my grandfather's hand reach through the thick
steam clouds of America's great iron horses
strong, weathered hands covered in the black crust
of coal dust immune to hot water and lye suds
our fingertips have never met over the years and
tears that flow between the calluses and carpal tunnel
a daughter's freedom fight waged against the old country
rigidity and bigotry smothered the familial and losers all
yet so much of me is scorched by the railroad steel and
the Pennsylvania soil toiled by Germanic stoicism
i am he cupped in those hands that reach silently
he is me flowing through fingertips onto starkness silently
silent stoicism brands us through the centuries with
destruction stil to the familial with only the hope that
past century's lessons learned will last and at last
conquer the stubborn Attila the Hun barbarianism
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Mother Blue-Rewrite
much improved!
Mother Blue
Out over misery soaked visions~ “B.B. King” by Sterling Slumpp
I’ve sunk deep,
Deep beneath and I’ve suffered,
Suffered suffocation
Son of my sun
Of dreams unrecognized,
Dreams unrealized
Son of my sun,
I’ve shriveled under the crush
Of dreams deferred, dear son
Strangled by my own clawed hand of guilt
I said, strangled by my own clawed hand of guilt
Dreams deferred.
What do you know?
I ask, what do you know
Son of my sun
Of eternity swallowed whole
By the sorrow of deep-throated grief?
What do you know?
Yeah, what do you know
Of the heave, the gasp, the ache,
The empty bosom of a mother
A bosom pierced and collapsed?
Strangled by my own clawed hand of guilt
I said, strangled by my own clawed hand of guilt
Dreams deferred, dear son.
Have you felt?
I ask you, have you felt
Joy that scratches and scrapes,
Joy that clutches and digs
Digs ‘til her bloody stumps feel
The yellow brilliance
The radiance of dawn?
A dawn that’s but a glimpse
A flicker and back to blackness
Blackness, as her foe despair
Despair chuckles viciously and
Helps that dirty sorrow bury,
Attempt to inter joy forever.
Still, still and again
Joy begins
Begins anew
For she hears the melody
The harmony of hope.
Strangled by my own clawed hand of guilt
Crying, strangled by my own clawed hand of guilt
Dreams deferred, dear son.
Hope, son of my sun
Hope that sings a cheery do-wop
Hope that sings background
To faith that dances
Dances a polka, a twist,
Faith, cloaked in vivid,
Vivacious, passionate red inspiration.
Together, yeah together
They thump and pump and sing.
They sing, they dance a jig
A jig that tramples dark despair
And that seedy sadness beneath strong,
Strong, quick tapping toes.
And while they bump and sway
Joy’s bloody stumps reach again
Reach and clasped tight
Inside the blue electric jive
The tingling tango
Of faith and hope.
Guilt asphyxiated, son of my sun
I say, yeah, guilt? Guilt asphyxiated.
Mother Blue
Out over misery soaked visions~ “B.B. King” by Sterling Slumpp
I’ve sunk deep,
Deep beneath and I’ve suffered,
Suffered suffocation
Son of my sun
Of dreams unrecognized,
Dreams unrealized
Son of my sun,
I’ve shriveled under the crush
Of dreams deferred, dear son
Strangled by my own clawed hand of guilt
I said, strangled by my own clawed hand of guilt
Dreams deferred.
What do you know?
I ask, what do you know
Son of my sun
Of eternity swallowed whole
By the sorrow of deep-throated grief?
What do you know?
Yeah, what do you know
Of the heave, the gasp, the ache,
The empty bosom of a mother
A bosom pierced and collapsed?
Strangled by my own clawed hand of guilt
I said, strangled by my own clawed hand of guilt
Dreams deferred, dear son.
Have you felt?
I ask you, have you felt
Joy that scratches and scrapes,
Joy that clutches and digs
Digs ‘til her bloody stumps feel
The yellow brilliance
The radiance of dawn?
A dawn that’s but a glimpse
A flicker and back to blackness
Blackness, as her foe despair
Despair chuckles viciously and
Helps that dirty sorrow bury,
Attempt to inter joy forever.
Still, still and again
Joy begins
Begins anew
For she hears the melody
The harmony of hope.
Strangled by my own clawed hand of guilt
Crying, strangled by my own clawed hand of guilt
Dreams deferred, dear son.
