Long Plowed Poems
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Detroit gave me birth
like the snapping of
sheet metal, and her streets
still bleed.
But Missouri taught me
to see.
The Germans came
Grooming the valleys
with white frame houses
gripping the hills
with scoured brick towns,
the cisterns and weathervanes.
Now is the time of the Maifest, *
the hopes for a new plowed soil.
The men become stern strutters
in overalls.
And the rivers fill the women
with reveries.
Now I know
with my feet,
the waters,
the rocks, and the clays.
I am gifted with the brown rings
of trees.
Published Black Buzzard Press 1982.
*The Maifest (or Mayfest in English) was celebrated by German immigrants in Missouri. Their descendants continue the tradition to the present day. It is the traditional German celebration of the arrival of spring and is now celebrated around the world.
I did not sleep that night,
the motel room was already taking on
the chill ambience, smell, and sounds
of an intensive care unit,
weary eyelids
sensed the tubes and restraints
already binding me.
Latex-gloved fears
kept me on a weary high wire.
Occasionally there’s distant laughter
in a corridor where people are carefree,
I pretend to laugh along
but my voice croaks and trembles
fearing the passing of time
taken to hear anything
and to respond to it.
I did not plan on Cincinnati
I know I mean nothing to Cincinnati,
Cincinnati has no memory of me yet,
and If I die in its University Hospital
I will still be a hole within a hole
of a book never read.
During the 4 a.m. G.P.S drive
it rained a soft black rain.
My headlights plowed into time-left.
Behind me in the motel room,
I am still packing and unpacking
while somnambulant eyes
look away and try not to see
the looming Hospital entrance;
retreating before the dawn.
At this hour
The entrance is a dim electric tube
that withers, and reflates
like a dissected promise.
I have stood on many shores
and felt the long evolution of the deepest waves
where life spawns its leaping adaptions.
I have listened
to the trumpeting of great armored sea-bulls
echoing in the shallow bladder-wrack,
and on that splashing surface
invisible snouts blow from
an ancient depth below.
There where the tusked wolf
first dipped a paw into brine
a proto-creature struggling to survive
its bones already growing
razorback fins.
There also did the fanged manatee
thunder in its savage heart
as it plowed the screeching storms,
tempests that shaped its life
with its glittering saws.
Before the porpoise leapt
before the whale shipped its gray prow
Jekyll and Hyde clawed each other
through a gibbosity of flesh,
and where the skin flew
rat tails grew gills and jagged jaws,
behemoths burst from
slow wading, pod sheltering strays.
All churned in a rolling race
as if a keen edged spray
modeled bones,
a frantic saline transitioning
that even now
as I stand by a washing tide
calls and plows me deep
seeking my own extinct
and monstrous forms.
After the quiet snow
comes the grinding grit
throwing blind shrapnel
at windshields.
Night drives wind-horses,
stampeding phantoms
that enter my glassy eyes,
then tug at the steering wheel
as I edgily negotiate
the corners of swerving shadows.
Once, the hind hoof of a doe
slapped at my startled face,
the Chevy twitched
and plowed on
as its lights raked the earth.
Through the rear mirror
I thought for a moment
I could see myself
prone on the asphalt.
The deer escaped,
but it had slashed holes in the sludge,
those tracks still drum and echo
under nights iron curtain.
The years have not mildewed
for my moss is deep and soft,
it is a fine as baby hair
as thick as an uncut meadow.
Somewhere there are lands I have plowed
over and over,
beneath which are the fragments
of chalky skeletons,
the remains of scant harvests.
Time accumulates a life,
caves and cave-ins layer atop each other,
and above it all
the moss flourishes
to cover an abandoned machinery
that once excavated molehills.
Rusted tools, implements
now all buried
yet still they seep iron
into my earth.
My moss is threaded with clover,
a greening stronger than steel.
I am heaped and rounded
a place for buttercups in summer,
and when a winter-tide
seeks out that velvet plush,
it shall not bite nor crush
but lay as a companion beside me.
phoenix questers
yes…
out of the deep
dark stagnation
of malignant
apathy
we must pull
ourselves
upwards to
eternity
and beyond
to that synergy
which will take us
to the
liberated journey
where
we shall bask
in the aurora
of history makers'
spirits glorifying
the knocking
at the door
of his-story's
mystery opening
and their entering
inking new pages
of ourstory
streaming with justice
peace and love
of god’s gifts
from the oven
of his heart molded,
baked and accentuated
with the icing
of audacious hope…
thus is the legacy
to you
the new torch bearers
to taking
the entered vision
of the dream
to the claimed reality
that is the quest
of phoenix beings
who are the waited upon
future history makers
of our never ending story
whose pathway
has been plowed…
new seeds germinating
and blooming flowers
birthing liberating fruits
ripening seeds
of ourstory
of being free at last
here on earth
as is in the high heaven’s:-
It comes from the sky, white, powdery gifts,
upsets may, but gets us vibrating,
we call in from work, get cover for shifts,
no way we are not participating.
