The end of hate based on conviction of hope - letter to an unborn great-grandchild of a gestating future (my attempt at an Sestina);

 

The end of hate based on conviction of hope 

- letter to an unborn great-grandchild of a gestating  future 

(my attempt at a Sestina) 

Dear Great-Grandchild you may soon learn about a time of convict-

ion - a time when the  young danced in the streets belief powerful -great

were the beat of true hearts, searching the horizon for oncoming play 

They dressed in vestments and tapestries of each human tint of race 

was a surreal time: plague of politic, hate and, a sudden come season 

of reason a -feet twitched to march, to dance and give voice 

For overwhelmed by hate -throngs turned to hope with inevitable voice 

yearning for choice,tired of log jams and fear, near came a stir to convict

the naysayers of hope that lived in castles of salt, a vinegar season

As a rising tide grew to magnificent height -rose a wave never as  great

there were those -children, all ages, of this new wave, who ran to race

others in castles, denying disgrace, who chuckled  as at a comedic play 

Yet,through the land came a stirring, a deep dipping graceful plie 

and small children and oldersters began a low humming voice -

a voice continued to grow one to one- stretched and ready to race

there was singing and talking long into the night as the castle convicts

refused to see light or the song, or the tide rising salt sprayed and great 

beginning the seminal inflection point where hate just fell out of season 

The old-timers stretched and spoke of long ago tales season-

ed, their time in the sun when they waited for reasoned fair-play 

about  how time after time - disappointments were deep and great 

as they marched, carried signs, gave speeches and sang in loud voice 

as many, yes tis true, were killed and too few charged, less convict-

ed-ucation was twisted and chunks of history gagged and erase/d

drained and defaced the blood, sweat and tears - white washed all race

whilst mamas of color held their breath when their boys came to season 

fearing police sworn to serve and protect would find reason to convict

with conviction, as prisons and coffins filled with colored foreplay 

of a continuous fucking that continued day after day, but came a voice 

of choice, for yes dear one,flaying by color crept from humble to great 

Finally that humming, that thrumming grew loud and far great

joining threads torn by hate to a grand tapestry falling with g-race 

and up to those cloistered castles - even there was this strong voice 

of this choice kind of end times of privilege, now gone rot of all season, 

the land underfoot glowed with a blood earned tinged umber dis-play 

castles crumbled to sand and blew irrevocably away in convict/ion 

Without  a trial needed -hatred - a forgotten convict  -silent and great 

dear child, happily, you cannot grasp foul play based on hate and race 

Lives rode a long ago season -arrived at free choice - Listen to my voice  

On waves of aquamarine

On waves of aquamarine

 

at twenty – found myself in a white dress

father at my side – in an alcove heading

down an aisle that had nothing to do with

who I was or what I felt and no –there was

no little one pushing the walk – simply in-

explicable inertia at least inexplicable now

things were different then – I was different

then – went along to get along and there I 

walked – every road has a reason – this one

led after several months of the blurry groom

finishing service duty to a honeymoon – one

of those packages advertised on Thirty-Fourth 

Street, NY at Liberty Travel. The Virgin Islands,

almost aptly named – three islands one sleepy,

one with ‘night-life’ and one in the middle – 

I, a would be hippie Goldie Locks chose the 

“just right” middle – deplaned in a pale linen

sheath and Jackie O sunglasses in St. Croix

and as the doors opened was sucked as surely 

as Alice down the rabbit hole into wonderland.

I was home – frangipani filled my head – my

heart slowed and recalibrated a new rhythm 

as I walked down the plane steps I shook off shoes – 

in love with a place in a way that excluded my shorn

headed compatriot with the matching ring and his

distinctly different and wildly mecurial temperament.

But, that was that road – patently perfectly different

from the ticky-tacky houses of surburbia lined up 

on Long Island or Scarsdale that I foresaw with

chilled foreboding marching me onward on a conveyor

belt to my eventual plot in some tree laden stone garden. 

