Long Red river Poems
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You where the breath of my joy and heaven,
now you are my curse, blotch, and you delete the rainbow of my smile
Why so, woman of mud?
You where the fountain and rose of my heart,
now you’re the thrones that grow on the hills of my rose
and make my rose look like a mountain of pain.
Why so, woman of mud?
You where the highly skilled love miracle maker that turned my tears to wine
and give my cry special effects,
because when I am crying and I think of you, I suddenly start laughing.
But now, you turn my smile to clay and my tears to a red river of agony, and you roll my cry with your temper of hate down the mountain of darkness.
Why so, woman of mud?
You where the pure guide that guided all our belongings with your cloud of kindness,
and you never did without showering your waters of affection on me.
But now, you scatter all that belongs to us in the deepest pit of unkindness, and you bleed away what we felt for each other through your rain of anguish.
You always said to me,
that theirs no such thing as heartbreak,
because you will never ever leave the path of our purple love, and you shall always be there for me like the stars that set on the eyes of skies.
But now, you boldly crush and pond my heart in your mortar of anguish and walk away leaving my skies blind.
Why so, woman of mud?
*Sobbing*
You where the light that lighted up the candle of my soul when I was damp and hollow and this made me glow intensively. You also always told me the darkest secrets I could not even tell you.
But now you blow so hard to wind away the light of my soul, flushing me dip down into the land of isolated slaves, where I hear your gossips about me.
Why so, woman of mud?
You were my brightest sunset and you never did without hugging and holding my hands, for you always saw me as your palace of refuge in times of traffic danger.
But now, you’ll rather become hell, just to see me cry and burn, and you’ll rather also just walk gently into death, so as not to call me your hero.
Why so, woman of mud?
You where my law of pleasant admiration and I could never carry on without you by my life, because you where my dramatic wonder of love.
But now, you are my flaws of unpleasant admiration and I have no choice nor muddle but to move on in my soberest mood, without you woman of mud, because you are now my thunder of hate,
Woman of mud!
I had waited for you seemingly forever
So long did it take before you were to come into my life
But in so many ways you had always been there
Your hair so white more than once people
Said that you glowed
Your eyes blue gray
Soft but piercing.
In the spring we’d plant flowers and you quite the digger
Would never tire of ‘replanting’ oh the control God blessed
Me with that summer
On the porch we would swing and sing until my throat would be sore
And still Id manage one more
Lavender Blue, You Are My Sunshine, Red River Valley
I can still hear the wee small voice
In the summer under the big maple the front walk
Would flood and we’d run back and forth barefooted and splashing
Your face, pure joy, your eyes animated, your smile so wide
And those cheeks I could tweak them right now
Is there any better sound than giggles and splashes
Autumn we would take long walks and picnics down in the woods
And sit on a fallen tree. We’d find ants and worms and spiders and rescue the most
Precious of treasures. Feathers, milkweed fuzz, acorns, so much
Bounty for the taking. We’d bring them home and glue them
On paper or cardboard or make touch books
Winter oh please let’s have snow for winter. Snowmen
And snow forts, snow balls and mmmm snow cream.
I remember the look on your face at your first bite as
If you had just made magic.
We read books by the fire, books and more books
Then you would touch my lips and ask me to
Read one with my mouth, which meant to make
Up one just for you.
You have been blessed with intelligence
You have an uncanny ability to fix things
You’ve never seen before
Your sense of humor can put me away
Until I beg you to stop
You have a sense of logic beyond your years
You will sit on the floor for hours and build block towers for babies
Most importantly my son
You have been blessed for an unquenchable thirst for God’s own heart
At eighteen our time together will be changing but sitting here
I remember the words from a book we used to sing to each other
“I’ll love you forever
I’ll like you for always
As long as I’m living
My baby you’ll be"
To Noah
I loved you John Wayne!
I wished you were my father
or maybe an older brother
who’d tutor me to be tough
when manners weren’t enough
and toughness was needed
that civility be heeded
and not to brag or complain.
O I loved you John Wayne!
As soon as I was old enough
to earn the price of admission
I saw your films in succession
at the first run houses down
in the big deal part of town
and enshrined each one on a list
taped to my bedside wall
and read about the ones I’d missed.
Shucks, I loved you most of all!
Fort Apache and Red River
took pride of place on the page;
they’d eaten up my weekly wage.
