Headline Poem 6/6/14 -- Son, that's a lie

Today's poem is inspired by this story about a life lesson passed down from fathers to sons. 

Son, that's a lie

There are some from the

promised land who will tell a man

Not to dream while awake,

to be a snake 

who coils 

and breaks 

those who hesitate. 

They

lie to you. 

They say you're supposed to be dangerous, and that you should ignore your broken wings, and continue to fly. 

They say to close your eyes 

to make room

for anger and revenge 

and tough ass things. 

Son, that's a lie. 

Men cry. They must 

weep tears of truth which

Drip of wholeness and honesty

And integrity and continuity. 

Men do not deny their own eyes. 

And while their sons watch, they embrace

The salt that is released. 

Our tears feed the earth, mixing with the dirt. We need them. We must feed them. 

Son,

Forgiveness looks good on you;

it makes your skin softer. It makes your mind clearer. It makes your red lights turn blue. 

I adore this side of you. 

Don't be a fool who 

let's the rake hit you in the face 

with deception and masked masculinity like a slime's revenge. 

Green men who banish tears are not free. Women who condone those tears 

live in fear of 

Being weak. 

Son, 

Climb to the mountain top with eyes that shine and lungs that knot 

And cry -- 

There is NOTHING more beautiful 

than a heart sculpted

like a canyon by water and ice

Unafraid of the flight,

Surrounded by kindness and sensitive matter!

Even

Eagles will crave your presence. Hummingbirds will crave your light. 

And if you stand next to a man who ignores you in the night, and chooses to fight -- 

take the flight

To a place of solitude 

and fresh brewed mistakes and lay

On leaves and grass and think. 

Go where people welcome you. 

Go where you'll feel awake. 

And then, son, once you've had a taste... 

Share this lesson with delicate haste. 

Headline Poem 5/13/14 -- Selling Nightmares

Swiss artist H.R. Giger (Photo credit NPR)

Artist H.R. Giger has died. Here is the headline from NPR which inspired today's poem.

Selling Nightmares

You've tripped and fallen

Underneath your art 
which shrouded 

And suffocated, 
while you shared and sold
images and fantasies
documented on a notepad
next to your bed 
through fingers separated from shear 
terror and dread

Dali inspired dreams
hesitant to transpire within
or without your mind
in the hour
of mice and men and hay and wheat
and coolers and creatures
and skulls and unrest

Crazy are the ones who
understood the madness,
grateful they were not alone,
appreciative to listen
to 
their own screams
mixed with yours
alive through the surreal and decay
merging sex, technology, and legends of the day

You were a kind man, falsely judged 
by your
dark existence and alien jugs, 
marking mishaps of man and machine,

wicked handprints on the zebra's back

makes safari animals out of masks 

and cantaloupes

And dripping seeds 

Envelopes and darkness become serene

Men and women line up to purchase 

And receive 
someone else's nightmares, 
because they cannot get enough,
and for a moment it makes them forget 

their 
own

In she walks with a nobler idea...

Get rid of them altogether! 

Headline Poem 3/28/14 -- A Major Divide

Millionaire Row on Troost Street (Photo credit NPR)

I read this article today about a major divide in Kansas City, Missouri.

A Major Divide

Top of the morning to ya with a tip of your tall black hat, on millionaire row,

slums submerged just below 

the surface. 

A prominent shift divides already divided lines,
race and class and economics 

hit you in the face, a punching bag of fate. 

Ripped and shredded, cut deep, 

lives no mirror can place,

distorted beyond recognition, 
widening the break between 

the white and black, the have and have-nots,
the poor meet not-poor, 

hard to ask "how do you do?"
when you are not a part of them, nor are they a part of you

the language sounds the same, but it's spoken in different tongues. 

Money is thick, on Troost Street. 

Wads of cash, flash, green.
Troost Street lines separate more than cars and pedestrians. 
School children sit and observe the push and pull, 

parents fearful they might congregate,
together black hands and white hands, voices shrill, we need more lines!

Manipulate -- do not desegregate. 

I to you, and you to them. 

We are not friends.
We do not share the flight down
the major, divided street in which the hate cannot escape. 

Money creates what money creates.

East of Troost, down on 18th and Vine, you will find 

more of your kind.
Before you bridge here to there on etched-in lines, you must decide 

if it's worth it to dissolve time. 

