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So the Violets lived
in the long shadow
of a slaughterhouse,

separated from death
by cyclone fencing
and a scrabbly yard.

In summer, family time
meant sitting on the porch
drinking cans of Budweiser.

It took about a six pack
each to mask the smell
of cow and diesel fuel,

but the rumble of semis
and the relentless lowing
of cattle were inescapable.

In winter, woodsmoke
filled the small rooms,
slowly turning the walls

the color of ***** snow.
Icicles hung from gutters,
lengthening like knives.

The youngest Violet daughter
grew up, moved to Louisville,
and became a painter of vivid

abstracts.

I have one of her paintings
hanging on a wide white wall.
I like to pour myself a Scotch

and watch the mangled colors—
brilliant viscera sullying
a slaughterhouse stall—

the smell of peat and smoke;
the taste of earth’s undoing.
With its roots embedded in the ground
The plant gains its vitality
Nourishments painstakingly climbs
Reaching its peak
The blossoming of the flowers
With the canopy shouting out loud

Aren't we all just trees
Rooted yet not literally grounded
Trading the rugged roads
With occasional stumbles
Refusing to fall.

We know the ground too well
It's where we came from
As we shine
Lest we forget what it means to us

Big power has took hold again
Lies paraded as half truth
Discernment has been lost in the process
Theirs hearts opened up to manipulation
Hatred fills their hearts
Through long standing acquiescent norm

Arise from the slumber
Power abhore vacuum
Greatness shall thrive in goodness
Lest we forget the root
It never ceases to bring wonder
To those who chose to stand their ground
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.
"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)
nobody ever filled my missing parts
nobody could get me so high
but you with your questions about
history and politics
while the burning passion within
(which
swept away cold walls of my mind)
grabbed me by the soul and gently kissed...
(slight enough to break wings of butterfly)

...but here and now those parts are missing
yet again
here in my violent stubborn heart
while outside haunting wind
provokes the outrage of the chimes
(never to touch the face so fair
never to hear another subtle breath)

I should go to sleep!
I should go to sleep…

…desolation comes upon the days
painting the time with little pieces
of suffering (how can I close my eyes
hearing it coming with malevolence
in its steps)

Good-bye
Good-bye
and always my love

yours nobody

***
eliminate and profligate your endless sorrows
tedious trepidations reservoirs of hence and morrow
effortlessly esteemed and steeped in splendor
wrought free from inclinations what you render

passions aflame the minds needs and ignore
what stiffens and loosens your need to explore
delve swiftly aghast in times to forget
appease and set forth long after needs met

epiphany drones on with a deluge
more information you need or can use
step lively and stern of face and of mind
in justice and peace relevance you will find
Shine and dance
as your blessed iridescence
flies in the moonlight
of a brisk winter's night,
as we spin, time slows
and above us infinite stars glow,
the fallen leaves twirl in a breeze,
limbs creak on the naked trees,
headstones stolid in the earth
all grant us a wide berth
because the dead they stand above
endlessly envy our true love.
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