Lament

And, also, J’accuse 

i read about her
a teacher at Marjorie
Stoneman Douglas
who watched helplessly
as two students
died in a spatter

and splash of blood

and after held virtual hands

with twenty-two

who did not die

hugging them in spirit

for years

and introducing them

to a kid from Columbine

 

who could share

his own stories

how he travelled

the long post survival arc

unaware that his stories

would end so abruptly and too soon

framing the thesis of endless

rippling surging trauma washing over 

even the most remotely connected

famously understood as a simple

matter of mere degrees of separation

 

this is no claim to knowing

what that was like

or will be like

only the dripping tears

of a distant witness

who struggles to speak

the names Trayvon

Sandra   George   Laquan

Sandy Hook   Uvalde

or (as metaphors only)

Katrina Maria and Harvey

or the women we did not believe

E Jean   Summer   Kathleen

and Karen and girls whose names

we do not know but who were made

to be baby mamas and boys

who became men in prison

where they did not rightfully belong

and Venezuelan migrants not welcomed
but so cruelly abused
and Palestinian children maimed and dying
by bombs and bullets paid for
by American taxpayers
and eleven dead at Pittsburgh’s Tree of Life
and fifty-one killed in Christchurch mosques
and boys past and future jailed
with never a chance to be men
and one million transkids count em
fearing all the worst they can imagine
 
and all the people on the islands
starving and submerging and drifting on the seas
and the forests burning
and the planet gasping
through our dirty exhalations
and wet tears while the man
whom Brian calls The Grifter
casually compounds the pain
and names the people losers
and names the people takers
while in mid-reach for a billion more
and a brand new air force one
 
i lament every loss
but i also accuse
i accuse all of those
who monetize the peoples pain

Cherish

You are the girliest

girl I know.

I say so knowing you

to be a woman of deeds,

of experience, a woman

possessed of a gaze

and a touch that heals

all who fall

under your tender regard.

 

But yet you

are always the girl

I have wished to join

on journeys

and at rest.

 

You instill a wish in me

to do what I can

with every thought and tool

that I can wield to protect

all that there is of you.

 

To lie with that girl,

to trace with cautious fingertips

every curve of you,

to make sweetness and murmur,

to hum and to twist,

to stretch minutes like taffy,

to linger in those moments,

languid and liquid,

to soar and to swoon,

winging our way to a rapture

that is only ours,

to make.

They Cannot Be Us

 

They cannot ban

what they do not

understand.

Speak not

of Zuckerbergs

and Musks and others

slithering through the muck.

Let them suffer

in the profundity

of the silence

rejecting their grasp and reach.

 

Speak

in the poetry

of our lives lived

in grit and fire

and tender touch,

and lived

in honor and memory

of our Nerudas, our Morrisons,

our mothers, our fathers,

and all who did not,

will not obey.

 

We are our gift

to each other,

We share our gifts

with each other.

We live in embrace

of our communities

which we exalt hard

and often. We march

to a rhythm of our own.

Renewing Reinventing.

Exultant. Relentless.

 

And they? They cannot be us,

not because they don’t want to be,

but because we won’t let them.

 

We grant power only

to ourselves.

Aging Poet Maps Near Future

 

The old get-up get-down

lost the beat,

the run-start run-stop

sticks on stop,

the go-quick gear

lost its teeth,

and the locks

on the Urinary Canal

broke down

at bottom.

 

But the laboratory

that develops 

all the work-arounds,

fueled by gratitude

for gifts received,

shared, given, remembered

and forgotten,

still invents the plow-throughs

and ways-around

wreckages and potholes.

 

Switched-on requires

deliberate decisions

in constant defiance

of switched-off

and, so, go.

Go on.

Momennejad opening

 

Apropos of Ida

Momennejad

and those pillars

of abundance,

I am not yet

a friend of the trees,

but I find myself

ready to listen.

When I Think Of Tamir Rice While Driving

 

When one gets steam-rolled, as many of us were the Tuesday before last, one gets back up, dusts oneself off, hugs family and community, and gets back to work.

 

Why? Because there is so much to do. In the poem that follows, Reginald Dwayne Betts reminds us of things that need to be fixed and the challenges we will continue to encounter.

 

When I Think Of Tamir Rice While Driving

 

Reginald Dwayne Betts

 

in the back seat my sons laugh & tussle,

far from Tamir’s age, adorned with his

complexion & cadence & already forewarned

 

about toy pistols, though my rhetoric

ain’t about fear, but about dislike—about

how guns have haunted me since I first gripped

 

a pistol; I think of Tamir, twice-blink

& confront my weeping’s inadequacy, how

some loss invents the geometry that baffles.

