time on our mat
Mom’s sandwich and fruit in brown bag
and Mexico
its color and music
my La Puente
of pencils and crayons
and drawing of sheep
and rock collection
minerals of mind and spirit
and bells on the street
rainbow pop sticks
on cold tongue
My Students
a room of power
and capability
foundation of earth that trembles
anticipation
of senators, congressmen and women
presidents, CEO’s
the attorney
engineers, designers
movers of people and ideas
honorable laborers
comfortable in their skin
they who are meaningful
parents of our future
watching me
waiting for answers
my community
its infrastructure of hope
and joy
laughter in their ability to see further
standing on shoulders of myself
and others
mother holding child during a storm
father walking hand-in-hand with son
in an ocean surf
uncut diamonds
wet clay
molten steel
our giant oaks
tall pines
they are a meadow of purple violets
and breeze
aroma of sea
fresh and new
spring
multi strands of light
glistening on infant green grass
my students
Caldwell Hall
basement morgue
that is dark
three year old
holding her doll
and father’s hand
cold steps
and rain
eyes that are fearful
that portal
and place of healing
as she gazes up
touched by concern
waiting
mommy is sick dear
and ice water
on dirt street
its uncertainty
and pain
an occasional motor car
and cemetery
A Place of Rest
to crawl under down
and patiently peer at my cave
and things that I know and love
and quiet
to feel safe
in control
at ease
my walls that know and respect
and comprehend
they are time and memory
that watch and embrace
my place of rest
to awaken at twilight
familiar patterns on stark ceiling
soda fizz in dark kitchen
amongst dreams
back under down
as I release mind and soul
both sheltered
and aware
that I rest
Remembering the Wheat
open expanse of sun and air
and summer warmth
that rises slowly
broken stem
that is baked
crunch, crunch, crunch
and aroma
clean, rich
miles of soil and wheat
and spongy earth that I bounce upon
constant ray of light
this carpet of glistening gold
that is brittle
that snaps
its great contour
bathed in brilliance
and immensity of space
and memory
upon my small being
that grain of wheat
and ocean of yellow
and nature
that forceful gust of summer wind
that rolls over sweat
pushing me back
this empty field
still, quiet
and cluster of cut wheat
that I hold close
Family
brother and sister
mother and father
fellow creatures
persons
individuals
mortals
souls
who share my world
watching quietly as I pass
family
crying child
an equation of me
I am warm as I drift through the street
surrounded by humanity
who do not know
my comprehension of who and what they are
Time
a veil that is lifted
an understanding
deeply
slowly
it envelopes
pours over ones soul
like honey
I see and know
and feel
extreme questions answered
by time
invisible truths exposed
transparent walls
and white light that shimmers
illuminating a sad knowledge
Interlude
amidst noise
and movement
suddenly forced to stop
for days
of gentle blanket
silent from gray sky
and cold white expanse
its horizon of haze
that is timed perfectly
and I stand and gaze
in contemplation of greater things
our planet
that I belong to
and burning wood
coffee and candles
and that embrace
its single flake
that tells me I believe
that forces me to breathe
as it all stops
completely
my gift
from they who watch
My Bug
that perfect little round machine
bubble of joy and innocence
sputtering through my youth
a journey of discovery
making my mark on the world
with its dented rear fender
fuel gage that never worked
broken hood latch
its air-cooled motor
that became more efficient with each added mile
my light green dream
66 Volkswagen beetle
its seats that pushed driver close
little brake and clutch and gas pedal
like a toy
warm heater
bare radio
four speed shifter
and loud little engine
that wound down with each gear change
a little car pretending to be big
like a greyhound bus
everybody amused by its demeanor
my mountain car
twisting and turning around deep passes
late at night
taking care of me and my friends
being a part of my life
of my youth
escorting me home safely
bringing me into my future
my teacher
the beauty of simplicity
how small can be great
placing key into ignition
with its VW emblem
pressing gas pedal a few times
turning key
crack, bark, bang, pop, snap
its soul to erupt
and energy
enticing me to reach out
to hold life
to enjoy it
to explore it
my 66 beetle
the exhilaration of my youth
that bubble of fun
Secret Visit
a star is a distant memory
that I somehow borrow
that playground fence of broken red wire
and person in white
my guide
and our quiet gaze
