Cowboys and Angels

This poem was inspired by an article from a British journal that discusses using email and other asynchronous online forums for counseling. The author, Jeannie Wright, mentions that online counseling is beneficial for people, who due to to geography or disabilities, cannot physically attend face-to-face counseling sessions. Why am I reading articles like this? Well, I'm doing some preliminary work for my dissertation on writing as therapy. Fun!

Cowboys and Angels

Beyond windowpane
snow drifts from slate clouds,
collapsing soundless
to cover earth, animal, barn, house,
anything left bare to the elements.
Endless expanses of Canadian prairie
rest dormant, waiting for spring to chase
negative temperatures, renew life, thaw hearts.
Sheltered from the cold night,
a rancher sits at his computer,
attempting to make a connection
that geography forbids.
He logs on, accesses through passwords,
and wanders from room to room,
chatting with others.
“Hw r u?”
“Gr8.”
Later, a woman reads
beauty in snow-topped mountains,
messages of loneliness and cold,
pride in ranching and surviving.
Through her open window
soft breezes tickle curtains,
rearrange ends of her hair,
cool flushes of interest
blooming across her cheek.
She doesn’t hear the ocean’s roar
just beyond glass and screen
or the ring of cell phone
as a man passes on the sidewalk.
In fact, she cannot hear
even the muted hum
her computer generates as she types.
But she can imagine the silence
the man up north describes,
the isolation it brings a heart.
She can convey the warmth
of a gentle word whispering
through her keyboard
and into the dark.
Despite space,
no matter disability,
they enjoy the relief
another soul brings.

Unwilling Lurker

Unwilling Lurker

He clings, desperate.
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
Summer is waxing;
days are long.
Temperatures should climb,
even at this early hour.
But, he’s cold,
too cold.
He cannot fly,
much less sweep to the arm
held so tantalizingly near.
He’s trapped,
limbs clamped to screen door.

His size, a full inch from head to tail,
cannot assist him here,
nor can ebony wings
marked with white design.
His needle,
dreaded torture device,
instigator of scratching ,
remains useless,
a prisoner against the mesh.

The sun will rise and warm him,
instantaneously bestowing flight,
but not if the woman sipping coffee
notices him lurking and swats,
killing the dratted mosquito.

Man in Black

This week in class, we listened to a Johnny Cash song ("Long Black Veil") and wrote down sensory images that the sound of his voice or the words in the song inspired. We were supposed to write images for each of the five senses and create a more formalized poem (i.e. each line beginning with a variant of "This song feels like..."). But, as usual, I didn't follow directions. For one thing, I don't usually catch smells or tastes on paper well. For another, I shy away from these really structured poems generally. So, combining found poetry (titles and/or phrases from Cash's songs) with mainly sight images, here's a listing poem.

Man in Black

Thunder, rumble in the dark
hum of a bear fresh from his den
cocaine blues wrapped in long black veil
humble stone waiting at open grave
noble, human soul consumed in ring of fire
drum of train, prowling side of mountain
ebon shadow, mumble in the night
Sunday mornin’ comin’ down
growl of diesel engine, primitive, unyielding
croon of swarthy lover, persuading wary prey
walk the line written in jet upon an onyx page
growl soaked in whiskey and smoke
howling to Folsom barbed wire
defiant, killing just to watch death soak the page,
wretched solitary man
desolate phantom immune to a lullaby
fear cloaked in midnight, wonder, and hurt
Ghost Rider,
Highwayman
hound of hell and redemption

The Slow Dissolve

I created the following movie about my dad for one of my doctoral classes. The course discusses critical literacy, basically how does one teach those who might be more concerned about survival (food, shelter, etc). We looked closely at Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire as well as a few other texts (Bomer & Bomer, Christiansen, Baol). When it came time for my project, I wanted to do something different--not a lesson plan or an in-service or stuff like that (those they are all good topics)--something creative. So, I put audio recordings of my father singing behind pictures of him and poetry that I wrote within the last two years of his life, the time that his Alzheimer's was at its worst.

Writing has always been a way for me to understand or at least think through a problem or an emotion. This project was no different.

