a pregnant breath

[ Of tRUMP and Wall]

some say his will is stony thick
others opine his head is the brick
I say the skunk's own spray does  stick
and follow like a foul wind, a pinprick
to the most tender part of the heart

a real wall from hateful imaginings

[in a dream of God,]  a sea from her tear
verged sadness and filled Heavenly air
dimmed the gleam, stirred her anger
a gaping festered wound, from there
to the most tender part of the heart

the ears-fill of hateful rages
babies put  in barbed  cages
crossing arid stretches, bone dry
the dire stress- watching children die
for lack of water that we pour to ground
a libation to the  fertile surrounds
of hardness from greed  that cares less
for life than the gains of contrivance
when the sacred helm is a mere connivance

and the enemies appear to have its ear
in darkness, we stumble in blind fear
and America mourns, laid bare, betrayed
wrapt in own arms, confused dismayed
the strong woman was  bound in her sleep
drained by evil, blessings faded. we weep

but hope is an arrow that pierces deep
Tomororow speaks with a pregnant breath-- a new start
to the most tender part of the heart

winter ku

watching stars with you
a meteor falls--
 into a slow kiss


 at the frosty window
a vapor covers
words of love

in the fireplace
warm memories--
dance and lick the air

i kneel because

Some kneel when the anthem plays
some shed tears when the spirit displays
its unmistakable art-- indelible impressions
when the humanity within rises to the skin
and we sense all--
even the motes and specks in the airs above us

The teenage boy faces his last vision of life
a smoking gun and blue steely eyes, that see a monster
where God put a precious child
so  I kneel-- not because of the song
or the honor of heroes long gone

kneeling because i cannot stand
my thoughts are unstrung, count  nine when I feel
the hard concrete of Missouri Streets
and seventeen  on the ragged pavement of Chicago-- on and on
choked like the breath-less moments struggle in NYC
or the little Cleveland boy in the park  with the toy

There is a little feeling, a small sting
that swells like volcano fire... yet I know
for all of its enormity, it is the way justice speaks:
in a small voice and at an unexpected moment-- it is
a pinprick for the heart of the heart.

a trace

 

bright blue
the eyes seem to twinkle light
makes a corona in the corners
of her squinting  smile; the low moments
bring a wide calm stare-
the little within girl asks- does the world not care?

it is that blend of joy and heartbreak
the meaning of her life's song
her spirit does not lift, it soars
her heart does not crash, it splinters
bit by tearful bit- she is a little broken now
the triumphant path is one that gives and takes away
we know this day through the echo of days left behind--
but that kept a trace, a splinter.

now, across seas and against odds; she is
where she wished to be- a little town with vast opportunity - 

In Bloomington, and
In the cornfields that surround the town
where she has set her roots anew
i think of fruits that crackle in the night
growing as we  might watch and see
the rains that fell on happy or sad days
tended soils in similar ways, life feeds
on every morsel, and time
is the  patient farmer.

wing of night

When we make a flower of the moon
and dance upon her streaming hair
to a rhythm of night song
we feel the closeness of living air

Losing self and  busy day's care
at home beneath a longing gaze
we pause... touching as lover's may
 words and breath billow the embers
of warm lips and fire in fingertips;
we touch and bend darkness to a wish--
to be, to stay just this way,
far from dusk and dawn,
beneath the wing of night.

We share the delicate ways
love lingers as if the sweetest scent
on the hand that gifts a rose

seasonal rites

Four crows and a busy red squirrel
mine the rain soaked yard
for rising worms and  fallen seeds
the Autumn brings change

The red maples are first to show
colors of the seasonal rites
while ragweed and goldenrod
tease the eyes and bring on sneezes
the undeniable coolness settles overall

There may be fewer trains on the south side
as the beans and corn harvests dwindle
and the lush green canopy that danced
to songs of summer winds  will gracefully
begin to bare arms and shoulders

Nature plants and man harvests
a world of bounty for all of its parts
calling crows, chirping crickets, and cicada shrills
fill the constant chorus

and a cooler wind invites a layer of cloth
to wrap for the end of this year,
In beauty, bounty, and a wondrous abundance

I  begin my long yearning
for spring- again

summer-ku

on his charcoal stick
the model's face...
waits



between the elm and sycamore
the ancient moon shows...
 a new face



moon bright-- beaming light
washes away the stars... Saturn turns
around red Mars, and I am lost
in the search for hunters and bears



in heavy night air
the old man smiles...
into the west wind


between the cricket chirps
the midnight train...
rolls to Kankakee

Arrogance and error

In Bloomington Illinois the streets have names
of old and scarce breeds of trees

on Walnut street i see dried black shells
on Mulberry Street white and dark
females with fruit
and on Locust street the honey gold flower
drapes the day and perfumes the night air.