she who sits alone
on black tar of busy playground
legs outstretched
six or seven
intense concentration
turning each page slowly
indifferent
“it is her” I ask
“yes” he answers
“she will be your mother”
that one who suddenly looks up
scanning her world
a squinted gaze that stops at me
our eyes meet momentarily
and she returns to the book
that I can not forget
that most secret visit
Being Watched
crimson sky
vanguard of night
that encircles me
its warm embrace
and lake
to test my vision
and senses
its wide, smooth expanse
that fills a void
making me small
and hypnotic ripple
reflection of dim red light
that moves closer
florescent orange bobber
that plops far in the distance
bouncing steadily
as I wait
on moss and black mud
jasmine
frog and crickets
and they who watch
again
quiet entities
a presence that is solemn
quite real
harmless
whom I respect
and I breathe slowly
somewhat perplexed
yet grateful somehow for their attention
four quick pulls from below
the bobber dips
then quiet
and contemplation
To Deny
withholding ocean and sand
and castles at night
swings in the park
pooh and friends
those inquisitive questions
about life
and the kitty
laughter
and smiles
determined three-year-old spirit
and unwillingness to let go of blanket
that complete embrace
after a spider
her fascination with snow
and rain
and things that grow in the ground
and animals
and rocks
her innocent contemplation of future
will I be big someday
will I die someday
where is grandma
she
whom I withhold
in waiting
immersed in myself
Vision
sparkling lake
dark green and bubbles
light that skips through my mind
and lilacs
that strange place
of laughter and hope
men and women resting
cloth of yellow and deep brown
and dust
musical instruments that I do not know
blankets
and wine
jet black hair
tight skin that shines
and soft Italian phrases
salutation to union
and harmonious gaze
of future
and yellow sun
warmth of body and soul
in this cradle
oh Italy
and I
the eventuality of amalgamation
under the same sun
in consideration of those before
as our gaze meets
Nestled
ashen curtains lift
and touch my face
a perpetual brush
slow and precise piano
hypnotic tones
that massage my mind
low and high
feather floats
and dances over my head
I cling to sound
and desperate sleep
stale carpet
and colorful balloons
blue cake and ice cream
Wizard of Oz
McDonald’s shakes
Tasty Freeze custard
air profuse with tomato sauce
bubbles in a boiling pot
pop, pop, pop
jet that glide above
a long, slow whistle
dog dish and ants
and soap
cartoons and soft pillows
and warm, fresh space
a gentle breath
holding grass and dandelion
that rinse my room and heart
a safe blanket
and toys
amidst rough seas on living room wall
Belonging
familiar faces and smiles
and pathways
shower of purpose
to bask in
devotion
at various levels
shared objectives
harmony of voice and mind and spirit
reaching
in unity
to comfort and know
to learn and love
to feel souls
grown children
some frightened, playful, secure
subordinate to
our common bond
that we float upon
Again
and it takes me again
always there
waiting, silent
my inquest
unconcerned with my past, and being
and experience
sometimes shrouded in joy
or complacency
indifferent
unsympathetic
that which I must confront
to move forward
Proximity
of they who seek
dust and air
that hidden place
its nearness
and discovery
of distant things
and faces
always present
yet suddenly here
my search
of trees and stone and brick
and people who belong in my world
of black tile and broken plaster
and smiles
of passion and warmth
kindness and light
in consideration of time
that floats through this castle of calmness
of Easter eggs and buttercups
and pastel colors
and wind in straight hair
that has always been close
Of Time Passed
of one who fought
an empty battle
of life and cemetery
and struggle
of things unknown
and time erased
and mistakes that have dried
markers of mind
and desire
and Thoreau’s “quiet desperation”
that I find
on sidewalk and street
of they who pretend
of humanity
smiles and pleasantry
of contrast and conflict
that is perpetual
and underlying
and I drift through this maze
of uncertainty
of turmoil
of things unjust
and innocence spoiled
to observe misery
where Darwin’s strongest survive
where the afflicted are excluded
slowly
by nature
and I hold fast to my shell
and goodness
wanting to be here
taking refuge in my being
and essence
and graceful cage
under magnificent trees
refined beauty
the contradiction of my world
that I find puzzling
this place of light and darkness
and intense shades of gray
Dream of South Gate
and its blue water
transparent
that slaps cool skin
