As morning’s breath touches the curtained night, And draws with golden rays the shade apart, My soul, in quiet musing bright, Then weaves a garland fair within my heart. The river’s murmur, in solemn chant before Noontime, calls my spirit to attend; Gray mountains, veiled in mist, my eyes explore, Like mournful shades that round my vision bend. Yet on the bank, where winter’s frost does cling, Sweet blossoms wait to burst into radiant bloom. My smile, a tear, in tender offering, Do fold over lilies’ clock in fragrant room. Thus sways my soul to greet the Divine’s grace, Where morning’s light warms my sacred place.
Sonnet II: Evening’s Starlit Peace
As evening’s quiet veiling falls, my soul becomes a vase, Open to catching the prayers that softly rise. The rain, an avatar, with gentle touch does cause The day’s sharp edge to render my spirit wise. My silver sorrow, breathed in one last sigh, Rises to where starry angels light the hill. Old eyes, now clear, behold the heavens high, Where night’s embrace does every care distill. No tulip dares to flaunt its vivid hue, Without the Gardener’s hand, divine and sure; No soul gains peace, save where the Guide does woo, With promises of love forever pure. So I sway still, in dawn’s or dusk’s soft gleams, To meet my Creator in everlasting dreams.
(Appeared in Manna, West Valley City, UT, Fall 1992)
Fog lifts morning off the pond. A fish flops up out of the water, Fires the early-bird fisherman’s hopes. He sees his pole bend, almost break Against the weight of his haul.
Noon sun bleaches the rocks along the bank. The little girl dips her toe in the shallows Sees her sister crossing the bridge Coming home from town.
The frogs begin around sundown. Their chorus performs long into the night. Campfires rim the edge of the water. Beer shouting dies down around two.
Fog settles night over the pond. Fishermen doze over their fishing poles. The little girl sleeps in the house on the hill. Her sister gets up early To watch the fog lift again.
(A slightly different version of this poem appeared in Struggle, Vol 8 No 4, Winter 1992-93)
So she warned you about the natural hierarchy: First: White men, Second: White women, Third: Black men, Fourth: Black women And she stands on his blackness with tall heels? And warns you that your granddad Will disown you If you spring off a black baby? And your dad will kill you For calling him friend? What can I say to you? You are a child, battered by bigotry: You are staring in the face of a monster That will eat your heart and spit out the love, If you don’t stare it down. You are walking into a wall That is harder to tear down Than the one in Berlin, You’d better start chipping away now. You are caught in a vice that will squeeze out Your mind and leave you an empty skull, If you don’t push back. You are sinking farther out at sea than the Titanic And without a lifeboat, You’d better become a tireless swimmer. You are chained to a stake whose root Shoots out the other side of the earth, Better learn to see visions in the dirt like Sesshu. In this world, there are those who split their souls Into hate-fragments. They cannot know love As long as gravel bitterness rattles in their hearts. One foot is out the door waiting for the other to follow: Even if your heart has to bed down on the porch,
See that your mind escapes that prison house Or else your soul will be the final victim.
The nightmare repeats itself: A daughter clamped tight to each foot Pulling her down under The brute waters of her biggest lake; She gasps, Imagines she’s drowning While her husband watching from the bank Keels over from a heart attack. A colossal carp looms under her nose; She smells blood Dripping from a dozen hooks dangling From his mouth. His eyeballs slide out easy As the drawer of a cash register. Each eye-socket a window To her own soul — $ bills With little jackpots on them Jump up and dance like clowns Poking out their tongues, Flapping campaign signs With hammers, sickles, swastikas — She believes yes she can. Morning shivers her awake again, Stumbling to the bathroom Where the mirror flashes In her face that same ugly carp That has been catching her dreams And throwing them back As she chases each $, Never quite able to grasp enough.
Again, the nightmare begins: A son clamped tight to each foot Pulling him down under The brute waters of the river; He gasps, Imagines he’s drowning As his wife stands on the bank Shaking a canoe paddle. A colossal flowerhorn blooms from his nose; He spews blood Imagines a dozen hooks dangling From his mouth. His eyeballs slide out Searching the reaches of a netherworld. Each eye-socket a window Of some monster’s soul. His pink fins twirl and become knives. A yellow finch pecks at his first son’s ears A green finch pecks at his second son’s eyes. He cannot feel his hands Asleep on his pillow behind his head— He snores but does not wake Until morning blasts of sunlight pierce the window. Stumbling to the bathroom Nearly falling over the calico cat He turns on the shower tap And is relieved again that The liquid is water and not blood— A quick glance in the mirror, And the colossal flowerhorn blooms again from his nose. He is ready to shower now.
The nightmare repeats itself: Her house clamped tight to her right foot Her car to her left pulling her down under The brute waters of a big pond Way out in the middle of nowhere.