Hope, son of my sun
Hope that sings a cheery do-wop
Hope that sings background
To faith that dances
Dances a polka, a twist,
Faith, cloaked in vivid,
Vivacious, passionate red inspiration.
Together, yeah together
They thump and pump and sing.
They sing, they dance a jig
A jig that tramples dark despair
And that seedy sadness beneath strong,
Strong, quick tapping toes.
And while they bump and sway
Joy’s bloody stumps reach again
Reach and clasped tight
Inside the blue electric jive
The tingling tango
Of faith and hope.
Guilt asphyxiated, son of my sun
I say, yeah, guilt? Guilt asphyxiated.
New Poetry
Communication With Children
Communication with children is
A drowning scream for help
Beneath gallons of contaminated waters.
It is Bill Clinton’s, “I did not have sex with that woman.”
It is the banner waving wildly on the USS Lincoln
“Mission Accomplished.”
Communication with children is
The picture in the dictionary of
The tail wagging the dog.
It is a “Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.”
It is the motto of the Chicago Police Department:
“To serve and protect.”
Communication with children is
The protection of a tree during
A lightening storm.
It is the unopened parachute with a small stain.
It is running with scissors on ice.
Communication with children is
The voice of eternity saying
“This hurts me more than you.”
It is the pure ecstasy of a needle in the eye.
It is the red heat of a bleeding hemorrhoid.
Communication with children is
A double fudge brownie, whipped cream topping,
Smothered with rich, velvety, chocolate ice cream―
For a diabetic.
Communication with children is
A drowning scream for help
Beneath gallons of contaminated waters.
It is Bill Clinton’s, “I did not have sex with that woman.”
It is the banner waving wildly on the USS Lincoln
“Mission Accomplished.”
Communication with children is
The picture in the dictionary of
The tail wagging the dog.
It is a “Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.”
It is the motto of the Chicago Police Department:
“To serve and protect.”
Communication with children is
The protection of a tree during
A lightening storm.
It is the unopened parachute with a small stain.
It is running with scissors on ice.
Communication with children is
The voice of eternity saying
“This hurts me more than you.”
It is the pure ecstasy of a needle in the eye.
It is the red heat of a bleeding hemorrhoid.
Communication with children is
A double fudge brownie, whipped cream topping,
Smothered with rich, velvety, chocolate ice cream―
For a diabetic.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Past family stuff
Where Were You in the summer of 1977?
1977 was the year Kunte Kinte showed the pride of his roots to the world. While my roots were ripped from tender ground, shook clean and tossed into the great salad of weeds. News from Utah was first since death penalty reinstated, requested death by firing squad, expelled rabbis and reverends. Chicago news was grim, complex, unknown. Young mother of two, widowed unexpectedly, abandoned by all including rabbis and reverends.
Adinamis Funeral Home, Western and Leland, overflowed with top hats and canes; royal blues and blacks; and strong, silent old-timer fedoras. July 1977, steamy concrete beneath crushed Kool’s and roaches; inside, I wanted only to fix his hair. I stared at handfuls of coarse Irish, German, Italian hair. Autopsy, mortician said. Cut off the top of his head, he said. Smirnoff called and I answered. We were inseparable lovers for the next four years.
1977, the 25th anniversary of Saturday mornings with Dick Clark; and Luke Skywalker left home to save Princess Leia from Darth Vader. Bouncy, swinging, and intriguing time, and I dreamed of a time he’d bound in the door to proclaim what a good hoax that was. Dreams of the striking face, the chiseled torso, conga drum hands, shattered by secret calls, and mob ties. World slowly crumbled, Supremes performed for the last time, Elvis died, and 19th nervous breakdown ricocheted off cerebral walls, while lustful father-in-law ordered Wisconsin retreat to recover.
Dreams lost, lovers lost, and children’s daddy lost. Innocence too jaded for loss.
1977 was the year Kunte Kinte showed the pride of his roots to the world. While my roots were ripped from tender ground, shook clean and tossed into the great salad of weeds. News from Utah was first since death penalty reinstated, requested death by firing squad, expelled rabbis and reverends. Chicago news was grim, complex, unknown. Young mother of two, widowed unexpectedly, abandoned by all including rabbis and reverends.
Adinamis Funeral Home, Western and Leland, overflowed with top hats and canes; royal blues and blacks; and strong, silent old-timer fedoras. July 1977, steamy concrete beneath crushed Kool’s and roaches; inside, I wanted only to fix his hair. I stared at handfuls of coarse Irish, German, Italian hair. Autopsy, mortician said. Cut off the top of his head, he said. Smirnoff called and I answered. We were inseparable lovers for the next four years.