I had escaped … and stay I did, we did, - the marriage

surviving on the nectar of paradise – the brilliance 

of crimson flamboyant blossoms, bougainvillea and

crystal waters, friends with sail boats and cold wine,

crayfish pulled from the water, a job offered teaching

little children, eventually a baby of my own – a huge 

German Shepherd dog that ran free as childhood Lassie

a perfectly pointed Siamese cat rubbing my ankles -

sitting on a terrace nursing the child and watching

swallows swoop at sunset – uncaring when corrected

that they were bats after all – day after day unfolded

each presenting another gasp of agape wonder at

postcard beauty … as the baby stood and toddled

and the fellow with the matching band – sometimes

lost it and smashed something or needed ice for

his knuckles when they met my teeth – everything healed

quickly in the clear salt water, in the laughter of friends,

folk music on guitars, reggae dancing barefoot in the streets,

steel drums, and motorcycle rides through the rainforest – 

until he grew radically restless and needed to leave – began

the drumbeat that grew louder minute by minute, month by 

month, until suitcases packed I walked the plank to the plane 

into the open arms of family who mostly, but for one never 

understood why I had chosen to stay away – 

Every road has its destination – that one to inexpressible beauty 

and fruitfulness seeding the implantation of certainty that there 

was always another way, another road – another time -  

The matching ring cast to the wind with its wearer -violence it seems

does not melt easily in the cold New York winter – replace flamboyant 

blossoms with bare limbs of scrawny trees – in one of those neighborhoods 

escaped for just enough years – and one cannot help but see what is plain –

Another road, books, and libraries, papers and writing, trains, and teaching

teens, listening to the uncanny wisdom of a small child growing into the man

I knew he would become, friends, cold white wine on summer beaches, walks 

in The Village near grad school and more grad school, rushing home to sweet

little boy hugs and games, snuggles and hot chocolate and marshmallow snow days and when he visited family, allowable lust, oh that allowable consummated consummate lust. This jiggling path, from folk to disco, from fairy tales to Faulkner to Freud side by side with motherhood, and more big slips of paper for framing, letters to trail my name. Finally, a friend, with a centered center, unexpected love,

ready made children, a birthed book, and another and another with my name on the spines - This forsaken, forced upon road, this just long and windy enough road to build a career, a life, and feel the poetry of Caribbean warmth flooding veins in the coldest of days – moving forward on new roads – fed on with wisdom of that first footfall placed decisively on a path that felt right – continuing on all the others – that followed, all the others that continue to flow – to flow as clear as the crystalline confidence of the Caribbean sea – rocking me to tomorrow trusting in the path.  

 

 

                                              This beautiful valentine heading created by Linda Law 

PKP's POEMS FOR THIS YEAR'S CHALLENGE .. 

I hold the door open -until 

you safely pass in your chair 

dignity earned

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

once whirled a ten storied library 

believing could, should, inhale, mostly all...

Not nearly.

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

colossal crash-you lay 

limbs splayed in hallway - 

a lifetime passed

until you move

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

beyond hurt, shock, pain, 

the minutiae of mess, rises

the magnitude of missing 

You.

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

I will sit with you by still waters 

my breath quiet, calm, 

even -

When .

