The Cathedral-Basilica of Saint Louis, King of France,
now called St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans was first built in 1718.
They hand out glow-in-the-dark rosaries for Mardi gras
so folks can find
their way to Jesus in the dark.
Come, pick your way through the park
cross Decatur to drink coffee at Cafe DuMonde,
have more beignets,
trail powdered sugar and beads
to stare the Old Man in his muddy eyes.
Hanging ferns and foibles
line balconies where voices speak
but you cannot understand on Toulouse Street:
you are but a traveler here even
when you've walked these cobbled stones
for twenty years.
Bend warp and weave your dinner;
string the lost
beads to sell to the unsuspecting
because anything goes
and the party will go on anyhow.
Beyond the sequined mask
naught but hollowed eyes you do
not want to see and that clown
you laughed at, but did not pay
juggles souls behind your back.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC
Crawl with me back
behind the the Midway glare of lights
so bright they blind you to the inevitable.
Slink into the shadows
where the carnies laugh at the marks;
the sound of their mirth
decomposing at the edges of their mouths,
falling to the ground to slither away
in the darkness.
Sneak behind the glowing banners
where the peeling paint is stained
with a thousand yesterdays
and there is no happy endings
or smiling child with over-sized toy.
See? There beyond the glow of the calliope
sleeps a girl, thumb in tear stained mouth,
curled into herself in the hay. Momma's busy
where the ***** sound drowns out other noises.
And there, where the fat lady hangs her garments
to dry in starlight, she watches the townies stroll
and wishes she had a different role to play.
Behind the warped boards of the spinning wheels
the boy strains to hear coded words
to know which lever to press, unless
he sees the shiny toes and knows
to vanish into the night.
Walk the Midway with me now--
the cotton candy spun dreams melting;
the grainy taste no longer sweet.
The bolt is loose on the tilt-a-whirl but
it is late and tear down starts when the last rider
bolts for home. Magic and fantasy
are folded into boxes, packed away like
disjointed clowns in an undersized car
until the next day, the next town,
the next nameless place
and all the dreams are spun once again
for the believing, the foolish and the blind.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 7:29 PM UTC
Sea of Trees crests at Mt Fuji's feet.
Thick forest of Japanese cypress, red pines
grow neck and neck with alder. Where when
trees fall, they don't: they cant. Rope-like
roots, stymied by volcanic rock, twist and turn,
tortured by ancient lava impeding their desire
to push deep within.
Some voices echo that the trees themselves,
fueled by juices full of malevolent energy
sap the resolve of ones who venture there.
Gnarled branches twisted, tortured
under deceiving feathery moss, rise
above intertwined cypress knees as if
the forest had gone for a stroll and then knelt
when a soul ventured near.
Jukai, of the breathtaking views
where hanging hemp ropes take breath forever away.
Living greens so dense, sounds are swallowed whole:
No one hears the screams in Aokigahara
and there is no one to see until
bleached bones lie in stark relief;
Death thrives next to the rotting.
Sunlight muted beneath canopy
where chilling beauty lies
in perpetual twilight
and the only movements are swinging ropes
where no breeze passes.
Here come the ones who have reached
the end
of their rope or choices: Hanging is
the death of choice in Aokigahara.
Yurei, Japanese spirits who yet cling
to Earthly realm flit between the trees--
white, shifting forms caught only in the
corner of your eye. Leading, perchance,
across cenotes or hollow tubes,
where hidden caves make up your mind
when you travel down the wrong path.
Colorful ribbons, blue, white, red
stream through the forest; strings,
tapes trail behind those who walk
in case they change their minds for
no compass works near volcanic iron.
I am reminded of gaily wrapped presents
but here, what is unwrapped is death--
here, there is only the past where
Theseus unwinds his ball of thread
in the labyrinth of the Minotaur,
in the labyrinth of Aokigahara.
Scavenger hunts lead only
to those scavenged by the forest gleaners.
Death lies in the mists,
in the midst of the living.
An Apollo butterfly
rests on a sign pleading for life--
Apollo, god of light, of plagues, of music
seems to have no place here
but for the plague of suicide
which runs rampant.
Repugnant skulls with hollow eyes
can no longer see their reflections
in the rounds of polished glass
that mirror anguished souls
at the train station in hope
that they will see that they are not
invisible and stay among the seen.
The station is last stop
before they walk the forest path.
Aokigahara, Sea of Trees
looks up to the sun glinting off Mount Fujiyama
but beneath the canopy
are only the fallen.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
A cold snap: focus sharpens. Crystal clings to every branch
defining more than outline: Long frozen memories want to play.
Youth, buried in years, drifts; re-emerges in layers as I carefully button my coat.
Frigid air; a sharp crack of winter’s whip—for a brief moment I cannot breathe.
Combination of stark colors: world reduced to winter green, black and white.
My own world's akin to the front step; encased in ice.
Laughter shatters the perfect silence as children spill out to play.
Stark softens to water-colored blends. Children: each zipped in winter coat,
with scarf flapping as they run, whitened puffs of air trailing as they breathe.
Boots crunch, footstep designs break ****** white
as I balance, frozen: Journey begun on steps of ice.
When did the magic cease? Somewhere I took a lonely branch.