In Franklin Park, the old, historic homes have
wide-trunked elders, somber trees
they have seen our arrogance and error
and love us still

on my shoe...
yesterday's chewing gum
last year's maple flyers

My lover and I cannot touch hands
when we hug the old red maple near home
it is a tree
with muscular arms
and broad shoulders-- like Sandburg's Chicago

Coming back after a walk downtown
from the empty Sunday night streets
I enter through the side door
and not one of other three...

on my computer screen
a flying ant crosses...
the Orion nebula

edges of the inner sea

Kneading bread, pressing pliable mounds
folding and pressing more; veins swell
sinews ripple- fighting the cramp of fatigue
I have made too little

it is a simple thing to bring
yeast to flower, salt and soda
to thrive on sugars. The nascent loaf
swells from within as i roll and pat
then begin, kneading bread

thoughts roll in like sun drawn tides
pulled from distant edges of the inner sea
stormy turmoil and placid windless times
i see ''sturm und drang'- i see the painted ship
on a library wall, i see the albatross
and now the fingers sink deep and make folds
that will soon hold heat and shape
the essence of the loaves; kneading bread
i can heal,
forgive,
forget,
and i can slowly exhale
the pent up day

august night

her face was warm like the hot August night
as the humid air trapped bare skin;
gave it no place to breathe and cool-
my lips tasted the salt and sweet sweat

my mind consumed traces of starlight
from her nape, and lifted her hair
as a blessed burst of night rainy air
touched us-- as we touched--
poured whispers into sudden breaths

an unwanted piece of time slipped in
as the three AM freight train howled again
a lonesome sound that now
raised a passing thought of pity-
that someone could be too busy
to linger in the heat of this night

an interpretation of November

it is a breathless wait
a paused exhale beneath
a focus on so many dear things
a kaleidoscope of dearest Loves and tenderest loss
juggled by a clown

now with his bozo crown
he balances on his head
while upside down his menacing frown
is a devilish grin

we perceive truth
through a prism of joy and tears
through years of wrong
evolved to right; here
the clown sneers; speaks day unto night
and the virtue of salty water for thirst

it is a breathless wait
testing sinews of faith
when the people called
in the name of freedom
shall breathe free again

from thee to me

In the north side of the cemetery
stands a row of green trees, Dutch Elm
and a row of Sumac, with a lordly old Red Maple over all
the graves near that end are old
the well kept grounds disguise that
few if any slow and grudging steps
have fallen there in years.

Rising above the green meadow of memorial stones
a tall gray silo and block-style buildings with no windows
they make asphalt there, and the labyrinth of
road sized tubes and shafts all wear
battleship gray, there near clouds and above final rests
I slow my purposeful drive, it is hot
and the tree leaves are cupped waiting for the storm
the excited air touches my skin with electricity.

I ponder-- so many memories here
in this quiet place neath the gray silos,
and the rail spur behind the trees is full
Tank cars and asphalt carriers waiting to
re-line America-- they wait patiently to be filled-
liquid stone and the old silent stones face the scene-
rail cars and busy men, rushing, rushing
I think the old stones might say-- take your time,
on the path from thee to me;
haste is not a virtue--
and I think of the coincidence-
stellae - stele

Precision

so, there was a message of wisdom and care
that touched the cores of those that dare
the magical search for Love

like drops that fall from windy grays
and drift to ground in countless ways
yet meet with precision of hand in glove

attracted in the myriad cycles of life
the circling vulture, the pregnant wife
desert flower, songs of a nesting dove

Deep care can leave the spirit bare
greed is the need for them to stay
happiness is the other's heart, such strife
tragic chance, magic dance - a search for Love

Beneath the whispers

Remember the moon
In the wintry night, colors vapor
As we speak; it seems
The air holds the words
The heat of breath and passion
In the closing space between us,
Remember; the moon
Paints the tile roof line
with an ermine cuff.
'Neath bright planets and dimmer stars
I can imagine
the ear of God, listening to their defiant songs.
Like love here with us
they burn  hot in the frigid cold.
Remember the moon
Above cloud, on skin, and beneath the whispers.

Dreaming with God

I sat with God, in a dream,
and She touched my forehead
and I fell into a sleep within sleep...

and then a bright faced Angel appeared
in the form of woman, young red-hair
her gleaming smile incited the air
between us there was an electricity
the circle unbroken- trust and sincerity
we spoke of things past and yet to be
time was not of measure passing fair
was simply a feeling, knowing, being there
we laughed at memories like aged wine we'd share
in slow sips and savored delicately
recalled the Bard - bread, wine, and thee

the experience was all that i desired
when suddenly her shining eyes took fire
stuck to the sky, aflamed and inspired
look, said she, " it is HE",
and a form of a man descended slowly

His face blooded, body rented and torn
and the Angel embraced his tormented frame
i knew Him at once and breathed his name- Forgiveness
captured my thoughts and all in His eyes...