of crystal and sun
that sparkles and pops
in chlorine
bubbles that float in light
to dive
arms outstretched
loose suits of shell and wave
that drip
and bare feet on cool concrete
giant umbrella
steel table and chairs
cherry snow-cone
and cigarettes
Aunt Rosalie and Mom
short sleeve and conversation
hot coffee and jets above
a long, slow whistle
South Gate Park
its Olympic pool
steel basket with key pinned to trunks
and manly showers
children at the edge
wet arms and legs
and lotion
flotation devices
diapers and pacifiers
and they who want to know
who are fearful and cautious
to delay a life
and our future
filled bellies
and large fluffy towel
of detergent and warmth
and safety
to stand at a spot
by that pool
at my life
of jovial shouts
and splash
and rubber toys that squeak
giant candy jawbreakers
of rainbow spots
Magic Kingdom
pillow and blanket
that great iron friend
of rubber and wind
that bounces on asphalt
a carefree journey
back to Dad’s vines
and creek filled with minnows
through a painted desert
of cactus and orange flower
of turquoise and silver
and commanding sunset
explosion of dark red
that is motionless
that takes my heart fully
purse and doll of colorful bead
to feel
braided black hair and postcards
concrete tent that is a diner
of feathers and stars and sun
and expanse
Elvis on dimly lit radio
and muffled pop of thermos
rich, hot coffee in plastic red cup
fig bars
hot air through open window
as we climb and drop
and hold tightly
Welcome to Dixie
vanguard of our celebration
gray picnic tables that are weathered
against backdrop of deep, heavy jungle
three boys at its periphery
gazing into moist blackness
awestruck by grandeur and mysterious sounds
and clean soil that is fresh
that distinctive fragrance
sweet honeysuckle thick along narrow road
gravel sprayed with black oil
and bottle caps under shoes
orange nabs and soda
hot grits with melted butter
they who use the words “yall” and “fixin”
and Dorthy’s escape from black-and-white
this emerald city of predominate green
and its strange bugs and red birds
giant rainbow gumballs
cut wild onion
at our place and kingdom
and destination of hope
To Know
to find grand place
of people who are real
of they who know life
and shadows of society
silly games
that become substance of truth
absolute and steadfast
hardened by things factual
and observation
they who comprehend humanity
and its contrast of degree
they who know pain
and essence of contentment
growth of a plant
and morning sun
the cat
and children
a cup of tea
of humility and grace
and movements that have slowed
of words that are soft
mind and speech perfectly conjoined
to share secrets
of life and death
quietly
reduction of laughter and smiles
and acceptance of a larger competence
the inevitable
and to deeply hope for more
Shelter of Poetry
refuge and smiles
words
that take me
and mind that slips away
of many places
amidst sound and smell
and color
sensation of past
to emerge with honey in veins
and heart that is heavy
to see again the forgotten
to bring it back in verse
and ambiguous phrase
of a momentary breath
touch
or light
that is alive and real
that I miss
of youth and vitality
of excitement
and curiosity
and wonder of life
Carly Simon and dirt road
cloud of dry dust
VW engine that sputters
and night
empty wind in soul
and being lonely
maple leaves upside down
that are white before a storm
talking to Mom on the phone
that final laugh
and grass that will not grow on her grave
of swings and sand
and barking dog
and cold feet on evening lawn
turkey, iced tea, and pumpkin pie
and grandma’s dumplings in that little kitchen
to capture a moment
and garden of peace
to refresh
this shelter of poetry
To Know Oneself
to see spring and fall clearly
and its air
to be real
and a part of place
to know oneself
and aged remnants
that have taken on beauty
in calmness
to feel certain of a path
and choices
and capabilities
to lift veil
and see inward
a tranquil sea
that carries you
safely, securely
to know who and what you are
that pillar of content
that is not moved
to breathe smoothly
of warmth
and best friend
to leave words
that are self assured
to rise far above
to float on beliefs
of oneself
and a gift
A Gift
and I rest
of life well loved
and my gift
that I respectfully share
of color
and musical tones
shades of joy
pattern of wonder
spectacle of faith
this place that is ours
of living things
leaves and grass
earth and bark
and stars
delicate breeze and cool water
and sunlight
my words woven
for you
of my life
that is shaded and quiet
these paintings of my mind
that are not lost
to read each slowly
to savor
to know me well
and I offer repose