I missed the Yellow Ribbon;
I hoped I’d be forgiven.
At the Rio and the Broad
(in a dicey neighborhood)
I atoned with films you’d done
before I was even born.
Western after Western
and tales of oil and whiskey
and scheming ladies, O so risky!
I hoped I’d be excused
when I compromised my muse
by adding well-built gals
to Duke and all his pals.
Montez, Russell, and Lake
made my hormones quake.
O I loved you, John Wayne.
I could feel your bashful pain
When the pretty lady roped you
and hat in hand you’d bow,
the furrow deepening on your brow,
and utter monosyllables plus “Ma’am,”
no longer a ram, more like a lamb.
O I shared you pain, John Wayne!
And still I loved you John Wayne,
your true grit and donnybrook,
your menacing brow, the look
that said, “Enough, my friend.
“This bull is going to end!”
You swaggered? (not quite it--
as if your boots didn’t quite fit?)
You took him by the horns and shook;
Plomp! Down went the snook!
How I loved you, John Wayne!
And I love you still when again I see
the doughty Duke on my smart TV
as much as Papa’s lone old man,
with fish chewed down to the bone
loved Joltin’ Joe Dimaggio
when the Clipper’s legs began to go
and he was hobbled by his heel.
John Wayne, you were the real deal.
as a child i often found myself participating in sadistic activities.
i felt my sins rotting into my body-
into my soul as-well my veins.
it kept my blood pumping throughout my body that i did neglect.
i protested against consuming meals as if they’d make me feel holy again,
sick i was.
the blood that clawed out out my skin begging for relief of this tainted soul.
the thickened red river that poured from my wrists-
spilled onto pages.
a paper about the “cleanse”-
i had in my now “holy” body,
“sickened” activities made me feel whole again.
as if the river from the wrists would fix the tears i wept.
if the bandages on my now healed wrists would fix the bandages on my tainted soul.
i had once had a lords preacher tell me: “the lord will forgive you for the things you have done to yourself”-
i did not need the lord forgiveness.
i had begged for the lords help-
prayed my tears away for a simple sign.
i wept my sorrows into letters for their lord for him to kill me painless,
if this was our god i did not want him.
the lord never watched me as i couldn’t fathom the idea of being normal again.
i was born like this i suppose-
hungry for the blood spill that would give me relief from my sorrows even if it was for a few divine seconds.
i sit on my cold floor the same ones i had once bled onto and poured my soul onto.
i write as if my sorrows are not lingering.
i write like my wrists are not bandaged and wrapped.
i write like this was a tragic past, like the light switch was flipped on into the dark room of grief but that is not the truth.
i weep onto the pages, my tears and blood based on painful past become the ink from my stories.
i write as if the ink on pages will rewrite the sorrowful story of my past.
i know it won’t.
i beg the pages to tell me i’ll be a changed women now.
they laugh as the ink spills onto the paper.
i tell myself i’ll write tomorrow instead.
The random swaying of the truck on broken roads roused me from my slumber. The same random swaying that had pushed me past the threshold of sleep. There were snow clad mountains till the eyes could see. Beautiful lush valleys with green rolling meadows and a merrily meandering mountain stream. God's abode? Yaks were grazing in the meadows, their plump bodies gyrating to an unheard mellow rhythm. I checked to see if they were wearing headphones and then laughed at my foolish thought. The road got worse than the worst that I had ever seen. I wondered if there was a word beyond worst to describe it. But the randomness of the potholes and bumps had an almost uniform quality to them. Maybe that's why I kept slipping into sleep. Sleep that kept interrupting my attempts at clear thought. But the broken fragments of my thoughts were nothing new. Despite being away from the comfort of my home, thousands of miles away, how is it that my thoughts remained the same. My life, my family, my child, my love, my loss, my victory, my defeat. Why was I so full of MY self? Why couldn't I transpose my thoughts into the body of that farmer there. What would he be thinking? Is he thinking about me in this broken truck, trudging along this broken road? Even in this remoteness, why couldn't my thoughts be remote from me?