She gasps, Imagines she’s drowning While a vagrant lifts the cover Of the water peeking at her. A huge fish looms under her nose; She smells blood dripping From a smaller fish hanging Out of his mouth. His eyeballs slide out easy As the drawer of a cash register. Each eye-socket a big government Window to her pain: losing her $ bills To statist minnows gliding in And out of those windows. On the slippery bank Taxes, gasoline, and the price Of beans and rice Rocket beyond the blue of blues. Morning shivers her awake, Stumbling to the bathroom Where the mirror flashes In her face that same enormous fish That keeps catching her dreams And throwing them back As she struggles for each $, Never quite able to grasp enough.
Image: “Big Fish Eat Little Fish,” engraving, by the Flemish artist Pieter van der Heyden after Pieter Bruegel the Elder. The engraving is signed with the name of Hieronymus Bosch, who was dead when the engraving was produced. The engraving was likely the work of Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Dated 1557. 9 x 11 5/8 in. (22.9 x 29.6 cm). Image courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
III Third Movement
ilk & counting
a postmodernist masque for robert bly & that ilk; after a poetry workshop on translation, Ball State University, 1977
ephemeral saxifrage blowing through field after field
somewhere iron robert translates heaven into fog
ripening to scant scent fruit twirling into a whirl
even iron robert cannot bend the wind
stars back-biters bromides rock rock in barrel
where does iron robert keeps his semi-colons
after barrel somewhere a magic bee stood on green pollen
owed to “a liberal sprinkler of semi-colons and half parentheses” in PCish & some text-talk
s/he recognizes sewer talk when s/he talks it & ever since that useful little tool presented itself in cyber-space, s/he’s employed its dots and hooks to mitigate the vile vermin of her/is own verbiage.
wanna call someone a slut :) stick a smiley face next to the sticky word & the slut will think U’v praised her/is slut choices & thus are willing to pay for her/is slut supplies.
wanna smack down that stuck up sibling ;) give him/er a smiley face winky-dink while U tell him/er how much smarter ur mom thought U were. s/he’ll think u r just kidding ;) Ha! Ha! Ha! :0)
wanna deliver a solid fist to the solar plexus about animal molestation, child battery, incest, etc . . . & make it seem like a tap on the wrist— U guessed it, a trusty little :)
nothing is off limits to the liberal sprinkler of semi-colons & half parentheses. good grief! s/he could even express sorrow :( if sewer talkers ever felt that emotion.
NOTA BENE: No PC in the following stanza . . .
Advice to the emoticonned: Words matter. Only Words matter. Look at the words. Emoticons are just that, cons. Make Connie know you are on to her.
for S. B., swooning as Auden sings, “O stand, stand at the window As the tears scald and start; You shall love your crooked neighbour With your crooked heart.”
“False words are not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil.” —Plato
“A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes.” –Mark Twain
The nose grows longer As each lie grows easier to tell: She swears through straight, but yellowing teeth, “I can’t recall that.” Of course, if she can’t re-call it, She never called it at all. She can’t remember A thing about all those cheap shots she took At you when you were kids. She can’t remember Calling you a bimbo and then insinuating you Might have aids. Or telling a dying grandmother that you Were dying of bulimia. No, she will never remember Her bald-face brazen lies! Bait and switch: “I was not referring to myself But to society in general. Personally, I find nothing wrong with her marrying Another woman. Maybe a little creepy, But nothing wrong, nothing at all!” All the while claiming to possess an open mind And soft heart for all humankind, regardless Of how different “they” are from “us.” Flame-throw and run away: He’s taking an overload this semester, He’s working 36 hours at the Student Union, He’s taking his sister to ballet, And his mom to cardiac therapy— But only after he’s deep in deficit Of making the case to support His latest whopper—leaving you Wondering why/how the conversation Went on as long as it did.
Break it off, break off Pinocchio’s nose, And close the gates of your attention.
Image: Pinocchio by Enrico Mazzanti (1852-1910) – the first illustrator (1883) of Le avventure di Pinocchio. Storia di un burattino – colored by Daniel DONNA
V Fifth Movement
“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” —Romans 12:19
Dr Frankenstink Crafts His Whimsy
Fixated on fashioning life With unliving things, he Falls in love with Whimsy, Codifies her, imbues her With the stench of personality That he can sleep with Without sleep cocking her To unconsciousness.
Rummage, rummage the trash heaps, The garbage bins, the dumps, And rotting flow of swill and sewage:
Whimsy takes her ungodly shape—
Big cardboard box head Empty except for butt Of chamber pot for mouth Needle-nose pliers for a snout Cash register $ $ for eyes.
Short stature in height But makes up for it in width. Mold-speckled cabbage leaves cover Her big cardboard box head Broken wine bottles about her neck Her huge tree-stump legs mock The act of walking Flea collar of rabid dog around each wrist Barrel-drum arms that rub against Shag fecal-smattered carpet glued Against her sides Faking a dress, monstrous cum-stained sheets Swaddle her middle region—more an equator than a waist— Drooping down over the stumps, flowing with blood and urine Onto the ground.
Dr Frankenstink loves his Whimsy, Locks her in his arms, croons to her A misbegotten lullaby that reminds him Of his murdered fiancée, after her last abortion.