1977, the 25th anniversary of Saturday mornings with Dick Clark; and Luke Skywalker left home to save Princess Leia from Darth Vader. Bouncy, swinging, and intriguing time, and I dreamed of a time he’d bound in the door to proclaim what a good hoax that was. Dreams of the striking face, the chiseled torso, conga drum hands, shattered by secret calls, and mob ties. World slowly crumbled, Supremes performed for the last time, Elvis died, and 19th nervous breakdown ricocheted off cerebral walls, while lustful father-in-law ordered Wisconsin retreat to recover.
Dreams lost, lovers lost, and children’s daddy lost. Innocence too jaded for loss.
Family Stuff
Finished the BA in December and walked last month--at 52 years old. Headed to Graduate school now. But more than anything there have been tons of family "issues" that have been informing my writing. And I HAVE been writing even though I haven't been posting. Poetry and thanks to "permission" from Stuart Dybek during a lecture, I've started on an autobiographical novel. But here's the most recent family stuff.
Mother Blue
Out over misery soaked visions~ “B.B. King” by Sterling Slumpp
I’ve sunk beneath and
Suffer the suffocation of oblivions blackness
Don’t tell me, son of my sun
Of dreams unrecognized, unrealized
Son, I’ve shriveled under the crushing weight
Of dreams deferred, dear son
Strangled by my own
Choked by the clawed hand of guilt
Dreams deferred, dear son.
What do you know
Of sorrows deep-throated grief
Who swallows eternity whole?
What do you know
Of a mother’s heaving, gasping, aching,
Empty bosom, pierced
And drowned by the floods?
Strangled by my own
Choked by the clawed hand of guilt
Dreams deferred, dear son.
What do you know
Of joy who scratches and clutches,
Digs until her bloody stumps feel
The yellow brilliance of dawn?
Even when it’s but a glimpse and
Back to blackness as despair
Chuckles viciously and that
Dirty sorrow buries joy forever.
Still
Joy begins anew
For she hears the harmony of hope.
Strangled by my own
Choked by the clawed hand of guilt
Dreams deferred, dear son.
Hope that dances a polka, a twist,
Hope that sings a cheery do-wop,
Sings energy who is cloaked in vivid,
Vivacious, passionate red inspiration. Together
They thump and pump and sing. They sing
And dance a jig that tramples dark despair
And that seedy sadness beneath strong,
Quick tapping toes.
And while they bump and sway
Joy’s bloody stumps reach again
This time clasped and held tight
Inside the blue electric jive of energy and hope.
Guilt asphyxiated, dear son.
Mother Blue
Out over misery soaked visions~ “B.B. King” by Sterling Slumpp
I’ve sunk beneath and
Suffer the suffocation of oblivions blackness
Don’t tell me, son of my sun
Of dreams unrecognized, unrealized
Son, I’ve shriveled under the crushing weight
Of dreams deferred, dear son
Strangled by my own
Choked by the clawed hand of guilt
Dreams deferred, dear son.
What do you know
Of sorrows deep-throated grief
Who swallows eternity whole?
What do you know
Of a mother’s heaving, gasping, aching,
Empty bosom, pierced
And drowned by the floods?
Strangled by my own
Choked by the clawed hand of guilt
Dreams deferred, dear son.
What do you know
Of joy who scratches and clutches,
Digs until her bloody stumps feel
The yellow brilliance of dawn?
Even when it’s but a glimpse and
Back to blackness as despair
Chuckles viciously and that
Dirty sorrow buries joy forever.
Still
Joy begins anew
For she hears the harmony of hope.
Strangled by my own
Choked by the clawed hand of guilt
Dreams deferred, dear son.
Hope that dances a polka, a twist,
Hope that sings a cheery do-wop,
Sings energy who is cloaked in vivid,
Vivacious, passionate red inspiration. Together
They thump and pump and sing. They sing
And dance a jig that tramples dark despair
And that seedy sadness beneath strong,
Quick tapping toes.
And while they bump and sway
Joy’s bloody stumps reach again
This time clasped and held tight
Inside the blue electric jive of energy and hope.