I think it's the sound of an explosion that pushed me firmly back into my senses. But was I in my senses? I felt myself fall. I could sense falling into a deep space with no end, searching for a foothold that wasn't there. Where did the hills go? What about the meadow? The river? The farmer? I suddenly could see my thoughts going in reverse like a VHS tape being rewound and finally the flurry of images stopped and you filled the screen of my thoughts. That's when I knew I was dead
blood red river
a paper boat tumbles down
my baby's cries
Look closely, feel the harmless heat
enveloping black-diamond
petals in the glistening
garden of glossy geraniums.
There, sprouts rosemary dreams
from an untouched silhouette,
eager to be seen beyond
her perfumed pigments.
Her universe was sprinkled
with starry streams
of gleaming rays,
as she swayed to symphonic
serenades filled with hazel dust.
They may gawk with greedy
glares as wide as the night sky,
marking her with lecherous
objects that only please
shameless eyes.
She was never
in need of a sixth sense
to understand iron glances
that travel in nefarious packs,
with sugar-burnt hunger
washing all over her
unblistered flesh,
judging her concealer
as a manipulative facade,
seeking uncalled-for affirmations
that she never solicited,
misconceiving her thin lines
of red-river lipstick.
Her summer physique allowed
no consent for invasive intrusion,
yet carnal cravings become
unwelcome toxic trespassers.
Their immoral thoughts
believe shallow words
give them wanderlust wings,
while sinister stars in their sky
label her a soulless mannequin,
objectifying her
cinnamon-glazed skin,
sun-kissed hair,
and pecan-powdered~
caramelized voluptuous flare,
with their vehement
voracious desires.
Swinging penetrative thin blades
of opinions from miles,
oblivious to the fact that
she is the sanguine strength
that strolls in silver silence
across spiky swards,
suppressing the pain her
bones have endured with
every whiskering
whistle they wolfed.
There, if the mauve moon and
crystalline constellations look closely,
they would find versatile
mirrors of meaning
reflecting the times
she parades a smile too
comfortable to wear,
for they have concluded
her bed to be a shrine
of blenders and
overflowing thickened blades,
cursed by the biological
sins of Adam's ancestors.
They can’t find me for I hide in the thickets
I float faceup,
Lips breaking surface just barely
Kissing the air between my teeth
Is it my time to dive?
To die?
The rocks all around me scream
To be tied to me
My feet my arms
And the river it pulls I can feel it
Tugging my hair gently
Like I once wished a boy to do
And he did but he was
A boy parading as a man
But he’s why I’m here isn’t it?
To wash off the filthy fingerprints his hands left on me
The water dips beneath this useless waistband
I beckon, I say
Wash me, cleanse me
The cloth drops and I am almost free
Washing rape out of curly brown hair which surprises me because the hair on
My head is straight and red
Genetics.
And maybe it was in his
Maybe his father-
His poor mother-?
No don’t think about that now
His reason is not mine and
His excuses always dribbled like
Black tar from his lips
Pich stains and stays
Water heals and removes but
Not enough
The sopping bra is gone in moments carried off by rapids
I
Cannot see
But the listening gives me a different heartbeat to
Listen to
One that is not numbered
I will not die from his pain
I will end,
As I began
Stubbornly,
From mine.
The skin it touches water, touches reeds
I scrub his hands away
The pink grows pinker and the white
Turns red
I am bathed
I am clean
But not reborn
Not yet.
I dive to the bottom of
The lake, hands grasping through the silt I
Find a sharp pebble
Imagine my grandfather’ face saying
“This is not a good way to go”
I agree but agreeing with
The old is not
Enough to stop the force
The slash across my
Crying wrists
Crying red rivers down my fingertips
I will only be sorry to this red river here, tasting like
iron.
I would have liked a blue death, tasting like
Sky.
They won’t find me for I hide in the thickets
I float faceup,
Lips breaking surface just barely
Kissing the air between my teeth
It was my time to die.
John Wayne movies have been a thing of mine,
But my "Top Ten" I think divine.
"Rio Bravo" as number one I rate,
The "Duke" and the cast were just great.
"The Searchers" is a close number two,
His unique portrayal of a troubled character so true.
"The Quiet Man" is next in line,
I have to see it, come St. Patty's time.
Number Four would be "True Grit"
He won an "Oscar" for his role in it.
At number five is "The Shootist" for me,
The old gunfighter facing personal tragedy.
"Red River" comes in sixth I'd say,
From young man to old in less than a day.