Before he went down by the river And put a bullet in his heart, The youngest brother Left books on his bed—books Opened to marked passages. He left those marked passages To speak to us after he had passed. But the oldest brother closed His brother’s message Before we could read it. Was he embarrassed? From what did he mean to spare us? What insight did he gain into the deed That made him need To hoard that knowledge?
The oldest brother wanted to believe That someone else killed the youngest brother. He said that way he could wade the grief Without the guilt.
The middle brother stood and stared and wept.
The eldest did let us know That at the top of the page of a song lyric, The youngest had inscribed the date—May ——, 19—— His last day down by the river.
The youngest brother must have known About empty spaces; he must have known That the bullet that stopped his heart Would shatter more than a mere muscle,
And so he left us messages — But the oldest brother . . . —
Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame —Shakespeare Sonnet 129
“The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost” —Alexander Pope, “Eloisa to Abelard“
Do not ruffle what hellish beasts conceal: Dank specters loom in gardens overgrown; Among the tombstones, dampened moss has sown Seeds of disease that time rushes to heal. You fled that haunted ground and sought appeal In cleansing waves, where brighter light was shown— The molded beast tried to shape you into his own, But Spirit forged forth from what devils reveal.
Now, should you prod that beast from years decayed, Be ready for venom, tangled words, and fire; His bile will scorch the joys that you have made. Let present peace, not rancor, lift you higher— For only those who leave the past unswayed Can walk in Spirit, freed from the ragged falsifier.
O, Blessèd Reality—Creator of all existence! I am Thy deluded child—cleanse me of delusion. I am Thy dark-brained creation—enlighten me. O, Lord of Life—heal me with Thine omnipresence.
In the swirling maya world, I creep and crawl— My body wrinkles with strife and struggle. My mind beclouds from the ten-thousand things. O, Blessèd Light, suffuse me with Thine essence.
In the bedimmed environs of grotesqueness In the battle din of getting and giving In the stronghold of deceit and depravity— O, Divine Reality, fling Thy peace upon me.
From my blind eyes, lift this thick veil Of unreality that keeps me from Thy light.
Image: Linda Sue at SRF Lake Shrine – Photo by Ron W. G.
A Prayer for the Way
O Spirit Divine, great Guardian of all paths Leading to the bright light of knowledge Leading to the sure blessèd way of wisdom Lead us, guide and guard our journey.
Trees of truth stand strong along the pathway. The fruit of soul-awareness is hanging low Ripe and free from each scriptural bough— A sign and a map for Thy children to follow.
From Thy temple incense-perfumed by devotion Wafts the sweet harmony of many melodic voices Chanting Thy glorious, blessèd name in chorus Bestowing on Thee the outpouring of our love.
O Mother Divine, onto Thy lap of omnipresence Lift us as we go on singing Thy melody of eternal Bliss.
Bliss flowing over the shores of my soul! Unequaled wise murmurs seek my attention. Washing over boundaries, calming the fires Of the pairs of opposites that rend and rob.
From the purity of heaven, Thou art there! Thou art beaming into my soul, beaming The everlasting, ever exalted, ever conscious, Ever still, all-knowing unmodifiable Way.
Untouched by the fleeting thoughts That baffle the brains of the unseeing. Unmatched by any created things That Thou didst ever create—
O, Belovèd Bliss, for all sanctity, may I bend My will to Thy will forever and forever.
Image: Through the Knot Hole – Photo by Linda Sue Grimes
The Everything-I-Say-Is-Wrong Blues Sonnet
—for Red Dreads & Other Lefties
Sun shines in the moonlight; nighttime stops at dawn. When morning sprays the flowers, the crickets carry on, But I’ve put a hold on what I say; my say done come and gone: My words will not touch you again, cause everything I say is wrong.
Where do you get your factoids doesn’t matter one thin whit Wherever you go you spin your spin; I just don’t give a shit. So I’ve put a hold on what I say; my say done come and gone: My words will not touch you again, cause everything I say is wrong.
Right is wrong when you want it to be. Left is right if you choose— Up is down, a smile’s a frown, walking in your shoes. Winter might come early; summer may be late; Fall may never fall at all & spring may spring the gate,
But I’ve put a hold on what I say; my say done come and gone My words will not touch you again, cause everything I say is wrong.
“For never can true reconcilement grow, Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.” ―John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book IV, Lines 98-99
“what rough beast Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” —William Butler Yeats’ “The Second Coming”
Never poke a rough beast from the past: Likely, you will find yourself ambling Among tombstones in the rain Through a ramshackle garden From which you fled So many years ago.
Out of that moldy drizzle, you emerged. Into healing waves, you progressed. From a death-star specter, into the life-breathing spirit, You returned, grateful that the Unsensed Force Had directed your return home, Where poetry could spray forth in joy.
Never poke a rough beast from the past, Unless you are willing to be singed By the bile spewing through his forked tongue. Unleashing his aggressions, he is rabid To strangle you with his tangled verbiage, To erase you as he covets your triumphs.
Never poke a rough beast from the past— The present will secure your future As you walk in Spirit.
Linda's Literary Home 
