Category Archives: CHatham County

It is Calving Season

It is calving season

on the glacial field,

with groaning, writhing,

and violent births.

How massive, spectacular, and horrible.

it is

when landscapes are altered

by newborn weight,

releasing floods,

that drown

fault lines, failed lines,

sons and daughters

of the living God,

witnesses to

calving season

on the glacial field.

How massive, spectacular, and horrible

it is.


I Have Slept Too Long

I have slept too long,
and my eyes
will not focus.
I am not myself,
and I will,
no doubt,
be cranky,
for a while. No doubt.

Odd how
shallow dreams after dawn
steal the next.

Yet,
I could easily
return to my bed,
and restart
disquieting plays,
performed by the familiar
who act not as I know them,
who will leave me quite cranky,
not myself,
for a while.

Shallow daybreaks
steal the next.

No doubt.


The Goodliest of Lands

where we are and do not seem,

I will be buried

in the rich clay

of the goodliest land,

 

privileged

to have paused on this spot

during my wanderlust,

my journeys away

from now empty homesteads

 

privileged

to rest under

a Carolina blue sky

that I may touch

but never own.

 

a heavy debt

I owe

and shall pay

for my stumbling good fortune

upon the goodliest of lands.


On the Brink of Faded Beige

To the leaves that never drop from their trees

during blustery winters,

I ask,

Why,

on the brink of faded beige,

does a tattered remnant

hold on?

 

In Louisiana,

as a child,

I measured the circumference

of a dead baby’s head, which was also

a knot on the trunk of a large live oak,

which was also tombstone and grave

to a stillborn boy.

 

How gently the tree seemed to cradle the infant,

absorbing his lifelessness into her massive being,

gestating the once dead until his full term.

 

Perhaps,

refusal to release

rebirths,

repairs.

 

With a tight grip of justice,

Mother Oak holds firm.


Beyond Our Front Door

The result, a gruesome sight,
severed wings from gentle beings who toured the street lamps
all last evening.

I saw it all,

sturdy boughs on fir trees stressed
by weightless ephemera,
that fell off, attempted balance,
writhed, died.

I saw it all

through the window, throughout the afternoon,
eager beaks and full red bellies
suddenly present, then quickly away in search of more, more, more,

leaving behind the accusations of eye spots on sculpted chiffon,
the color of key-lime pie.


The Brave Tumbler

I was blown away by a great wind that came before a big storm
that was caused by a cold front that quit Canada, just like that.
And while high in the sky, I thought, “This might be okay,
somersaulting with leaves and blouses off the clothes line, not quite dry.”

On the other hand, dropping from the sky scared the bejesus outta me,
and I looked for a cloud with a landing strip, when I remembered my feet
were already planted deep in the ground for the next great wind,
caused by a cold front that will not quit me for anything.

A wall of ice, really, moving fast behind me,
making a small person like me trip-up, and go loop de loop de loop.

I would much rather fly high in the sky with Peter Pan,
take me some pirates as prisoners
before landing in Never Never Land
on just one toe, like the other lost boys,

Without cold at my back, and no tumbling with wet clothes,
just play and make-believe in another land.


Cathedral, 36 x 36, acrylic on canvas

IMG_0617


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