 

The Second Amendment—cold, cruel,

a constitutional violence, a ruthless

thing worrying me still; should be it predicts

 

the heft in my hand, armed sag, burdened by

what I bear: My bare arms collaged

with wings as if hope alone can bring

 

back a buried child. A child, a toy gun,

a blue shield’s rapid rapid rabid shit. This

is how misery sounds: my boys

 

playing in the backseat juxtaposed against

a twelve-year old’s murder playing

in my head. My tongue cleaves to the roof

.  .  .

Hoping to not forget

Alive and quick,

my feet in my shoes,
walking my way,
wiggling my toes,
feeling the earth
with my soles,
wondering when

 
voyaging through
the shroud and mist beyond
will I miss the walking,
the wandering,
the wondering the most
when I am where feeling
no longer rules,
no longer dreams,
 
or
 
before that time,
when all that remains
overhead is a spoiled,
listless sweep of gray
stained by our futility,
will I be
missing more
the blue and distant sky
seen through canopies
of leaves half green, half gone?
 
Breathing deeply,
better to consume both
air and visions of myself
beyond the mists,
past all of this,
hoping that I do
not forget you,
the you that I
will likely miss the most.

Sweet and young and always

You know the song

“you’re still the one,”

the song that couples

time and love,

and begins a weaving

of memory and the particular

rhythm that framed the way

we walked and wandered?

 

It puts me in mind

of how much older I am

than we are,

how I can still see

those bright visions of you

whom I have loved so

and loved so all along.

 

You’re the one

are the lyrics, the sound,

the melody, I hear

and I shake my head in wonder

that you can see that I am, too.

 

Thank you for who you have been

and for who you are

and for who we’ve been

and how this forever

has become so sweet

and young and always.

It is us seasoning this land

A poem about the blood
that soaks our land

is not about who spilled the most—

though it should be clear

who spilled the least,

who took so much

and gave so little—

but it is about our mingled DNA,

delivered on rivers of blood

and rivers of tears

and the sweat of hard labor

and the joy of ecstatic dancing

and the wet and rapid breathing

that happens day

and happens night.

 

I leave behind a piece of me

wherever I might go

and on the way

I pick a piece

of you.

 

I never ask

whose blood is this,

whose tears seed the rain,

whose bare feet tamp the path,

because I know this,

all of it is us

and ours.

 

And if a postscript

must supplement

what we spread and share,

then we should act

together, like it all

belongs to us.

It is us.

 

 

Ever the feeling

ever the feeling
ever feeling no need

of any sort

no need for more

no need for some

no need at all

for any one thing

 

is this a blessed state?

or a sort of purgatory?

who decides?

who should be barred

from deciding?

 

this is no reason to go on

this is the reason to go on 

this, he wrote,

struggling to remember

the addendum intended

when he first

walked out into the sun –

 

the feeling

the lift that comes

from walking straight into the sun

when it floods the eye

flies almost all the way

to wherever

 

and, writing on,

sorting through

memories that brought me

to my knees,

and then submerged 

in moments

of great exultation,

and find myself

exulting once more

 

and in the moment

when I first saw you

and knew suddenly

you would be the difference

in my life

the moment in which we all

would see again

and would gather together

the feeling of enough

more than ever

enough enough

 

and still the locomotive

roaring by

and the dog

consumed by terror

running and running

and surviving the raging wind

that carried the deepest chill

came at last

into my arms

squatting there in the very dark

attaching and attaching

to us, to you, to me

 

ever the feeling

home and homeless

tame and wild

broken and unbroken

new and striving

ancient

seeking rest

and rebirth

ever and ever

The current that carries us (revised)

The sheer impact

of what we have done

cannot be undone.

 

We cannot take it apart.

We can bend it,

but not break it.

 

We can fix a piece,

try to fix a part

that we can reach.

 

But separately,

and together,

we will travel with it

wherever it flows.

 

We cannot get out.

Nor off.

There are no stops

ahead.

 

But this ebb and flow,

this sometimes power,

and sometimes no,

these rich and transient joys,

these assaults and frequent terrors,

travel with us.

 

We own it all.