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

I shall be your sponge drinking in each drop 

you rain, soaking never saturated

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

I shall quietly seek your needs and fulfill each in anonymity -

as universal intervention

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

I shall leave your spit on my face 

feel the rivulet as venom recedes

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

once I strode confident in all I knew 

until I slipped -

into your shoe

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

I trace your hands cobalt veins 

fingering but a fragment of 

all they held

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

I leave writing desk - lock the door - 

adjust mask - carry carton of food -

there

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

Your ways are unfathomable and 

I am but a wader in unknown depths -

wondering

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

The time for stiff upper lips’ softening 

is as they part in unmistakable recognition

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

we sit - a circle chairs spaced wide apart 

eyes bright above masks jumbling  possibilities

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

From cinders rose 

an invisible murmuration -

floated o’er that crowd 

a rumbled - Never Again

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

Hate tickles the fancies of some 

while others are busy planning dances - 

hold on

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

from grievance to gratitude 

a persistent barefooted walk

mindless of gravel - eyes on 

horizon

💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

MUSING ON THE MUSIC

Buffalo Springfield – For What It’s Worth 

fresh showered air

his shirt over bare 

breasts – drifting -

the future as smoke –

sitting on my knees 

framing the world on

his bed – 

college 

nights

~

Pink - What About Us 

tear stained blood

hips sway in heat

beckoning beckoning

forward pulse pounding

wayward fairytales -

mocking happy endings

the surge sudden pounding

as surf in tsuami of found

power – discovered 

~

Get Up Stand Up – Bob Marley

Soft summer sand dancing 

night frangipangi air –iced

anisette in salt-sandy hands 

hair tossed – slapping hips 

pulled, pulled close – at sea

edge together hips bang – 

feet moving together – 

licorice on lips –tomorrow 

a given born in the swaying 

night 

 ~

 Billie Holiday - Strange Fruit 

fruit long past rot on 

ancient gnarled trees 

click clacking bones  

flesh rip-plucked long 

ago –fetid malevolence 

floats steamy –echoes 

of breath choked in 

magnolia – swaying

drifting –drifting from

poplar tree to city street – 

strange fruit – no longer 

strange

 ~

John Lenon - Give Peace A Chance

bare feet stomping 

turquoise anklets jingling 

below breasts high and

free, naked under sheer

cotton soft as baby breath

tambourine keeping time in 

heartbeats – together hand 

claps – clarion voices joyous

flush with youth and power

sing as we pass the wine- hand

to hand- bare feet stomping

the pace of the certain future

A long stomp – the beat goes on

in marching memories of feet 

flying backward and forward 

as the tambourine continues 

to play – the young guys 

dead or almost –wanted 

it right then –will take

it now –torn hearts 

beat in unison – 

for a simple chance - 

lottery tickets still 

available. 

Tonight

Hi all ... I've heard from many that today was a particularly difficult day - too many are unable to conceptualize unfathomable numbers and the surreality of the current pandemic is raising all sorts of anxieties, fears, and understandable concerns. I'm not going to sugar coat or give a silver lining - however there will be many positive changes that come along as we go through this time. The world itself which had been changing to a more virtual template - has had that time-table escalated - people confined to their homes are discovering new methods of word, interaction and entertainment - more to be said about such things at another time. What we, all do have in abundance is what we have always had, an indeterminate time on this spinning blue marble, and the ability to structure our inner world as we see fit. To that end .. I wrote a quick piece about that malicious fellow who seems to be tapping on our windows and encourage you ... as follows:

Tonight, as all grows quiet and the house is clean and perfumed with disinfectant, denial, and determination
Tonight, as thoughts are corralled away from numbers and predictions, misinformation and unpalatable truths -
Tonight, the ever present fellow waiting at the end of the carousel ride grins and taps on the window and it is up to
each one of us to recognize the face and draw the curtains, lower the shade, or give him but a passing glance as we continue ... the only difference tonight is drawn in our collective shiver...and inhaled in our united deep breath ... as we continue dancing our individual dances, turning from that fellow lightly tapping on the window pane. He has always been out there - Give him no mind when he simply announces his presence - Continue to ride your ride, dance your dance, sing your song...the end for any and all is, as always has been, indeterminate. We are all in this, and always have been, in it together.

