I can't wait until I get off at six
So I can head to Covington to get my Oktoberfest fix
To sit in Goebel Park's courtyard and listen to a German band;
with the German style Pied Piper Bell tower; the view is grand
At the Goose Girl Fountain, a walking German band can be found
I guess my heritage is ingrained but I like that sound
Brats with sauerkraut, roasted nuts and some German beer
Come on six o'clock I want to be there!

Black Israelite haters, excused,
led to schoolboys reviled and accused
of white racism, hate.
The reaction was great--
but the whiteboys were merely amused.

Progressives were driven berserk
by a teenager's innocent smirk.
The old shaman tried shaming:
and drumming and blaming,
but none of those strategies work!

Mr. Phillips, the activist drummer
gave Regressives their Indian Summer--
till a teenager's smirk
drove the demons berserk
and made dumbed-down regressives much dumber.

If a smile is a cultural crime
then the criminals need to do time.
Every whiteboy must go
in this cracka-*** show
and I'm guilty for reason of rhyme.

royalty to all us in the hood we knew her
as the renowned duchess,her fame spread all the way to New Brockton
and far as Troy, earned, was her renown by the best at her
trade and fairness in commerce.  For twenty dollars she would smile with
the best glamour as she flattered the less endowed, no matter.
She walked around like a midnight Covington ATM ,
give her one hundred she stayed all night, giving change.

In a sense,
I died right there with you
on the road going south
to my own grandpa’s funeral.

You two didn’t know each other
but you decided to go out at the same time.

The news kept me driving hysterical
for six hours, gripping the wheel constantly
cursing the stars for stinging my eyes.

I thought about climbing
up out of the sun roof,
riding the van like a wave
somehow steering the thing
with my own nervous intensity

Imagined my teeth
gritting away in the night,
as if on *******,
eyes expanding
trance like in fear
of sadness

For three nights I felt that
fear. Felt those piercing bullets
ripping clear through
your clean white tee
leaving you cold,
and breathless
on some ****** covington street.

When the WWII veterans
fired out the shots of salute
for my Grandpa,
I somehow didn't flinch
and thought of you
denying those dudes
any joy of ripping you off.

You didn’t understand death
and neither did my Grandma,
for that matter.
just one look at her
trembling eyes exposed
life's distant rawness.
no grounds
for the wonderment of death.
Then as the trumpet
rang out, it echoed
across those mountains
like a legend itself.
Streaks of reality and
Color all unearthed
at once. Heavy
silence.

The big gray dog home with a Walkman on my chest ,
The long drive from Anniston , hitting every small town
to the West ...
Driver please drop me off in Hapeville , destination Kelleytown or
Covington , anyplace on Earth will do , anywhere but Fort McClellan !!

I am from the starless sky.
From comforting blankets and warm cups of tea.
I am from the warm and quiet, the sometimes cold and stiff.
From the always filled with laughter.
The memory filled air, bright colors fuse.
It was dark silk, that I could not see.
I am from the form of a willow tree, perhaps the scent of a pine tree; the gentleness of a daffodil and the elegance of a tulips petals.
Wallowy branches of the willow tree, ***** scent of it's bark, the wiltedness of its form.
I'm from the gathering of family, greeting as if we were strangers, where sometimes we are separated
From Sharon and Covington, and the Hills'.
I'm from the bright flames in our chests.
From you are your own, and you hold the power.
I'm from the thought of something bigger, but never weighing my heart down.
I'm from mixed races, ones of different traditions. From the hardworking Africans, the dignified Caucasian, the intelligence of Asians. And many more
I am from life lessons, influences, bad memories, and the joy that some days have.
I am from what I dream to be, what I build myself to be.
I am me.

smoke in my eyes
cicadas in the distance
i think may cry tonight.
**** ain't been as sweet as this swisher smoke
or stolen mints at tim's.
i think i may disappear into the foliage and concrete.
i think tomorrow is as bitter as yesterday.

This is a poem I wrote for Fr. Raph’s 90th birthday this spring. Last night - 29 October 2020 - he died truly in the fullness of years, in the prayerful company of his brothers at the Abbey, and so I re-send this as my poor valedictory for him on his happiest birthday of all:

                           Father Raphael Barousse, OSB

                    Abbey St. Joseph, Covington, Louisiana

             Monk, Missionary, Muleskinner, Writer, Teacher,
                           Scholar, Raconteur, Uncle Bubby,

                                                      Friend


­                       To God, Who Gives Joy to Our Youth

                  For Reverend Raphael Barousse, OSB

                 Father Raph - Uncle Bubby - on His Birthday


                                      Introibo ad altare Dei

                    Ad Deum qui laetificat juvenitutem meam


You look into the mirror and ask yourself
“Who is that old man staring back at me?”
Your friends tell you you’re lookin’ good - for your age
And your uncooperative body in protest creaks

But you and all of them are wrong because

You still approach the Altar as a child
As you once were, and are, and will be forever
For God will have it so, will have you so -
Enchanted by His magic - a little boy

A little boy in Sunday shoes and shirt
Who hears his Mama whispering to him, “Don’t squirm!”
As the Mass hums through a summer morning
Until that moment when you encounter Him:

The universe spirals through its sunlit dance
Creation spins around, in, and down
Eternity circles the paten and cup

Miraculum

Eternity circles the paten and cup
Around and out and up, Creation spins
Through its sunlit dance the universe spirals

And only little children understand that
And only little children are invited
And so God gives joy to your forever-youth
And your forever-youth gives joy to God