calm-ute

Traveling by car. It makes my skin crawl. I used to squirm on family trips, rarely playing car games or sucking myself into a gameboy tourney. Motion sickness. I must be by a window at all times. To watch the same croppings of trees go by in Dorchester County. To see disabled vehicles on the shoulder, its captives scratching their heads as they are suddenly static on a drive. For years it has just been me, my stuffed tiger, and Lazarus (don't you name your cars?) trekking wherever, whenever. That stationwagon has seen me through more than I care to put down for others to read. Let's just say I've cried in it a lot. And now, we are on the move again.
Middle of the week interviews. Relatively unplanned porch parties. Relatively impromptu minidates. One hand on the wheel at all times, as the axles bias left like a lazy eye too long present to repair. Five hours of radio and the faint aroma of antifreeze. I'm home for less than a day. Then must gas up and be on my way. I've learned to appreciate the scenery, the bad music, and the kindness of rednecks. Roadtrips have become kinda zen. Calm-ute.

into the summer

three storms, and another season
on their curtails, seizing and rattling.
in part devil beating his wife,
in part violent overtaking
of an ordinary moment:
arriving within dusty blue clouds,
with lighting so very near the cars
driving to their destinations.

decaying, dehydrated groundcover
is at once saturated to the point
of a small flood, and curious
earthworms are tossed
onto the roads, writhing.
sizzling asphalt, which
bare feet should not touch,
steams itself when the rains
have passed on.
so it is that such a gracious
month should bow and exit,
no longer struggling to
thwart the heady air.

unsilenced ties

blue-blooded as the veins in my arms;
jazz as the pulse tapping in my neck;
Southern as the sweet tea I don't drink,
this land, this place is in me.

tall as the cornstalks in mid-season
growing along the road;
fair as the cotton pluming
from bushes yet to be harvested;
kind as the people who ask
after your day, but they don't know you,
this land, this place is in me.

red clay farmers in the foothills
of southern appalachia,
living in the middle of a small town;
fresh water planters and plantation dwellers
along the coast and progressing north by west,
these people, these lands are in me.

when I have tired of the heat
and the feel of sweat on my brow,
I have gone elsewhere:
but the land stays with me,
as it is who I truly am.
I find myself putting a conch shell
to my ear: the air
breathing like the sea
in the echoes of its chambers.
I find myself taking walks
on windy days, just to hear
the breeze pass through
the arching pines, whispering
that the sound will always be.
these sounds, these comforts are in me.

crickets indoors

Buddhist contention includes the respect of insects. In essence, if a person can learn to appreciate and love a bug, the limits to their openness and love of other things in life will be few in number.

I learned to kill a creature from the outdoors much earlier that I learned to capture and release. When I was told that crickets in your house bring good luck, I laughed. They are the ugliest things you have ever seen, and they do not chirp as when they are groovin in the grass. They just look at you, and you look at them. Their inverted longer limbs enable them to bound upward, which can be freaky.

I have not experienced such a repeat issue until moving into my latest abode. After a year of unsolicited visits and the use of a sturdy shoe, these crickets have left in remains with the trash. This was my fashion until March, when I let the discovered indoor insects live. Two nights ago a cricket on my office wall and I exchanged pleasantries, that is to say, we looked at one another and he went on to do whatever crickets do. Today, I got a call out of nowhere from a job I am hoping to attain, filling my heart with giddyness. Yes, I am giddy. Was it the cricket? Or was it the power of positive thinking? There is something to be said for believing that while everything might not happen as you like it, good things will still come your way.

crossing the bridge

last night, before i awoke at 3AM
questioning my choices, my impulses,
i was enclosed in a fierce dream:

the road upon which i was driving
became a bridge, angling heavenward
so steep, so terribly steep.
other cars were speeding along with me
faster, ardently faster.
to add to this scene,
people were also jogging in the lanes,
as swift as the traffic,
holding their own.
i was looking at these joggers,
and i became one:
i saw myself distinctly
running with all of the fervor
of my passionate gut, wearing
a yellow jersey and a fix'd gaze,
running the race of my life
as they say, no holds barred.
but, as i turned to see
where the road, the bridge
was taking all of us,
i broke through a simple barricade
at the crest of this rollercoaster hill,
and soared downward:
my journey's path still
under construction, and
i'd been in such a hurry
to get somewhere.

i felt gravity reclaiming me
and i tried to ease the strain
of being pulled one hundred stories
or more, into the deep,
cold purple river.
i braced myself for impact,
hearing the clap, the crash of the water
before sinking into it, my eyes
and nose filling with fluid.
i gasped, and awoke.

what will be will be

tempt the hand of fate,
and tear the story from time.
eat the fruit before it's ripe,
and gain sickness in your gut.
try to control a simple act,
and send him running from you.
what will be will be;
the future's not ours to see,
que sera, sera.

stay the course you're traveling on,
even though you lament
more than you cheer.
relish in the moment,
and do not squash new growth
wishing this or this or this would happen.
your pace is the rhythm of life,
not the pounding of your heart:
for you will drive him away,
like the others who did not stay,
if you do not embrace today
for fear of tomorrow.
what will be, will be;
the future's not ours to see,
que sera, sera.

the greenway

as much as i go on about this city, i found my little eden within it. featured here, in the late afternoon, is a favorite haunt of mine. this greenway, which wanders around a big old cemetary and spills into a national park, has been a source of solace and inspiration to me. poems have written, friends have been made, and good conversations prevailed within the hour or so i take to walk. the trees have shifted me through every season, and the kindness of strangers has drowned out any self-pity i might have been entertaining when i laced up my shoes to go walking. call me sentimental: i don't care. i love discovering places and keeping them in my head when the rest of my life goes into gloom. every place i have lived in or visited holds a walk i have taken.

i can hear the train

i'll hear the whistle blow as the train crosses the tracks, on its way to someplace.
i'll remember my first home on the farm, above the line
and through the blue ridge.
i can hear the train passing, its weight subtly echoing
and quaking the ground,
like an old friend come and gone:
my earliest memory leaving a smile on my face.
i'll be gingerly awoken in the night,
as it passes again, before dozing once more.
i can hear the train laborously barreling,
and its prescence makes me strong
to think of where i started and what i've become.
i'll awaken, smile, and sleep again.

there is no gravity in my head

i chase fancies
like dust particles in the air.
where do they settle?

the day spins over my head,
taking me where it may.
i worry myself into a stupor
over trivialities, hoping
real troubles will
solve themselves.
they have given me
gray hairs, and a frown:
why should i care for them?
i'd rather chase fancies
and let the day take me
where it may.

a future revised

when you love someone enough
to know their soul,
to say one word to reach them,
then they own a piece of you.
the foremost thought,
the tip of your tongue,
and the most vulnerable valve
of your bleeding heart
belong to them.
when you love someone enough
to let them go,
free in the world
as they will be,
then they take you with them.

i had a dream that we were talking again:
i had a dream about you and me,
and you had a dream about us also.
trouble is, neither of us will dilute
to run clean in those ideals:
our differences stain the fabric
of whatever we hoped to make.
let's try again:
i had a dream that we were.

cupcake

i loathe cupcakes, having spent 20 hours this weekend in their near-constant control. a big round of appreciative applause to the men and women out there, baking them, icing them, putting them into little plastic containers, and washing away caked icing from their forearms every day. i once told a friend that cupcakes would make a nice alternative to the wedding cake. oh, no ma'am. observation retracted.