"I did this for you"

ROOSTER LOVE

Take me to the Red Hen

I have rooster love for the Inn

Hospitality is a gift, unlike freedom.

The seat next to me, belongs to anyone

Free for the taking, but so am I-

will I remain?

Will I sustain the unspoken welcome-

Do you care as I do?

Because I can feel what I see the long shadow of hatred

The will to inflict pain cause misery- for those that – like me

Are the sun-kissed children of God

Will I smile at messengers of dread?

Will I sit with evil?

Gratitude is the truest beauty

It is the humble thanks for the greatness of Love

Take me to the Red Hen,

Let me feel gratitude, and I too

Wil not sit, break bread, with evil.

seance on a watermelon

Deep green on deeper green
the heft of a verdant globe
a mystery awaits discovery
as the thin blade splits the shell into a seam
and the wet redness so inviting
succulence for the eyes
amidst a throng of expectant young palates
it is an urgency that begs a pause--

for a ripe and sweet melon
is an occasion for philosophy.

So the state of the world
descends upon the room
as the sure blade parcels red delicacy
a lesson in whom we trust, and what we ought to be.

It is the fortune borne by gray hairs on my chin
and  furrowed brow that now
I am a fount of wisdom gained through pain.

So I say:
the world is full
of liars and cheats, not trusted
as much as the worth of a spitted seed;
their need is power and an endless want haunts their eyes.

You my gathered legacy
must remember; You are what you must be...
true to echoes that come when you whisper to your heart
You must be the man  and  You must  be the woman
that fills the mirror within your soul

Glad eyes above smiling lips
as now, upon the generous stage
on which a purposeful life is played,
the melon is so much sweeter.

trumpet man

 the bulging veins in his neck, raise my eyes
to the bubbled jaws stretched  threaten to burst
the furrows making rivulets of perspiration beads
and the hands on the mother of pearl tips
two keys down
fingers hovered above
the Herculean strain he made to keep
the mighty horn...in a whisper

the sentence begins slowly and evolves
a question then a riddle..
and slowly he takes us down the page
line after line of sweet intensity
until we once again arrive at the beginning
and slowly, surely..we turnaround 

Kanye and the tools of ignorance

four hundred years...sounds like a choice,
a master of ignorance owned his voice,
and I can feel the moans of souls

that prayed and wept, tried and died for this day
when their children could be so blithe
and ignorant of pain

So I speak, as one that honors the past

there is yet
the unbroken circle of me to thee
your broad backs that lifted me
above the chains, and let me see
the horizon, the human victory
when a Slave master's words of liberty-
a shell of worlds born empty-
until you breathed it...to life 

for  readers - many are from other cultures and nations than the US, can use  a road map to  the ideas in this piece. 

1. The main idea here is that a well-known Black artist joined with Trump and  at about the same time denounced the idea of African slavery as a choice by the slaves-- they wanted to be slaves.

Chattel slavery was a global criminal enterprise based on murder,kidnap, torture, rape and false imprisonment. For centuries, millions of Africans were worked to death- for billions in profits. 

2. The Slave master's words refers to Thomas Jefferson author of the Declaration of independence

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal..."

3. "tools of ignorance"  is a phrase that I credit to Bill Dickey, catcher for the NY Yankees. There is disputes about the origin of the phrase but no dispute that Dickey said it, and that he was a great Yankee.
© an hour ago, H. D. Moore   

the meaning of a day

The celebration of Mother’s Day

Has faded into a feeling

No longer the impatient rush to gifting

To brush aside- the many lost chances to show

The Godliness within, a small gratitude

For a great gift; the present is consumed by moments

She bent to lift her child- grown and grown distant

But never far from her dearest thoughts.

Truly it is a feeling now, connected

like the jigsaw of bricks in a wall

and the meaning of a day- Mother’s Day

grows as time plants new seeds in fresh furrows

I remember a season of Love,

And the way she made an eternal Spring

overtones

listening--
some moods rise like tides
pulled to obey the moon
and  attend the  constant beauty
of her changeling face 

it can be in the descant fills
between the meaningful lyrics and my memories
it's more than  ascendant major chords
the overtones and sure rhyme end --no,
it is the space it made
and left...with you

lungs

the wall of machines behind me
beep-beeped with every skipped breath
a swallow or yawn sent an electronic chirp,
that grew more insistent
until i complied and in- or ex- haled.
They have given me a new lung and
a new level of resentment for noise

The human face -a lovely woman,  so young
so responsible and duty bound, with syringe and IV
tubes and charts she resets my path
to rest and morphine-sleep
as I close eyes
her loving dark eyes remind me--
you can see Angels  before you die.

