The Spring Will Come Again (Alice B.)

Another piece from my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson from her book “Where Children Live” (1958)

The spring will come again–
To every war-torn land. Winter’s gloom
Will flee each hill
Where children still
Will seek the violets that bloom
Beside a country lane.

The spring will come again–
Shell craters will be grassy hollows where
The quail will nest
And wild fowl rest
While lifted wings of swallows there
Will brush the gentle rain.

The spring will come again–
And stately trees will leaf and shield
The trunks stripped bare
That mutely stare
Across bleak meadows that will yield
A wealth of golden grain.

The Goodbye Party (John Mackey of the Baltimore Colts)

The Goodbye Party

While some were swirling drunk on the dance floor,
Holly cried goodbyes into
empty beer bottles and tipped wine glasses, and
half-eaten cake,
some smeared on her jeans.
She was in disbelief of
such a dreamy move to Key Largo
and
John Mackey of the old Baltimore Colts was
signing autographs.

The song was “Satisfaction” and Ron
clutched and gasped like Jagger back then
and sang it from the floor dirty.
He didn’t care.
He had already slid across it with Coco and Sylvia in a dance
that seemed primitive and animal and
private except for obstinate clothes. We were all watching mouths open.
It was really just another exhibition. He had already swung across the rafters just to make the crowd go “Oooh” like
I imagine all the young girls said when he was
twenty-three.

Holly grabbed the microphone. Over the hip hop,
she cried “Thank you, oh, i love you” to those
still hot jiving on the dance floor, fast and boogie feet,
and holding each other up with hugs and clapping for Holly.
She didn’t think about the move,
only the flashing moment,
the blood bursting in the arteries of her heart from the heat of it.

Ron slow danced alone
and friends thought to steal his keys.
Holly slurred more goodbyes to the scattering crowd of ten.
They would miss her in the morning,
after the hangover and back in the reality of it all.

John yelled “Touchdown”—
his Alzheimer’s making the tavern seem unfamiliar
and the field
much closer and more brilliant.

Now that I have a Window

Now that I have a window
it seems I am aging faster.
I resemble a family member who has
already died.
I see the sun set and it drops into
the dirt faster every day.
I imagine that is me. I am the sun,
scorching orange fingernails
scratching at the dusky sky
trying to remain relevant.
And what if this time,
there is no morning?

But then,
after the dark night there are
blushing hints of sun. I may be my great aunt reborn.
I am the promise that
the universe crackles at its tips
into yet another big bang.

Look at the man walking, cold breath rising.
Look at the trees bare to their necks.
It is winter…
but only for now.

The Silver Ring (Alice B.)

A poem from my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson…

The Silver Ring

Within my palm a ring of silver weighed
The many years that marched in swift parade,
As treasured memories it stirred today–
Small silver ring with trinkets laid away.

Once long ago, my daughter, you possessed
The silver ring within my palm now pressed–
I see again your wonder at each move
Of finger where it made a gleaming groove.

How strange to think, the long years through,
It waited this day to return to you–
A silver ring and memories that linger–
I wonder– will it fit YOUR daughter’s finger?

…It fits my finger. I have only this to say:

how to explain?
the words could have been mine, but they’re not.
they cover my mind
with disbelief and astonishment
that curls the corners of my
Cheshire grin.
how can this be? I read on
and on and it is all so familiar.
a déjà vu of structure
and metaphor.
it sits heavy in my gut, a premonition
of thoughts—
this will not be the end of us.

Burn-out

Burn-out

I am flowers dried in tangled hair
and tarnished stars in smudged eyes.

feel that gravity;
feel that pyre burning higher.

for years, we passed around the white and green
while the bottled brown took a turn.
the crowds looked delightfully soft like a
pillow of arms and encore lighters
and I spun dancing into my conflagration.

“Here, scattered to the wind, are the last remains of ____
May there be rest in peace.
May God save the soul from the flames.”

of my name, a gentle breeze.
of my black and white friends, only ash.
sleep on the lawn and rest in these arms.