Seventh to "The Sands of Iwo Jima" would go,
A reminder of the sacrifices our parents would know.
"The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence" comes in number eight,
"Tom Donovan", a portrayal of values and love just great.
"North To Alaska" forget I would not dare,
The role he played with such comic flare.
"They Were Expendable" rounds out my ten,
The action and heroism portrayed then.
But I have to admit that this ten was hard to come by,
As he made so many great films...to my minds eye.
"Wings of Eagles", "In Harm's Way", "The Commancheros" all are there,
Not to mention "She Wore A Yellow Ribbon" would not be fair.
Let's not forget his breaktrough role in "Stagecoach" when
John Ford picked him to be one of his "Top Ten".
Oh, I could go on and on about the movies he made,
But it was the American character that he displayed.
Maybe that's what is missing from our lives today,
A man that will stand for something, and lives as he'd say.
As movies for us are but a relief,
Especially in these times of grief.
"The Duke" was a man who lived life and the American Dream,
A dream that he captured, time and again on the "Silver Screen".
I've got me a woman, a sweet lovin' woman
So, "Why", do you ask, "am I sayin' goodbye?"
A cowboy like me, has a hankerin' to be free..
Free to be roamin' under sweet prairie skies
every once in awhile,
Even tho' I'll be missin' her lovin' and kissin'
and the sight of her smile.
I saddled my horse, knowing of course
That she wants me to stay....
But I kissed her goodbye, saw the tears in her eyes
as I mounted my pony and trotted away
I knew she'd be grievin', because of my leavin'
But I gotta have space with walls closin' around me
I gotta get riding, where fences ain't binding.
As I ride dusty trails, I'll be hummin' a song
"The Red River Valley", or some others I've known
I'll play my guitar, harmonizing with birds
While the crickets at sundown, know all the words
Then night after night as I lay by my fire
After cooking up bacon, and some biscuits and beans
I'll think of my life, and my home and my woman
About my 'lil' darlin', and 'bout what love really means
I'll remember the good times, forgetting the bad times
I won't sleep 'cause the moonlight shines in my face
With coyotes a howlin', and the rocks in my bed roll
I'm tossin' and turnin', and for my woman I'm yearnin'
When I'm done with my roamin', ...well, then I'll be home bound
Back to my sweetheart, where you know I should be
I'll saddle my horse....knowing of course....
That I'll tell my sweet woman, I'll hang around this time....
Until that old fever gets me, and I'm scratchin' and itchin'
Then I'll catch up my pony, throw on my old bed roll
I'll head for the mountains, smell sage on the prairie
And I'll gallop through the valley of the thick chaparral
_________________________________________
Past a peaceful day out Western Trail way,
Our lowing herd settled on coarse sand bars.
We hands bunched under prancing prairie stars,
Once clean grub tins and cups were put away,
For tall yarn desserts, dance, and campfire songs.
Lit by burning buffalo chips and sage,
Our campfire blazed hot, challenging the dark,
Holding at bay the prairie wind’s chill bark.
Night herd began with strums of a guitar
Backed by a fiddle and an Ozark harp.
Cowboys sang of Betsy from Pike’s sweet charms,
Dancing do-si-dos with scarves on their arms.
Two waddies circled our bedded down herd,
Singing Old Paint to the beat of horse hooves,
Echoing us boys’ songs by the fire
As coyotes chorus to the sparkling sky.
Past riding drag, eating dust all day
Worn waddies could cough up a few tunes.
Our homesick cowboy choir danced and sang
Then tiptoed to bed rolls for a few winks
Until our turns, on the down low, to croon
A sorrowful Red River lullaby
For trail weary doggies laying at rest,
Promising fresh rich grass in the Big Sky.
At the break of dawn, we were up and gone
Roping and riding; trying not to yawn.
A clear morning sky offered welcome news
No thunderstorms, floods, or frosted-up dews.
A stove-up drover that morn did advise
“Savor your quiet nights and be trail wise
For a cowboy’s work is never to cease
Before the railhead and cattle’s release.
Some year, long paired iron rails must appear
With barbed wire strands to encumber our way
As Progress closes up loved cattle trails,
Dooming open range to vanish away.
As the parched summer grass, we too shall fade,
Our names lichen covered on graven stone,
But breathing as legends we shall live on,
Riding trail bred tales our kids will hear.”