A Single Star Will Show Itself

Rumored or written somewhere,

the way, the path,

to touching uncoerced,

to flowing swiftly,

through channels forking

and twisting and babbling on

and suddenly still,

 

involves the growling, guttural talk

of tigers,

or a passionate taste

of dark and chocolate,

or the silver leap of fish

 

or yes,

to lifting us

on swaying limbs of flowering trees,

full pink and showering

the bay below,

you wrapped in my arms,

me snuggled up in yours.

 

Rumored or written somewhere,

or handmade

to suit myself,

and sung to you,

the word to wait

for the new moon’s rising sliver,

when a single star

will show itself

and light our dreaming way.

The magic passes by

The poems always come

unbidden.

I could hunt
for them,
but don’t know
where to look.
 
But this one,
not merely unbidden,
but buried
in sequence
with unlike things.
 
After a hard talk
with a man
I love,

and a while spent
with the compost pile,
and a gathering of tools
and a piling of lumber,
and a power outage,
to divert me
from one work to another,
timed by whoever
times such things,

and a brownie
with special powers,
and a trip
to the store,
for a bottle of cream
to make the week-old oatmeal
coming out
of the darkened fridge
a meal
moderately more palatable
than it might otherwise be,
 
and more brownie,
a bit more brownie,
and a passing tease
with a virile neighbor
about his virility,
and a beer on a warm slow day,
 
the power
came on,
and the poem
came, too,
loaded with prizes
(except no gift
of invented words
to share),
 
came with memories
of Noble Causes
and Bruising Battles
(as Marrianne’s book
has it),
 
came with memories
of love and adventure,
came with hints
of life left to live,
 
and, suddenly,
the unbidden poem,
having arrived,
having said
whatever it had to say,
departed,
leaving me to return
to tools and timber.

A Hammering of Earth

Deep in the grave,

blind in the gloom,

a spasm of wishes,

an eruption of dreams,

a pounding and hammering

and gathering of earth.

 

Clawing the dirt

in tumult and temper,

a hint of desire,

a longing for more,

a pounding and hammering

and gathering of earth.

 

Through the green fragrant places

he floated

as though he might fade

in a moment.

Resting, then waxing,

drifting, then winging,

seeking the meaning

of symbols and dreams.

 

Shadows gliding in,

like leopards at night,

she briefly stops by,

a succor of seasons,

a peak and a whisper.

Just so is he rescued,

and then, sped away.

 

A new cycle begun,

a grandeur of wishing,

a flexing of feelings,

a pounding and hammering

and gathering of earth. 

The current that carries us

 

The sheer impact

of what we have done

cannot be undone.

 

We cannot take it apart.

We can bend it, maybe,

but not break it.

 

We can fix a piece,

or try to fix a part

that we can reach.

 

But separately,

and together,

we will travel with it

wherever it flows.

 

We cannot get out.

Nor off. There are no stops

ahead.

 

But this ebb and flow,

this sometimes power,

and sometimes no,

these rich and transient joys,

these assaults and frequent terrors,

travel with us.

 

We own it all.

Waiting for Isabel

Waiting for Izzy to wake,

my baby grand,

my Izzy Bizzy Bell.

I should head to Chicago,

move on to next things.

There’s stuff to do,

and I, my reputation

as dithering guy who never,

never gets to the end,

notwithstanding,

am still the only guy to get it done.

 

But I’m waiting for Isabel to wake—

me, Isabel’s Jeff,

here,

waiting for Isabel,

who, just before she slept,

spent a long, full, bunch

of uncountable minutes

in loud, overwrought,

and well-acted screaming;

in epic distress,

mommy-mommying her way

between long, sobbing, hiccups,

until she decided that mommy-mommying

wasn’t working,

and switched to daddy-daddying,

which also did not work,

falling finally asleep, exhausted,

when Mommy did show herself.

 

That’s the person,

Isabell Lozen,

my grand baby,

for whose next waking moment

I wait.

 

Because love,

I guess.

And knowing that

what I might otherwise

do is no longer the point. 

The Edge of Silence

The edge of silence

haunts me,

listening here,

where there is still

song and rhythm

and echoes and noise,

sounding and resounding.

 

It would do

no good

to put my ear

to the edge of silence.

There would be no news,

no hints, no vibes, no clues,

coming here from there,

from beyond the edge,

from no place.

 

I cannot speak

across the edge,

but neither have I crossed to there,

and I still have this voice.

And so much left to say

about who I loved

and how I loved

and what I did decent

and did well and what I did

that did not help

and what I should have left undone.

