I am but one voice raised
against the din of media
the obscenity of superfluous
the mania of material goods
of too much information
and too little empowerment

I am but one voice raised
in a howl against Golgotha
in a sea of poets Damned
in the dark of blinded angels
in the very intimate details
and the flash of time and effrontery.

I am but one voice raised
in a world that would have my silence
against the shrieks that demand my blame
my ears wounded and bleeding
my voice pleading the cause of comfort
for those trapped in horror and punishment.

I am but one voice raised
and I will have my life and say
though it is all I have to give
I will sing it to the heavens
I will have my “Yea, Verily,”
I will part the walls of Hades

I will be my own Persephone.

1927

He was thirteen when he died
and his great delight was horses.
He had a slow and steady hand
with a plow at twelve years old.
By the age of nine, he had four sisters.
Slow to read, he learned by seven,
and at four, still sucked his thumb.
His gait was sure at two,
his strong fingers gripping edges.
Their first born, and a son.

1944

He was a soldier now,
his uniform reflected in
a sea of foreign blood,
and his seed spilled inside the legs
of a dark haired girl with eyes
too large and melancholy.
He wretched at the thought of his wife
rocking back and forth with worry.
He strayed from her this night only
the bourbon too weak to cool
the heat of a morning
when death erupted from his hands.

1990

He sat at his great-niece’s graduation
shifting on the wooden bench,
squinting at a blur of blue and white students
walking towards uncertain futures.
The youth made him weep
though he could not remember why
as his papery hand spindled over
a last patch of pale hair.

I turn
and there’s this girl
in hot pants across the street
slicking orange tint
on her glossy mouth

She’s over the top
but so is my music
percussive and heavy
like the shimmy of breasts
in the summer light.

It was written during
the November of my infirmary
a swirl of near death
and morphine laden dreams.

I had traveled down the Mother Road
stumbling on broken cement
and misspent gravel
as weeds grew over the eyes
and out of tthe nostrils
of zombie like doctors
with their mute nurses that
listed down grassy hallways.

My Pakistani lover was recalled
and lost again even as
his curried mouth blazed
and retreated on my
sickly white skin,
and the red barn where we made  love
was burning.

In one poem, I had become
a statue, moss covered,
anchored to a desk as
my body turned to stone and wood.

I mused over the toss and turn
of a friend’s body over mine
and the curve of her delicate hips
as they rocked  with abandon.

I know its somewhere in this house
beneath a couch,
in a pile of unopened mail,
in a shelf between a Bible and
a dictionary, or perhaps
sentient with my hallucinations
it has vanished
choosing death over existence
because it hurts too much to live.

Background: I came across this today and was going to toss it out. It wasn’t completed, and rather silly, but my husband liked its sort of “slice of life” quality and encouraged me to finish it. I rather like the way it turned out, although it is still…well… silly.

Revenge

There it sat on the ledge of the deck
a can of soda
cool and refreshing
waiting to be picked up
and drained of its nectar

as I reached for its
bubbly effervescence
a bee landed
on the aluminum surface
dipping its body
in the sweet brown liquid

I cursed at my misfortune
and waited for it to scurry
as I stewed in my thirst
and it flew, finally satiated
the little body heavy
with sugary carbonation

there was a hum and a slice
of air molecules being parted
and a gratifying THWACK
of plastic meeting wood
The thief was dead
and my revenge satisfied

Returning to Me (after a month as a patient)

I’m back in my body
my brain floating inside my skull.
I’m through will ill-fitting paper gowns
and politely averted eyes as
cold sterilized air exposes my bottom.
I cast off politeness,
no longer at the mercy
of matronly nurses who
withhold shampoo and bedpans.
I’m back to bossyness
it is business as usual
even though my
is yet unsure.
I’m back to the Rocks
with a hearty “Amen!”
I will eat solid food
at the table of my choosing
even though the sugar is missing.

So much has happened since my last blog post.  I’ve written much in the way of poetry as of late so that will be forthcoming.  Here are some highlights:

1.  In November I nearly died.  I found out I have diabetes.  To make a long story short, I went to the hospital with severe abdominal cramps.  I had an infection in my pancreas because it was working to hard.  The hospital did some tests, and I had a bad reaction to one of the dyes they put in me for one of these tests.  I almost lost my kidney function as result.  I missed a month from work and it took me almost three months to feel like I had my strength back.    Needless to say, I was happy to bid 2008 adieu.

2.  As a result of item #1, I have felt a tremendous need to get back to my creative roots.  I hadn’t  written poetry in a while and have some new stuff to share and also felt like I wanted to sing, Sing, SING!  So I auditioned for an opera three weeks after getting out of the  hospital even though I was extremely week and not in my best voice ever, but it was something I needed to do.  Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised to get one of the leads and it was so absolutely amazing to be on stage again.  I can’t even describe it.

3.  In keeping with this vein, I am doing a concert of all Broadway tunes on June 23 as a fundraiser for my church.

4.  I also am in the process of starting my own opera company.  Nothing fancy, just a black box sort of company that will focus specifically on chamber operas with smaller casts.  I’ve picked and almost completely cast the first show we will do (The Old Maid & the Thief) and production is set to begin next March in preparation for the opening in May.

So that’s what has been going on with me.  Please let me know what you’ve been up to, if anyone at all in Xanga-Land still remembers me.