Brave New World

Brave New World

I sit in solitude with
the love chosen long
ago – when the world
was an endless horizon
and we young of limb
and longing ready to
leap frog across lily
pads to find our path
I sit in solitude with
the love chosen –
selected now again in
sacrosanct synchronicity
of spirit soaring, cast
as a shimmered fish
line back across the
lake of traversed time
to a simpler time
tasking together
hearing the insistent
and ignoring the
tapping of that
macabre fellow
tapping at the
window – as we
pull our shades
of self sufficiency
sing a song of
what will be
toss aside the
outside, embrace
the within, together
secluded, safe,
basically brave
new once again
locked in
love

Fool on the hill

Fool on the hill

sitting atop the mountain of my own
making lemonade from lemons -
blowing soap bubbles in the air -
sitting atop the mountain of my own
making mouth music humming off
into a forever peace to come ... this
fool on the hill .... resting on velvet
grass - inhaling deep sweet - breaths-
loose limbed, relaxed, and wise
as any fool on a hill
can ever be

They sang

They Sang 

They sang and shouted danced in the 

streets and in pastures of mud - tore their 

clothes and slung placards, marched barefoot 

flowers in their hair - large guns low on their hips

planted farms, blew buildings to dust, bore babes 

They sang and shouted, sat in, stood up for change 

...and it came ...never fast or furious enough to calm 

the fever dream, never fast enough to comfort the hearts,souls and standard bearers of those who danced and marched and believed with shining eyes, strong bodies, clear vision that the future was theirs... The future is now - ... Now, the singers voices rasp, 
the shouts muted, the dancers tempo misses a step here and there, clothes cover bodies that chill, the ground too sharp or slick for tender aching soles , their flowers are now in gardens, tended with care, the babes born, now grown and flown, the shame 

and passion of violence a misted dream of wonder... They sang and danced and believed with no reason to think other , that the rolling future was theirs ...
The future is now ...and as is the way of all time not

waiting with soft gentle arms to embrace their struggle or cheer their dance  .... 
The future was never theirs, and as they watch others dance and shout and raise their young throats in joyous expectation ...they know, these discarded, silvered sagging soldiers of fortune that the future is always alive, consigned, grabbed and held fast in the now of yesterday, today and tomorrow ...for the future of the present  is the fickle fantasy of believers. The future does not wait. Soon the dancers of the past will nurture the soil - the dancers of the present will miss a 
step or two and still others will take their place ...This is 
the way of the dance, the delusion, the dedication, the 
decision to do ..all one can do whilst one can, to act 
whilst blind to the curtain ever ready to fall in graceful 
folds upon the performance as new actors stretch their legs,  in the wings of time.  Ready to leap into a future they truly believe, in passionate innocence,  will belong to them. Dance, march, fall together in fervent passion ...the changes will come and others will dismiss them as lacking..but that is for later, for now, they all dance, the former sidelined in disillusion, or satisfaction,  abandoned  artifacts revered, reviled or ignored, the current crop gathered  in coalesced linked arm embrace ...the not yet born kicking their heels in their mother’s wombs ...ready to be born to a world they will create and a future they will never own . 

and the show must go on...

and the show must go on...

Change the channel ...

that low buzz, buzz, 

that bell that buzzes

burrowing beneath bone

that slow burn beneath 

the skull as they file in, bow

heads, sign to each other,

murmur sugar smiles -

this sea of black cloth over

shifting bodies, seated in

style of the living come to 

buzz as the ground bursts 

into the void - they lowering

the plain pine box - as she 

stares - a small fly in the vast 

Universe wrapped in a seemly 

daughter disguise - staring, 

beseeching in silent scream - 

Change the channel ....

Change the damn channel ...

please. 

To my fellow worders at at the new Poets and Storytellers United

Hi all - Just wrote a congratulations and happy happy - hmm something is going awry and my comments are not posting.  Nevertheless I am thrilled to have found you and I'm sure this lost soul will be found by you as well. My original glad tidings were a bit more eloquent perhaps but I hit send  and whoosh off they went... Since I see my link up there and I'll try posting my comments here:
Helllooooo ... here I am again... Welcome to the birth of Poets and Story Tellers United - delighted to have found you and the new site. First of all Happy Healthy New Year and looking forward to the whirl of words and wordsmiths and most of all the wonderful camaraderie of sharing, and caring for and about one another our impressions and expressions on and about this wonderful spinning blue marble we all share.  Cheers m'dears.