Narco-dreams come with a buzzing ear
spots before my eyes and floaters,
the air is alive with motes and specks
so many little dark things
as the bright lights fade into hazy rings
i fall...

near a flame-red wall with steps of stone rising tall
above as far as only  i can see
the next landing and a fire bowl
whipped in the winds
i climb, as there is no choice
the wall comforts me against a fall
the wall now turns amber then gray
and red again as the fire bowl lights each etage
i look up and there is more of the wall
and more fire bowls-- the wall
grows like my fear and yet -- it calms me

Somewhere else some time other I lay in cold morning mists
a flat roof with thick ochre  cover
like skin, this warm clay
gathers sweat in the morning cool.
I am determined not to move
as the sun rises behind me and whisks water away--
the clay begins to dry then wither, and now ..it peels
Such quiet.. i don't breathe.. listening to the paint die
I hold my throat in  lock-- until
they beg me to exhale-- the noisy chorus rises unceasing
Chirp-chirp-chirps me back to breath.

little epiphanies

like a flash of lightning in the dark still night,
we see so much by the brief stark slash of light
we see the deep meaning of little slights
that add weight to each minute of every day
for millions to bear, like an unseen scar
from an invisible wound

a little epiphany...and I shudder
in the thought that we have yet to see,
so deeply and so many,
the hurts she has born,
the thousand cuts to the lost children,
and the strange fruit in Southern trees---
the little epiphanies, yet to be

The Dreams

The Dreams

His blue overalls never tied,

One strap hanging on his dingy gray;
he moves silently and with purpose.

His face always a-slant, brown skin never a smile

He is a large mound of a man.

[ a purity of spirit wears He
like a cloak upon his broad shoulders,
if he a warrior of the Iliad be
His worthy epithet would speak of quiet grace
and the wives and children with happiness
for the men He'd saved]

 Never still, as He blinks

Into one brass ring challenge after another.

He is deft, oddly focused.

The brass nut matched perfectly to the brass screw

 All over the house in so many sizes

Carriage bolts to eyeglass rims

Always he is there matching and tightening the bolts

But nowhere as assiduously and concerning

As the great sliding file cabinet.

Some say His mind is dim—to me, there is an inner light,

a being content to flourish in his world.

[For faith comes when there is doubt
it pierces like the  burst of dawn
that dissolved the solid wall of night
 as if it had never been]

The mahogany wood panel 

Has a centered and ornate handle

and so many brass screw heads

They make a pattern – if you let your mind step back

Step wa-a-a-y back, it is star cluster

No…the Orion Nebula—bright young stars

Gleam as if on their own 

The great file sits in quiet shadow—it is a quiet place.

~ The next Dream~

The great file with glistening brass screw heads,

The gleaming mystery sits ajar

As I pass I stop involuntary, the air gone missing

I see within the drawer a woman’s face in profile-

She has dark hair and eyebrows, the brown skin is soft

and seems somehow new

“it’s His Mother..” my host speaks to me at last

“She was about to die—and He placed her there—

She is not gone and she is not here—she rests”

I turned to ask the first of a cascade

And I was alone again—until He came in

Adding a new brass gleam and carefully tightening it 

He gently, lovingly closed the drawer.

~ The last dream ~

I sit at the table, a quill and ink my tools

The flickered candle breathes as I do

A slow and steady state—and I wonder

Why it is I that must divine

The life within God’s last tear

The universes that hang in the wells of her eyes

As the last feather floats towards the floor

The end of her patience- the unimagined

Fall

I raise eyes from my task

And he has returns with a sparkle and a matching ring

He adds this latest gem and leaves – the drawer is open

And I see, fluttered eyes, lips that move…

My host springs forward to open the drawer.

Now, the landing below - barefoot in basement hard cement

on stair my alabaster host, her long white hair- stare at me as she

Is the crutch --- Mother walks now

Unsteady but smiling- step down by step down

- Decensus Averni Facile-

And now Mother sits, skin a glow 

and He scurries down with flowers and starred eyes

Mother at a bare wooden table, She gleams—

My host and He go upstairs; leaving excited sounds—

I turn to Mother

She is younger—she is un-aging

 as I watch, time flow backwards

In her hair, skin, and eyes

She is young -Mother,  now girl-Mother—

My lips open to exhort to all-

“Come see this—she is going to heaven…”

Sweet child, on the wings of Love

~ Denouement~

in the morning when I woke

I had a lump in my throat

A pain in my chest—I felt empty

The dream was gone and fading-

My dream, was un-aging, going to heaven

And God’s last tear—remained on my pen

In the endless wells of her eyes.

Sweet child, on the wings of Love

Light carries you into boundless realms

In time and space you fill a place

Ordained for you

before the first feather, until the last tear.