Headline Poem 3/13/14 -- Born in Kentucky

President Johnson, 1964 (Photo credit Google Image)

Today's poem is inspired by this project featured on NPR about Appalachia 50 years after President Lyndon B. Johnson declared the "war on poverty," depicting the 13 states in dire conditions. Now, a modern Appalachian photographer is hoping to shed new updated light on the region by asking people to submit pictures taken in 2014. The project is called "Looking at Appalachia -- 50 years after the war on poverty," and you can find more information here. This story took me to back to my own history. I wrote about my father's mother in a poem titled "A Professor's Wife," included in my self-published book of poetry Two Sides of Rain, in 2012. I thought about her this evening as I read this story. She was born in Kentucky.

Born in Kentucky

We have a tendency to forget

that older relatives
had entire lives before we entered them, and that
they were more than wrinkly fingers and
collectors of quilts and pictures

They kissed and kept secrets,
and wore clothing that
hung to dry on a line
that we cut without realizing
creating a dead end,
with no intention of returning
to the ways of them...
not trapped in a cul de sac or isolated in a cage, just different,
unaware of what made them rage
we just didn't know them
like we thought we did

Happy were the children who ran free,
and sad were the babies who starved
and were deceived 

-- young, insecure, fruitful
before we arrived

There is no printed image of her in lace,
but I imagine her white gloves
and knee-high socks,
I wonder if she had dark or golden locks,
her dress blowing in the wind,
she, shyly stepping in

Mary Jane was a Gemini, and grandmother for many years
by the time I came around
it must have been a surprise to see a baby girl after so many boys
June 17, 1893 -- oh what the world must have looked like for James and Alice Baird

I met a woman short in stature, old in words
We called her Gobbie
from Davis, California
she made orange marmalade,
and seemed awkward around babies, like we might break
how did she raise three when she couldn't even hug us two?

     she didn't really hug them
     he forgave her,
     she was stiff

Her house pristine, but cute
round, colorful rugs and hardwood floors,
newspapers on the table to catch the spills
it made her comfortable, and that's all that mattered
I have a picture of her smiling,
and sometimes when I look in the mirror
I see her bony, older face
in mine
eyes, deep, and nose pronounced

She was a professor's wife,
married to George Haymaker Vansell,
who studied bugs in his home state of Kansas and beyond
he died playing bridge
one night, at a friend's house,
and never went home
she lost a husband, a daughter, and then a son
my father's death took a piece of her heart,
and put it on the shelf

mothers should go first
mothers should go first

I think she would be proud to know me,
but I bet she'd be disappointed with my laundry skills,
and the way I cook a meal,
I speculate
because I don't really know

The younger her may have laughed with me,
and run barefoot in the hills,
sneaking sips of her father's liquor, or smoking when we were alone
she was real, but is a photograph to me,
a symbol of tradition and blood,
linking me to him, them to me, and me to them

She comes from a place I have never been
today I make a vow to smell the Kentucky she called home, 

to feel the fabric of her sun-drenched days
my fingers through her hills
listening to the songs of the earth
that was hers 

Do the trees speak differently in Appalachia?
Do the ghosts linger the same?

Headline Poem 1/3/14 -- Unwed & Shamed

(Photo credit npr)

Today's poem is based on a story I read/listened to on NPR this morning about two pregnant teenagers, who, in 1968, were sent to a home for unwed mothers. They gave birth, left their babies for adoption, and were forced to never talk about it again. 

Unwed & Shamed 

Just eight years before my own birth

Pregnant

These things happen

To girls

To girls

To girls

Their mothers sent them away 

Go to Massachusettes to live in a home 

Change your name

Do not discuss this

Sad at night, she cried herself to sleep, feeling the baby move inside

Arms strapped to a bed

They were told nothing about giving birth

How many said 'yes' when the doctor asked if the young mothers wanted to see their new babies?

How many said 'no'?

Did the fathers know?

The babies were adopted

The mothers, er, girls went home

Alone

Never speak of this again

Lie

Lie

Lie

Questions avoided

Stress accumulated

Loads of heavy shame bundled up and carried

Everything changed

Nothing changed

Do you hear me? 

Nothing changed

You no longer have to lie