Etched name in silver reflects a man
engraved in a fight not his own,
a name i can run
my fingers on like Braille,
it is all i know —
of his uniform stained or how
the sweat of the jungle
may have flowed
between the stubble on his lip.
What could it have been
but a deafening thunder that rose
into clouds disappearing
as certain as smoke.
Category Archives: poetry
the way a flower sleeps
the way a flower sleeps when such nocturnal blanket through the blinds
gently folds the silky daisy petals toward each other
until the sun-shaped glory has become a half moon; it’s
the way a body folds in yoga
the way the cat curls its paw, with tufts of fur, over its eyes to block out
the electric hum of this laptop clicking, so desperate to know what
lives in those dreams of flowers and cats.
accomplishments of other people
relentless in their pursuit —
they, so stealth, bait
us with doubt, claw us with question.
it’s not enough to simply wake,
brush teeth and hair,
and sit calmly legs folded in the jungle.
the tiger waits, whispering, “you are all
too slow and too tubby and
too perfect to eat.”
stranger in the coffee shop (a muddy waters)
and in a sunken corner of the coffee shop
the man dark slumped over and buttoned
bottom to brim in black, stares at her
in ankle boots with such a heel, tapping.
In a fractured instance he appears
to her a tired blues man, a fortune folk teller,
and all around them the caffeinated air hums…
traditions on Christmas Eve
Christmas waits like gift wrap glowing warm beneath the welcoming arms
of pine needles hanging heavy –
inside the table is set, waiting by candlelight, and each flame preens
in a spoon’ s reflection, giving the impression of a smile.
Soon, with guided hands, we set the course of helgdad frukt soppa.
I’ll sigh like the cinnamon from the svenske kringlor rising in the oven,
knotted just how our grandmother taught us.
Dull Moments? By Alice B. Johnson
The small house, very much alive,
Wonders if we all are bent,
On making life some sort of game
And looks on with a deep content
At bicycles and bathing suits,
Bats and roller skates,
Bobby-socks and dungarees
And diaries and dates —
First tuxedo to appraise,
Bow tie to approve,
Clothes discarded on the floor
Everywhere I move —
High school year books, trophies won,
Commencement and a formal prom,
Phone bell or a door bell’s ring,
“Is it Jack or Bill or Tom?”
Corsages using up the space
That always was reserved
For more important things – like food –
For dinner to be served.
It seems to say, “Dull moments where
Life lifts its restless wing?
Peace is found in homes where youth
Knows no journeying.”
[taken from Where Childern Live (1958) by my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson]
selfish
hangs all glitter and shine
in the closet,
some of us wear it
as proudly as a real Gucci purse
notice how this year
these lights outshine
notice how this year
i take not one step for you
I Shall Sing A Song by Helen Bayley Davis (1936)
This poem was taken from the book of the same title by poet Helen Bayley Davis, copyright 1936. The book was inscribed to my great-grandmother in a beautiful black cursive, “From one poet to another with best wishes for your continued success.”
I Shall Sing A Song
I shall sing a song
Of my own making,
Of life, and love —
All subterfuge forsaking.
It will be the same song
That fools and sages
Have lived and died for,
Down through the ages.
What does it matter
That I sing alone,
That life has stripped me
Bare as a bone?
I shall sing a song
Of my own choice.
I shall sing it softly
In a brittle voice.
loss of an old man
we didn’t know
you fought in World War II
until the Taps was played
and the flag folded
and the regrets
piled up like so many
quiet moments alone.
lost obiturary card
Someone died. That much is clear.
I know from the Jesus
card in the puddle
on the street.
With enough rain – His face,
such mortal paper,
will streak eagerly
into primordial colors,
and someone, somewhere,
will reach an empty pocket
and weep.
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