The lots are plowed roughly, but well enough,
we see the white streak of trails on the hill,
blast through the snow, there is never too much,
use rock skis so the good ones don’t get killed.
A run that’s boring exhausts us today,
sweating in the air that makes water freeze,
the soft, springy stuff on which we now play
lets us bound joyously through silent trees;
when it doesn’t come, the snow we must make,
but that’s hamburger, the real stuff is steak!
the field is given a name
battles are about where they disappear
the ones that walk away
don't know where the hell they are
after the mayhem
peace continues destroying barns
birds peck at exploded eye sockets
insignia and belt buckles
are hunted to extinction
mists shuffle a daze of time
the rattling roll calls of magpies and jackdaws
echo the click-clacking of jawbones
executing orders and counter orders
the officers that stumbled forward or away
go quietly mad or marry well
shell stumped foot foragers tell their slogging tales
then find newly cracked rockers
to slip away on
between the hour before dawn and midday
the violence died away in smoke
muddle and disorder
no land was lost or won nothing ended or begun
only this smoldering
cannon blasted field surrendering its nowhere acres
eventually milk cows and goats are purchased
to he hell into butter
dead horses are brought back
as glue and sacks of fertilizer
the stubborn ghosts of mules bray on
the unnamed are plowed in or out
framed in visitor centers
the bearded and beardless site-marked and told
by the grave tongued rangers
who speak for the listening gone
and the whole much pounded shebang
grid referenced
as the muzzled earth still heaves up
its lead riddled bones
the blue and grey leave to fight
their own way home
while another day breaks its promise
The holidays are over, the new year ahead;
a time of the year which I always dread.
I dread this time for very good reason;
this time I refer to as the dreaded “tax season.”
Leisure time ceases as the workload increases;
sleep time decreases leaving life in pieces.
It’s dark when I leave for work in the morn,
and dark when I return leaving me forlorn.
I must remove my poetic hat at this time;
there are many tall mountains which I must climb.
I will don my “green visor” as we CPA’s do,
and face the mountain of work to be plowed through.
Souper friends will remain in the back of my mind
and perhaps a few moments of time I will find
to check the site and to read what’s new;
in the meantime wish me luck, I ask of you.
!!!CAVEAT LECTOR!!! This one's a bit naughty, dear readers...
You've heard of Snow White
And the story reported
Of the seven wee dudes
With whom she consorted.
Well, here's the actual skinny
On what really occurred,
Just another example
Of how stories get blurred.
The facts are quite shocking,
Some may be offended,
But read on, if you dare,
Discretion much recommended.
The dwarves toiled in a mine
And got dusty and sweaty,
Then they'd rush home to Snow,
Willing, able, and ready.
They played sex games with prizes,
Who was best, who the worst,
And poked good-natured fun
At who dropped or "popped" first.
Their sylvan life was idyllic,
The fringe benefits great,
One romp after another,
A real ménage à eight,
'til the vain evil queen
Asked her mirror, who said,
"Hon, your huntsman fibbed big time,
Fair Snow White isn't dead."
So she dressed herself up
As a hag and went callin'
With a web of deceit
She was sure Snow would fall in.
The crone gave her an apple
Her kind deeds to repay.
Snow took one juicy bite
And swooned dead away.
Now, here's one of the falsehoods
I'd like to correct.
You don't need to be Einstein
These dots to connect.
Snow didn't succumb
To poisoned pomme, as they say,
She was just plain exhausted
From "playing house" night and day.
The dwarves were sad but decided
A good thing was worth keeping,
It's not necrophilia
If the body's just sleeping.
Then Prince Charming found her,
Woke her up with a kiss,
And blah blah they lived
In storybook bliss.
What's never been told,
When Snow woke and was sitting,
She said, "No, not tonight, dears,
My headache is splitting!"
Then sotto voce, "Now, Prince,
Let me make you aware,
It's a significant fact
That dwarves are dwarves 'everywhere'.
Pay no heed to the rumors,
What they fail to instruct
Is that though the garden's been plowed,
This blossom's yet to be plucked."