Newer words, newer dreams

A covid poem

Waking the days

of the months

lining our lives,

counting rhythms

of lungs and of heart,

suddenly glimpsing

the count gone awry,

the code gone astray,

the message amuck.

 

In the beginning of all this

Perry had died,

and his dying

meant changes

to the meaning of living

and the practice of mourning

in part of this world.

I attributed hot feelings

to you, I had said,

before one of us

suddenly flamed and unloosed

from the margins

that were formerly home

and always before 

to where we returned.

 

But it was me, alone,

walking face first

into challenging sleet wind,

overhearing the words

of lovers making light

for folks whom they love.

Some stranger above

throwing stones in our way,

he observed in comic lament,

adding a theatrical shrug,

and she laughed,

a sweet sound

fading to echoes

overtaken by oracular

proclamations

of the stinging wild wind,

sardonically offering

to set us all free

in a world of neglect

that mocks

the speakers of dreams,

and puts us to work

pounding on rocks.

 

Yes, confronting the winds

that do not forgive

requires moving ahead,

because going can get

to the peace we will build

with new song

and new dance.

 

Accepting the threats

that plague all the paths

revealed ahead,

I take the longish stride

and stride again,

and stride again,

toward the route

on which peace

is path and peace

is way

and not the goal I cannot reach.

 

***

If we were still

talk to ear to lips to talk,

then you would share,

maps and mantras—

the ones that moved you so far—

but you, arrived so long ago,

are gone away again,

leaving only remnants

and clues to joint discoveries

about the pain

that spots all paths,

and all the peace

that grows from pain

and grows from prayer

and grows from

never giving in.

 

So, yes, a reverent thanks

before a sweet whisper rises

above the bellowing wind

asking, in the brief and quiet,

on which iteration

of all our plans

are we working now?

And what in between

might we find there?

Inventing the many answers 

we will need

falls to each of us.

 

The outcome

may be better,

but maybe not,

said still another voice,

escaping the wind into which

we have been walking

all this while.

The voice came not

to tell a joke,

not to leave a laugh

or two behind, it said,

confidentially adding,

up to you, entirely,

to rise again

or fall at last

when and as you will.

 

And in that brief

and in that quiet

I did briefly, barely cry

for all the everyones

counting all the losses,

and all the everyones

not bothering to count,

and all the losses

left to lose.

And in that grief

and in that quiet,

it was resolved

to spread the news

of songs and glories

anyway,

and when the store of all

is lost and empty,

and entropy threatens

a joyless reign,

it remains forever resolved

to reach beyond

the end of now.

 

***

Courage is not

the word to use to say

that you did what you had

no choice about the doing.

And though I do not say

or write what that word

might be, it spells itself

obstinance-rebellion-

distraction-trembling-

grace-accidental-

if-at-all.

 

But whatever that loaded word

or words may be,

it takes great gangs

of fevered poets

grinding at the front

and grinding at the rear,

reloading words

to fire anew,

to set our hearts

our lungs our upraised fists

to rhythm

roaring fast and fresh.

 

So, summon all poets

with shouting and welcome.

Call them to council.

Write urgent letters

to gather the pack,

speaking the sharps

and speaking the blunts,

singing the streets,

soaring the skies,

scratching for pennies,

escaping the jails,

emphatically signifying

here on the way,

sketching and spelling

time after time,

always forever,

upright and hopeful,

here at the ready.

 

The hall of poets full,

the graveyard fuller still,

we linger to read the stone

marking William A. Thigpen Jr.

born 1948

died Detroit streets 1971,

upright and ready

and full of unspent hope.

Further along,

a restorative visit

to write-it-well John,

urging the poets

to wing on the breath,

to roll off the tongue

to land here,

in the ear.

 

So, yeah, the breaktime

namechecking done,

there is sometimes

giving of ground

that belongs to the earth,

sometimes ground

firming up

under feet

launching for stars,

claiming, reclaiming, declaiming

the dreams of forever

and all the beloved.

 

Send me only replies

conceding no ground,

but affirming the prayer

that floats in the air

and remains to be written.

Hear every voice,

every sobbing and wild,

every cringing and proud,

every full in the mouth,

rich on the tongue,

roaring and grieving,

weaving and soaring,

pleading and cursing,

voice after voice

landing here in the ear.

Count all the lives

we ought to have loved;

make infinitely more

of the lives

we have wasted.

Open doorways

for leaders 

grown tired of waiting;

expect and applaud

new words,

and new dreams,

ahead of the launch

of the last of our poems

shouting blessings and praises

to you, to sky,

and beyond.