Burning bush edges the stairs; fiery leaves still stubbornly cling—a coat
of frost blurring red to pale, not unlike distant memory. I breathe
time. Wind whisks snow - nature’s blender. White
out. The bottom step vanishes, but the ice
remains. With naught to grasp, I reach for a branch,
but fall into the fire. The ice burns my face. I am too old; tears play.
Yet muscles defrost, bones aren’t splintered ice and I breathe
a sigh of relief. Flailing flightless wings I snow angel the white
powder on the walk in efforts to rise. I am conquered, the ice
is master here. Direct line of vision: A walking stick stuck to branch;
frozen in time. Dead. Realization sears, I won’t play
that game. A cardinal perches on the split rail fence, his scarlet coat
a crimson memory flash. I remember soaring: red rails against white
on my flexible flyer as I raced the wind down hills worn to ice.
The sharp turn at the bottom taken tilted to shoot across the branch
of the river, scattering skaters. For hours, I’d play
returning, blue lipped to my grandmother’s warm bread. My coat
soaked through, the hearth blazing so hot I could barely breathe.
Smiling at myself, sitting in the snow, I feel the ice
of age crack and my mittened hands form a snowball. I eye the branch
but begin to build a snowman. I haven’t forgotten at all. Rising, I play
with the day, feeling joy as brisk air renews. No matter, now, my coat
isn’t nearly warm enough, I am warmed by the past remembered. I breathe
in and the canvas that is I, again, is white.
No longer shrouded in ice, I branch
off in new directions. For in play, imagination takes mere white
and paints a fresh new coat. It takes more than air to breathe.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:17 PM UTC
This morning, out in lightly falling snow, I heard geese
as flights of them flew overhead. Like a shot
I was ten again, Grammy and I at the lake. I’d sit in the bow
of my canoe, pulled awkwardly ashore, neck craned back to watch the sky.
I was always sad to see them go; their calls so many cold goodbyes.
Ice encrusted water slushed against the dock in slow motion waves.
It was time to seek new horizons, where waves
of Floridian waters would embrace the geese.
My grandmother said that every new adventure started with goodbyes
to one thing or another. If I were ever to have a shot
at following my dreams, there’d be farewells as I reached for the sky.
Instinct would lead me onward to my accomplished bow.
One year Momma and Poppa Goose stayed behind, a nest in the bow
of my boat. The wintery sky turned black with departing waves.
They would call out as the flying ones filled the sky.
Wounded wing grounded Poppa. (Canada geese
mate for life.) Momma would not leave her mate, recently shot
during hunting season. She would not yet say her goodbyes.
This, then, was the winter of no cold goodbyes.
Before school, pony tailed hair with ribboned bow,
blowing in the stiff breeze, I’d take a shot
at keeping ice from the edge of the lake, waves
arrowing out as they swam. The geese,
with an itch in their wings, anxious for a return to their sky.
That summer Poppa introduced his flock to the sky,
practiced formational takeoffs leading to goodbyes.
Clouds overhead gathered gray with unfallen snow as the geese
took flight. My two watching for a moment, dipping heads in an elegant bow,
before joining in the aerial ballet of strong winged waves.
Grammy’s strong hand gripped my shoulder, then-- the parting shot.
Grammy joined the geese beyond the horizon. No miracle shot
or endless love could keep her with me. Heaven was in the sky.
I knew she was watching although there’d been no time for final waves.
Her new adventure started without time for goodbyes.
Outside, snow blanketed as I cried myself to sleep. Her final bow
had been silent, but she’d been telling me, as had the geese.
Overhead the geese are shaftless arrows shot
from an instinctual bow piercing the morning sky
with their raucous goodbyes. Time waves.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
Inspired by the movie 'The Songcatcher' and Sheila Kay Adams
A singer sings the ancient songs
and the kinfolk sing along...
and the kinfolk sing along.
They sing old harmonies
passed generations down
from mother to daughter;
their unique mountain sound.
They sing of dying, of love, of the dead,
of long lost loves, of breaking bread.
And these songs harken back
to the lands whence they came
with little more
than their backs and their name.
There are songs for working hard during the day
and songs for thanking, and making your way.
Together they play the ancient songs
and the kinfolk sing along...
and the kin folk sing along.
Stories are told
when their ballads are sung,
and banjos played;
strings plucked or strummed.
They sing of the simple joys of life,
of good times and sad times and endless strife.
Lessons learned and stories golden,
songs of killing, of blood, and pain,
Heard endless times in front porch warmth
Connections strengthened, kinship claimed.
People bred strong as the mountain's roots
Sing their songs, their simple truths.
And all the kinfolk sing along
when the mountain sings the ancient songs...
when the mountain sings the ancient songs.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:13 PM UTC
A star exploded a million point six years ago
in a galaxy we've yet to know exists.
Today the energy
reached us.
And your smile was brighter
although you had no clue why.
But because of this,
I smiled too.
And a day that was dark and heavy--
pressure flattening us like
an unrelieved argument we didn't know
we were having
turned around.
The dark side was enveloped in light
and we loved, giggled about stupid stuff
no one but us could ever understand
and somewhere
deep inside that impossibly far away place
a new star shimmered into being.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 9:02 AM UTC