Day Blue

Day Blue
for Sarah

Climbing to reach this spine of a ridge running miles to Chattanooga,
I feel so alive! This is part of my grieving. Walking these hard miles.
This is walking a line. Your leaving has broken my heart.
A harder stone holds this bridge of time together.
Tiny crystaline stones from an ancient stream bed
Run in a line through the rock.

It is amazing to look over and see the green.
Why are the birds so still? Is it the heat?
A bell sounds from far away and fades.
This is a lesson in turning your self over to
Stand on end. Plate tectonics in the raw.
Time and the seasons worked their magic here.

Time found its way through. The landscape of ridge and valley
Fold over and roll. Standing near the edge, there is a moment
When I consider-- Did you ever think of going over the edge?
I think of your being gone now, broken through. I run my hand
Across the stone, its warm rough cheek. My own cheeks wet,
Hot tears and the burn that goes right through my broken heart.

Cattle rest with their calves, some graze. I'd graze in the sweet grass,
Too, if my life were theirs. I'm wanting my sweet life to play...
What happens is one line in the palm of my hand followed to its end.
A jag of happenstance or plan. The best we can hope for is love.
The last of the day rises up from the valley and glows. Hawk
Circles around and comes up, surprised to find me so close.

Softly, softly, the wind comes in from the south.
The sound in the trees rises and falls.
I fill my hands with blueberries,
The unexpected blue.
The stain on my fingers.
The stain of you.

Full Crow Moon

Full Crow Moon

If you told me how you'd watched crow
Darken the bright bare limbs of an oak,
How that harsh call brought you to
mortal grief, I'd believe you.

Walking among the cedars at dusk, I found one
Lightning struck, split and grown together arm
In arm. Even the pines lean in to each other.
Dusk rises with the silver silence of birds.

The last shadow of wings shapes the ground.
Already, rough buds swelling to green.
Another winter flown back to the stars.
The sun still cold on my cheek.

I am leaving this place with a pocket of luck:
Two blue marbles, a feather and a stone.
Small things, but good enough. Bright
Treasure of this night. Full crow moon.

Leaving Knoxville.

I found a poem going thorugh my journals and papers, and remembered the man I wrote this about. This is not so much autobiographical as it is a fiction about a family of musicians.

The man this poem is most about is a Knoxville singer-songwriter. I won't name names here. I knew him for awhile and he is the real deal. A poet.

A poet.

That has so much power in it.
The ability to tell a thing and make it real enough to imagine. To tell a thing as true as possible.

He inspired me to do that and this poem is the result of his good heart and bad ways.

* * *


First Birthday

(for all the joy
you brought us)

I know this story after the fact.
In the middle of July, mama looks out
from the photograph with dark, hard eyes.
She's holding me up in her arms, the thin
strap of her sundress off of one shoulder.
Daddy stands beside us with a little smile,
his eyes glance away down the sidewalk
with a look that isn't hard to read.

That was before he'd cut his first album or had a hit.
He'd get home late Friday and leave early on Saturday,
head off somewhere with his guitar in a case and his boots
in a pale green pillowcase. Worked all week climbing poles,
running line from Fort Smith to Fayetteville.Drove a hundred
thouand miles one year, is what he said. Mama stayed home and had
five more kids before I was out of fourth grade. Sadie Rae, Melba Jean,
Rosa Lee, Opal and Inez Lane.

But in this picture I was the only child.
Mama would sometimes take us to a show,
at the Red Gate Supper Club, the county line.
Daddy up on stage, drinking beers and laughing
with the drummer. We'd all take our baths in the
afternoon. Someone would braid my hair. One by
one, we'd have to sit on the couch until time to go.
Where's my girls? he'd say, and sing us our song.

The back of my bonnet floats white as a cloud
againt the front of my aunt's grocery on 9th street.
Gladys liked to write songs and sing harmony.
We all spent our holidays together for years.
She took the picture on my first birthday.
Caught mama looking pissed-off for the camera,
the back of my head, and my daddy
with his eyes turned away.

1994/1995
Knoxville, TN

Being A Practicing Bird

Being A Practicing Bird

Birds flying as fish swimming, skim branches and cry their calls.

Dim in the trees, the sky glows the patina of old silver.

Rain dark limbs and the ground growing the green

Of new summer.

We are blessed.

There is plenty to eat.

I watch from my upstairs window because it is wonderful

In the trees. Jay's Yi! Yi! Yi! of danger comes in loud.

Gray cat creeps along the edge of the yard.

Being a practicing Bird, I chase it away.

Preditor to Preditor.

The cat ran into the thickett.

I am a bird with silvery wings.

My top-knot is dark and red.

My tail feathers drag the ground behind me.

I fly to my nest and practice my bird ways.

The long days of eggs and waiting.

My mate with his jet bright eyes.

His call I recognise forever.

As birds are, I wish to be without a fear for tomorrow.

Jay soars toward me, flies back to the edge of the wood,

Returns, drops down to find the yellow corn.

Pica de Gayo. The beak of the chicken.

All this: which is a mystery and a holy song.

Light finds passage through the limbs.

Quick flint of Crow flying through.

Just below the roof line.

Never so close in.

The suspension of flight, black wings held in long

Crow seconds.

Jay flies back again. Bright as any tropical fish.

Swimming in light.

Practicing beauty.

Sublime

Changeling

Changeling

Pony was my friend, and we galloped the lake trails.
Jay bird knew everything before hand. It was dusk but I
Knew the way by heart. Everything was rough with summer...

Moon and stars, the wind in my face. Hoof sound on
Hard ground. And when I fell, it was a long time
Before I knew I was in the world.

I was not a milkmaid. I had not met the reindeer
Along the merry stream. Mama's singing lulled me to
Dreaming. A hunting song... I was bright eyed

Fox, rusty red, and I caught the rooster
In my mouth. I ran the hills and rocks. I lived in
Danger for my life. I knew how to disappear,

How to hide and kill, winning my warrior name.
Pony, pony. Strong legs and thick mane. Dappled love.
Horse of war. I was a mare and he loved my lovely neck.

We grazed. My life was green. My legs were long and I
Wrapped his ribs like a lover. Feathers in my hair.
It was summer all the time. I wore my skin animal brown.

How was I to be a girl?

I was not my mother's pet bird.
I had none of her racetrack curves.
I lived in a room outside her world.
She never knew who her daughter was.

09/08