Guilt asphyxiated, dear son.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Mothers of Incarcerated Sons
October 2008 I began a free weekly writing workshop in Chicago for mothers who have or have EVER had a son in prison. I even received funding for the publication of the complete anthology titled "Mothers of Incarcerated Sons Speak~M.I.S.S."
The group meets at the Howard Area Community Center, 7648 N. Paulina, Room 2, every Thursday from 6-7:30pm.
I had several inquiries from mothers outside of Chicago who were very interested in the group, so I started MISSspeaks Yahoo group.
The group meets at the Howard Area Community Center, 7648 N. Paulina, Room 2, every Thursday from 6-7:30pm.
I had several inquiries from mothers outside of Chicago who were very interested in the group, so I started MISSspeaks Yahoo group.
Click to join MISSspeaks
Inspiration from Blaga Dimitrova
Yesterday I was emailed a link, something that happens ever so much with email--"check this out," or "we think you'll like this." Oftentimes, I just hit that delete button, as I'm sure most others do as well. Fortunately for me, I followed the link and was so inspired I wrote immediately afterward, something that hasn't happened for quite awhile, obvious by the lack of entries in this blog (or any other).
The link was to an Interview with Blaga Dimitrova’s Poetry by Farideh Hassanzadeh-Mostafavi.
It was an interesting article and a unique way to conduct an interview--by using the interviewee's poetry as the answers. I read the entire article and then wrote a piece of poetry about poetry, words and images that just came, lit with the passion of reading good poetry.
I Steal Lexes
1-3-2009
I steal lexes.
Deliberately plucked
from the cosmic garden.
Inspiration flows from the pilfered
imbibes me with the soul
of the owner, the owned and
the released.
As Prometheus
who dared to steal from the gods,
I too embrace idiom's fire,
happily scorched with the brilliance,
engraved with the eternal language
of those before, those beside, and
those in dreams.
I am frozen on the ice floe of
continuous sheets of slick, sterile
whiteness, only to be thawed
by the bristling and whirling heat
as meaning sprouts from the nothingness,
and Phoenix spreads wing over the ashes.
I steal lexes.
Format and syntax and metre confined
within Pandora's box, released at will to
express the last, the essential, the hope
that my revelation is dispatched refined.
Articulated with the reverence of a call
carved on the prison wall, a letter
written with deaths' hand.
I steal lexes.
Grasped and gathered by the muse
slave fingers, bloodied with the quest.
She is driven with the passion and lust
into the dark fields of babble to emerge
with blossoms and fruit that feed the
insatiable hunger of the master huntress.
The voracious feast begins, tearing asunder
the plant, discarding the weeds, the waste,
to reveal the succulent heart of meaning
that drips with the addictive sweetness of
unquenchable knowledge, absorbed and
discharged to the fervent masses who devour
and regurgitate the plunder.
The link was to an Interview with Blaga Dimitrova’s Poetry by Farideh Hassanzadeh-Mostafavi.
It was an interesting article and a unique way to conduct an interview--by using the interviewee's poetry as the answers. I read the entire article and then wrote a piece of poetry about poetry, words and images that just came, lit with the passion of reading good poetry.
I Steal Lexes
1-3-2009
I steal lexes.
Deliberately plucked
from the cosmic garden.
Inspiration flows from the pilfered
imbibes me with the soul
of the owner, the owned and
the released.
As Prometheus
who dared to steal from the gods,
I too embrace idiom's fire,
happily scorched with the brilliance,
engraved with the eternal language
of those before, those beside, and
those in dreams.
I am frozen on the ice floe of
continuous sheets of slick, sterile
whiteness, only to be thawed
by the bristling and whirling heat
as meaning sprouts from the nothingness,
and Phoenix spreads wing over the ashes.
I steal lexes.
Format and syntax and metre confined
within Pandora's box, released at will to
express the last, the essential, the hope
that my revelation is dispatched refined.
Articulated with the reverence of a call
carved on the prison wall, a letter
written with deaths' hand.
I steal lexes.
Grasped and gathered by the muse
slave fingers, bloodied with the quest.
She is driven with the passion and lust
into the dark fields of babble to emerge
with blossoms and fruit that feed the
insatiable hunger of the master huntress.
The voracious feast begins, tearing asunder
the plant, discarding the weeds, the waste,
to reveal the succulent heart of meaning
that drips with the addictive sweetness of
unquenchable knowledge, absorbed and
discharged to the fervent masses who devour
and regurgitate the plunder.
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