Born at the Wrong Time

Born at the Wrong Time

One summer, I saw a Texas-style Paul McCartney
in a dark mahogany leather coat
slurring to Bob Dylan’s “rainy day woman”
outside the full moon at a wrangler bonfire in
Colorado.

Last night, I saw a gray haired woman, four feet tall,
in full length tattered gown
swirling in her mess of beads
and her hands in the air like she was
summoning back
the 60’s.

I saw myself tripping on the old Baltimore cobblestones.
I saw myself drunk with Janis and having a grand old time.

Science Fair Project (for my grandfather)

Science Fair Project: How to anodize aluminum

Meet at 210 Charmuth Road,
to the house hidden in aging oaks.
Grab one carrot cookie and go
down creaky wooden basement steps,
pass the antique hair dryer chair,
the wood shop littered with hand cut toys,
down the dark and dusty hall,

There he waits.
Pans of chemicals set up and reflecting our
faces in their sheen.

Before I was born,
there were the late nights, the trials-
mistakes, creativity, mistakes.
Testing all the variables,
days passing to weeks, seasons dusty with neglect.
Did he ever doubt?

He didn’t.
Follow the patented instructions
he knows as
sure as he knows every anode,
every alloy, every wrinkle of the metal
and wait for the results.

As the aluminum changes in the bath
so does the light. The glow in the basement is
from years ago,
my memory of a middle school
science fair project.
My grandfather patient
while I strain to understand.
It is his life in the process.
It is our work there in the morning together
that changes the aluminum,
it is his blood in
that hard and durable, corrosion resistant, permanent coating.

I know I am older now, but is he?

He is that unbreakable spirit, that hard determination,
that iron will.

(RIP Chuck Burrows 10/25/08)

February (for my old dog)

I’ve got a cat in my arms here trying to help me post to this blog (she is not all that helpful)! It makes me miss all those animals who kept me company over the years, especially one little dog:

February

The night before, the ice fell in sheets from the sky and I was a child.
But in the morning
I awoke to sun that glistened and glowed and melted
the way out.

I skated in circles through my parent’s house,
frantic to pack my life into trash bags and move on.

She sat curled in the snow, watching me.
She shivered skinny from not eating.
We should have carried her back inside but
we were all so busy moving those trash bags.

In that still winter quiet, in her favorite month,
I went out to her.
I crouched down to touch her face.
I said goodbye, turned to leave.

When the melted ice froze that night,
I was in a white lonely place that smelled of new carpet.

She dreamed of snow on her tongue.
She was waiting for her old dogs to finally
take her home.

Gloss

Gloss

If I was the woman
in the gas station convenience store
sweeping up the dead leaves,
cigarette butts, dirt
and bugs that accumulate over the week,
what shade of lipstick would I wear?
Deep red to surprise
those drifting passerbys
who assume by my oversized dressings that I’ve grown too tired for
movie star dreams;
Or a softly generic pink
to match the slight flush in my cheeks
from the new cold breezes and the faded wall shades
and the dullness of simple chores;
Or just a gloss,
barely discernible to all but me…

Yes, with the gloss I imagine that
every time my tongue reached out in habit,
I would taste a faint stickiness of strawberry flavoring
And smile inside.

Saturday Night Turned Sunday

Saturday Night Turned Sunday

In that ether
of day to night to day, you twisted into
my bones with a quiet embrace
while candles burned out
their existence in the corner, flickering
their shadowy tongues on the ceiling.

Earlier,
we were mouths pressed to Jamaican cigars.
Our voices drifting towards a lone street light
while our lips smacked with red wine.

Later, there was the
reaching out; the touching that sent shivers
through my thoughts and made loud promises like a
bright neon skyline, or a half smile.

The next day, though,
found resigned whispers from the ceiling fan,
soft morning light through the blinds,
impressions of lips on empty water glasses,

and a hand slipping hopelessly away.