Knowing that the soul lives eternal Gives the heart a glow, and the mind Rests on pillowed fluid dreams. Fields of fresh notions perfume The summer air, ripe with fervor.
The silent morning plants fresh buds Of rose-tinted possibilities, rare With the shining eagles of freedom. Flags planted by the sea wave In the noon-glowing sunshine.
The salt of lovers’ tears sheds Its flavor in the savoring evening. Meditating on the Divine Belovèd, Chela bows listening for the music And the whir of the Celestial Motor.
Mighty armies of angelic forms Gather Chela in their gentle strength. Powerful healing flows into her being Spreading through body’s heart and limbs Making whole each ravished cell.
Saving her soul becomes the Chela’s Only mission in this fallen world Where minions carve their names Upon unblinking stones to feign Recollection in the fog of memory.
In Memoriam Helen Richardson June 27, 1923 — September 5, 1981
Through astral reverie, I visit your essence, Lingering alongside that of your beloved father— The grandfather who escaped this earth prison Before I was sentenced to its concrete and bars.
You are the same small brown woman with black Hair and eyes of fire that flash, imparting to me You intuit I am near, perceiving you both—my first Look at the Greek grandfather I never met.
Our Greekness on this planet has led Us back to a logical legendary ancestor— A strong Spartacus whose love of freedom spread Even as he perished like Christ on a cross.
But you are a pure American South woman And if any Kentucky woman deserves the title Of steel magnolia, it is you, who through a frail Body still attests the strength of a Sandow.
Your ethereal mind reminds me of the day We saw those two turtles come into the yard. Standing over them, we marveled, and I will never Forget what you said: “If we had shells like that,
We would be protected from the dangers of this world.” And I felt that I was in the presence of a wise master. It was only later that I realized the full impact Of what seemed a simple yet deep message—
We need a protective shell even more to shield The heart than the head, for it is through the emotions That we inflict enormous damage on our souls. I am Blessed and grateful to inform you I finally understand.
In Memoriam Helen Richardson June 27, 1923 — September 5, 1981
The moon in her hand Sits silent as the soul As her body quakes For a fist full of coins. The tomato vines Cling to morning dew Awaiting the first nudge Of sun on summer skin. Her heart grieves over Pennies of the world Rendered joyless and dry By blackguards in mask. The moon in her hand Revolves as the silent soul’s Ray of light pierces the veil And sinks the darkness.
As he curls up beside me on the couch, settles into steady breathing, his ease of comfort flows like a polished sonnet. He has mastered the art of comfort.
While I cook, he perfects his begging craft. Taking food-bits off the ends of fingers requires precise placement of teeth and tongue. He’s mastered the art of eating.
Some say he’s cowardly, but he’s just careful—— The artist’s eye and ear perceive the world to be a dangerous place, so he’s crafty to run from loud noises and sudden moves.
Some say he’s dumb, but he’s just deliberate. He wants to keep body and soul together and retire a well-matured craftsman.
Unlike Blyian poetasters, he takes his art seriously: he has learned to simplify: beg food, bark, and sleep sleep sleep.
“A person who discreetly farts in an elevator is not a divine being, and a man needs to know this.” ―Robert Bly
“My life failed on the very day I was born.” ―Robert Bly
His poetastry sucks ink and rorschachs paper: it’s a windbag, a kite without a string, prose in broken lines, camp and cant, bilge, blather, and poppycock. Its diction is a harlequin with a thesaurus.
He misinterprets dead poets whose sharp skills scalp his sacrilege. He’s a shyster ego-tripping up the ladder of the layman’s ignorance of what poetry is all about.
His fame lionizes lame ideas. His thoughts burn like a straw fire. He’s a tin man yellowbricking Oz.
O heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth’s returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best. —Robert Browning’s “Love among the Ruins“
I. A Father’s Love
Twisted vines hem him along A sun ball shimmers on the tarn The hill globs the valley’s tongue Morning bends over the barn
A ribbon of light cuts through the dark The bridge hitches the road And now he hears the red dog bark And readies his heavy load
After spring fuses the lilac bushes And all sweet love is pining He’ll breathe a sigh that never pushes The twisted veil from vining
Then night will gather him in her arms While the red dog will be straying Over the bridge that fastens the charms That fetch her soul to praying
II. A Mother’s Love
Rosemary, basil, sage Tomatoes growing on the vine Thyme in her purple blooms Fat, round mushrooms
Creatures gather in the coven Black eyes light the night Stirring the air with zest Pulling the bread from the oven
Beating the drum, swirling the broom Blue veil sweeping the living room Standing stone still before the clock Listening to the cradle knock
She draws your heart across her mood Listening for your silent nod She thirsts to be well understood Before the day of burning sod
They cannot give her What they do not have As their tortured souls Tout the grave
III. A Brother’s Love
He failed to appear But I feel I know his anguish I have seen it in the eyes Of many men and boys
I think I know his confusion As clearly as my own But he never bullied me And I love him for that
IV. A Sister’s Love
Cotton candy at the fair Bubbles popping here & there Little princess decked in pink Unicorn bobbing in the drink Never Never Land on the moon Raindrops shelling lost pontoon Donkey honking up the train Scarecrow yellow-bricking brain
V. A Son’s Love
A chicken & an egg go for a walk Two chickens return & split on separate ways
The moon spies on the earth For the sun who sends reports To the eye of God
The tree of life stands on the hill Birds tweet songs in the branches Then lift & scatter across blue worlds
Day & night the marbles roll Respecting gravity’s need To hold tight to things
Grace & beauty tangle As the wind lashes ashes From the urn of hope
The storm subsides Mothers fade & animals flee
VI. A Daughter’s Love
As a calf loves a horse As a zipper loves a button As rain loves an umbrella As a nose loves an ear As a spider loves a cat As a shoe loves an earring As a tooth loves a diamond As snow loves a tree As a marble loves a bird Maybe love’s too strong a word
VII. A Blank Page’s Love
Yes, dear , you would not understand— But that’s not necessary. Besides, I don’t understand either.
But here we are. And you know not why— Lest I sound arrogant, I’ll just say, Neither do I.
Your blankness fills my mind With thoughts of melancholy And fairy-dancing ethereal glumness.
O, how your brother likes to bolshevise. But that’s neither here nor there, Request an answer
That you have already Decided is pure crap. Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee.
O, wait—shee, shee, shee, shee, shee! Just a retro response To a distraction.
I know the blank page Is luring me to blaspheme And cauterize thoughts
That have been roaming The ether for centuries— Go, go, go, girl
You know the fingers Of joy . . .
VIII. God’s Love
I’m not a good daughter Mommy and Daddy could attest to that— But God loves me
I’m not a good sister My sister wholeheartedly agrees— But God loves me
I’m not a good niece My aunts and uncles would say that’s so— But God loves me
I’m not a good cousin My cousins would not sing my praises— But God loves me
I’m not a good mother My children gladly confirm— But God loves me
I’m not a good grandmother My grandchildren can back that up— But God loves me
I’m not a good aunt My nieces can corroborate— But God loves me
a stream of consciousness runs through the landscape Dali has pitchforked brain cells:
little girl with dog in photo off to my left, and Vincent in Saint-Rémy 1889 look a long way off, you look for yourself in the landscape you are not walking across the meadow & you are not marked on any hill so I insist the clouds have gobbled you up those great Vincent-swirled cotton-tails that crawl up the hills, over the blue paint stroked open legs not my legs my legs are off to the left under the dress of that little girl reaching out for her dog trying to smile at the blasted camera the sun hurting her damaged little eyes the sun always hurting her little eyes, sitting on grass always hurting her, the fat little arms, chubby little cheeks always hurting that poor little girl is not in the landscape either she is hiding inside the cottage in the middle of some painting: kissing
your luscious lips kiss over, kissed-off she runs to Dali
The following entry is from my unpublished memoir “My Life in Little Stories”:
49. Spot
My mom and I were outside walking in the yard one warm summer morning, and we saw what we thought was a hog lying outside the gate. We walked over to look more closely and discovered it was not a hog, but a Dalmatian dog. We named him Spot and kept him for the next twelve or so years, until his death.
Does a girl really choose it, even after she becomes a bleeder? Why does she lose it, after that first drilling? And how can she know for sure that she was willing? If she hisses on a hot bed of kisses, and he pries her legs apart, why will she remember it as if he gave her his heart?
Does the fear of innocence shine on her face like a yield sign? Is she an invitation waiting to be mailed? Perhaps this world is an anvil, and she is just a horseshoe to be heated up, hammered out, and nailed.
What is it? Why is it like death to lose it down by the river in the back seat of a car? Maybe it’s that she can never get it back—it’s not like a knife wound that heals smooth even if it leaves a scar.
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