 

But all songs have accent points,

pianissimo, harmony, crescendo,

and debatable notes,

and so shall mine.

The best that I have done

was arguably the work of others

with whom I played, and loved,

and labored, and chased after

gossamer-winged fancies.

 

Can you hear

the smile in my voice,

when I say, here,

at the edge of silence,

that we were sometimes great

together,

and sometimes awed

at what we discovered

in and out of each other.

To have simply lived as we have,

and as we do,

and as we went and go,

was and is, perhaps,

too careless or, maybe,

too careful, but was and is

courage all the while.

 

And so,

I am moved here

at the edge of silence

to say that I am certain

that you will step forward

and forward again,

and be just as brave

as you can be,

and full of song,

and full of look and listen,

and full of touch and love,

and building dreams

that will last and last

as long as you are willing.

 

All of you.

My dear ones, my babies,

my comrades, my heroes.

Hidden away from the whole

The voice,

her voice, repeating,

I have to hang up.

We’re about to take off.

They want me to hang up.

We’ll talk tomorrow.

Okay?

 

I imagined she was speaking

to her mother that way,

or to the parts of her mother

dementia has left untouched for now,

not the parts

that have been buried away

from the whole of the world.

 

But another voice,

speaking more forcefully,

cited the pilot, saying,

you must stop now

and end your call,

and said it again,

end your call.

 

The oil and water chorus

continued, and the voice

said goodbye before,

one voice to another,

explaining,

that was my brother.

He’s in prison.

 

And my next thought was

that must be worse than dementia.

 

March 1: From Caracol to La Ronda Parakata

In an epoch of nightmares,

the walk to the lake,

transformed by mood and by moment,

planned as a journey with Jetta,

to proceed from Caracol

to La Ronda Parakata,

from Black Lives Matter,

the name and the point

of resistance and vision,

this time around,

to the fresh flow

of Ukrainian blood,

and the tears for democracies,

forever imperfect.

 

The redwing blackbirds are back

and begun to build their numbers,

though not yet reached

the this-is-ours claim

that will soon fully invest

blackbird central

in advance warning

of dive-bombing birds

headed this way.

 

On the way, the gray planter totems—

massive, ornamental contraptions,

bizarrely conceived as artful décor

for the concrete expanses

of breakwaters and piers—

have somehow been heaved,

grinding and fractured,

by the great lake in winter.

The pulverized fragments lay on the path,

like bits of Kyiv littering the world.

 

The caracol, Spanish for snail,

an escalera de caracol,

a spiral staircase pressed flat,

its broad painted surface,

splashed with color of cultures

and feelings gathered on borders

of habits badly in need of fresh vigor.

 

The phoenix of hope

for a future at risk,

depends largely on those

who can juggle their fear

and plan radical ways

for healing all wounds.

 

A barge makes its way

through ice jamming boat slips.

The watermen whisper to water

with words not meant for my ears,

but I do hear their murmurs

and do have the tools

to shape meanings that drive me

to where I and all this

are harnessed to go.

 

In the tufted tall grass

of the cold weather prairie

Jetta digs from the ice

the shredded remains

left behind by a hawk,

and swallows rotted morsels

before just a mile further on,

vomiting a bit back

to the field to share

with whomever will next eat

off this ground.

 

Over the rise

in the trail ahead

comes the form of La Ronda 

where the butterflies pray

to slow our ill-fated rush.

The view this day is still water,

and the weather

waits to be called

to deliver trouble in surges

resembling the way

the dark ages looked

to those who could see

the future unfolding.

 

And justice continues denied.

And the blood keeps on spilling.

And pooling and drying and staining the world.

Isabel Increscent

Isabel,

hey, Isabel,

I am Jeff.

 

Been that way

for the longest time,

but now,

of a sudden,

I am Isabel’s Jeff.

 

Not brand new, at all,

but remade, somehow,

by your becoming,

in a similar,

but less suddenly sudden

appearance in the doorway

of a future that I

will never see,

but into which I will be carried,

in my bits and in my pieces,

in the swirling current

that is you flowing forward.

 

Think now of all the other

everybodys and everythings

lifted and carried

in the flood of you,

in the cresting wave of you,

in the torrent of you,

cutting a new channel.

 

I am Isabel’s Jeff

and you, Isabel,

will carry on without me,

neatly deposited in your wake,

my good-bye smile at you flowing forward,

the last and best of me.

 

You are Isabel

and I am Isabel’s Jeff,

a man of your invention,

who knew you,

and loved you.