Monday, March 16, 2009

Watching Stacey Waite Open For Dr. Bernice Reagon

behind me was a murder of cackling elders.
during the entire evening, they crackled their candy wrappers;
tittered; giggled; sucked their teeth and said "Oh, no!"

(especially when Jan was reading.)
they harumphed, groaned "uh, uh, uh"
and muttered about poems in which no cock protruded.

when you took the stage, I heard them shifting;
settling; roosting. You spoke.
and they didn't.

I saw a bridge building itself
that, in death, not even Sakia Gunn could erect.
under the eyes of frozen painted muses

these women recalled
passing; chewed on choices;
and were finally brought

to peace.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Seedlings

Some people say the universe sings a song. If you listen closely enough, you can hear the moon in its orbit. Perhaps I am wrong, but it sounds something a calimbas, xylophones, violins and a small wooden drum.

I have heard the Earth’s heartbeat. Sometimes it is a reassuring sound ~ something deep ~ like the moment my brain finished forming and I noticed the heartbeat pumping nutrients into my forming limbs.

Whether these things are real or not, I do believe everything has a song.

As the weather warms, our thoughts turned to the garden. Winston was so pleased with himself last summer. So, no cajoling was necessary. He has big plans this year. He knows what he wants to plant. Milkweed is high on his list because he wants to attract butterflies. But, he also wants pumpkins, beans, broccoli, basil, mint, corn, and the list goes on and on.

Last week, we planted seeds. The little peat pellets are a magical thing. When you pour water on them, they expand. It was his favourite part of the planting.

But, my favourite was observing how clearly he could hear the songs of life all around him. As he placed each seed in its little hole, he sang it a growing song. Plant and sing and plant and sing - until all of the seeds were snug.

With each packet, I read him the germination time. He seemed a bit disappointed that it would take so long. But, lo and behold. Not three days after planting, his seeds sprouted. He was so proud that he had given them such a good start. And he sings to the seedlings almost every other day.

We’ve discussed the science of why plants enjoy having a soft song every now and then. As much as he understands and nods his head. I think, he knows there is something deeper. He believes in his songs.

And I believe him. He hears the world's music. And I hope he never forgets how to listen for it.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Utterances

NOTE: These are exact utterances made by my son while he played a game called Noby, Noby Boy.

Scene 1

I learned that Boy could climb up anything when he climbed up a rainbow.

Cat can climb really well. Just like boy can climb up anything.

Boy has to stretch to feed girl so they can go to Saturn.

Look at the human girl standing on the floating turtle.

The people are always up.

I’m never leaving down here because of the people.

Look at the people running away because I want to eat them.


Scene 2

Want to see me go up to the clouds?

I’m flying.

I’m not flying, I’m falling. That doesn’t count for me. I tried to tell you, but, you wouldn’t listen.

(Singing)
But, I am mad at Boy because he is the cutest little doggie

He’s really a boy not a girl with little hearts coming out of him.

He’s not a girl. He’s a boy.

(Spoken)
He can only eat when he stretches.

Boy is missing! Oh! There he is, he’s right down there.

Okay, eating face. I call Boy eating face.

Scene 3

Want me to show you how I feed Girl?

I have to report my length to Girl.

Girl swallows the heart I gave her. It’s 879, 345,823 meters long. She grew! See!

Scene 4

Look Grandma can float. Run for your life, I’m coming for you Grandma! Grandma is by my house, but she can’t see me coming for her.

I got you Grandma.

I figured out a sneak attack for eating her.

Grandma come back, I just want to eat you.

Grandma won’t see me up in the clouds. She won’t be expecting me. I’ve been following Grandma all day. But, still she’s not running. She’s not hiding.

That sneaky little Grandma. She went into her house!

But, now, I’ve knocked her out of her car.

You can’t run. You can’t hide, Grandmas. I’m going to eat you.

Stupid old Grandma.

Where is she? In my tummy! I got you inside my tummy!

Better run. Better hide. I’m gonna get you inside.

Come here, darling!

Boy, come down, Grandma knows you love cookies. Come inside for cookie nookie tookies.

Bye, bye Grandma. I ate you all up.

Scene 5

I’m done with this.

Athena

this young man rummages through your
top drawer, fingering knickers, bras,
personal things I used to fold, put away

in that cloudy dark universe I painted.
to sleep you sang through insomnia.
and sunny days began to slip

into hunted nights. no longer owl
but snake busy chasing tail.
you’ve left behind

the blue moon bedroom,
the soprano bow with its quiver,
the hounds and heart pumping

deer. dryads are simple,
fragile, easily burned like mist;
tattooed by men and felled

with rings carved around their trunks.
at the edge of every limb, roads
with racing cars, gun shots,

mutilated virgins, crumbling temples.
and consider these forests: they have never
been forever. not the way you think

they should be. but, sit
upon your own scale
if you can find it.

in their own way,
sirens have always been
beautiful. still. stride your night;

sing down sailors;
or fade like your temple.
but, look before you cross.

NOTE: My daughter just broke her other wrist after completing rehab for the first broken wrist. I trust her to choose wholeness.

this heavy house

observe them drinking the laughter out of the air, smell
their vowels; taste their assonance and echo. I still feel

my favorites drinking my sweat, biting
my tongue, sucking alliteration and active verbs

from my pussy. the words keep coming ~
see this wrinkling brow; caress this grey hair;

fuck these fingers which keep typing. I am
tired of dead poets around my dining room table.

FRIENDS: I've been absent for awhile. Living life, observing deaths and evaluating the future. I wrote this thinking about the passing of my friend Brenda Moossy.