Elementals

As most US residents know, the Midwest is experiencing some massive flooding, mainly along the Mississippi River. Last Saturday I was driving from the airport in Kansas City to home (Columbia) on I-70 [part of the reason I haven't posted lately--trip to Denver] and saw this gorgeous fire-ball of a moon hanging over the flooded Missouri River. The sight just wouldn't leave my head, so I jotted down a few phrases in the dark as I drove [I don't recommend this practice] and then fleshed it out more when I got home (at 11.30 p.m., thank you). I'm sharing this rough draft online due to the timeliness of the subject and in hopes that someone will respond with helpful comments to improve it. At this point, dang it, I'm stumped with what to do with the dang thing. :(

Elementals

A fiery moon splashes
against an uninvited crest,
lipping, flirting with the edge of the road.
Beneath the canopy of small liquid mirrors
reflecting back orange rays,
an ocean of infant corn drowns;
another’s dream strangles
in the rising flood of the Missouri.
Scientists say the burnt hue overhead
results from fires in California
spewing ash into the air,
while the media relate
more levees broken under pressure
from rains further north.
Tonight, journeying home,
I ride a tight wire between elementals.
Do I succumb to the passion,
the promise of heat in the darkness,
knowing it might prove false,
a mere reflection of true ardor,
or do I yield to the serene,
the apparent guarantee of calm,
realizing I may suffocate
within its encompassing arms.
Instead, I continue on my course,
ignore the decision just outside my door,
and the moon slips away,
creeps over the horizon,
while the flood water washes
onto another shore.
Choosing neither passion
nor security,
my road continues on.

By the way, I'll post again soon with details and recommendations from my trip to Denver. It was a very good time, even though I was there to work (yuck). :)

Blessings

I wrote this poem exactly four years ago today. My dad had died the September before due to complications associated with a broken hip (it didn't help he had congested heart failure, Alzheimer's and Parkinson's). He was a dynamic man, almost larger than life. At the age of 42, he and my mom sold their hotel/restaurant business so he could enter the ministry. Since he didn't have even an associate's degree, we all lived on a minuscule paycheck while he attended college at Conception Abbey (a Benedictine monastery) and preached at two different churches. Within seven years, he'd earned his BA, MA, and PhD and built a new church. I miss him every day.

Blessings

My dad sang every Sunday
Before his sermon.
After visiting the Holy Land
He loved to sing, “I Walked Today
Where Jesus Walked”
For he’d felt a connection
Between place and time
And grew closer in his faith.
He had seen what Christ had witnessed,
Touched what God had molded,
Heard what the Father created.

This weekend, I kept expecting that mystical union
To miraculously come true for me.
Walking the steps of Conception Abbey,
I trod the paths my father
Had 30 years ago, saw the same trees,
Smelled the fresh country breezes,
Listened to raucous descendants
Of birds he’d heard in the 70s.
But
I wasn’t gifted.
I wanted a piece of the father I’d lost
Returned.
It didn’t happen.

This morning I rose with the nonexistent dawn,
Saw the fog obscure the scenic hillside,
And watched a quiet wren fly to and fro
Feeding his chicks.
Sitting on a bench under a massive sheltering oak,
I contemplated why numbness
Arrived in place of illumination.

Then
The bells tolled
Calling the faithful into home.
And I looked
Toward the Basilica
To find Joseph holding the Christ child
Peering over my shoulder
Reading my journal.

Heathen as I am,
I was blessed.
For a scant instant
A father’s love melted down
As droplets from Heaven,
Nourishing the earth,
Cleansing the air,
Renewing my soul.

“I walked today where he has walked and felt him standing there.”

There

I wrote this poem earlier this year after reading House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. The words and situation are taken directly from the novel, which details a girl's evolving attitude toward the house and street in which she lives (in a nutshell--the novel is really about so much more than that).

There

Before, I can’t remember…
Then Paulina
Keeler
Loomis—the third floor
Then…
Mango Street
We moved a lot
Each time we added one more
Mama Papa Carlos Kiki Nenny Me


The house on Mango Street is ours
Not the house we’d thought we’d get
No rent
No sharing the yard with people downstairs
Don’t worry about making too much noise
No landlord banging on ceiling with a broom
But still… It’s not the house we’d thought we’d get

Mango Street is not the way they told it at all—
It’s small and red with tight steps
Windows so small they’re holding their breath
Crumbling bricks and swollen doors
No yard, only four little elms
Small garage, but we don’t own a car yet
Everyone must share a bedroom—Mama, Papa, Carlos, Kiki, Nenny, and me


You live there?
There…
Paint peeling
Wooden bars
You live there?
It made me feel like nothing.
You live there?
I nodded.

The house on Mango Street is not the house we’d thought we’d get, but
I live there.