What is My Present?

Seven minutes:

What is my present?  The leafy maple outside my window?  The sun casting its last light on the trees lower on the hill?  They had warmed with gold light just before I wrote the last sentence, and by the time I typed the period their illumination vanished.  Six seconds of splendor as the sun descends behind the mountain.  Is it the slight pain I feel in my back as I sit here?  The tightness of my legs?  Or is my present in the breath and striped fur of my tabby cat stretched along my thigh?  The open notebook next to her?  The feelings of frustration in trying to market a book? I saw one of the pileated woodpeckers for the first time today, though I’ve heard their hammering for over two weeks. That is the present I want.  Writing thoughts and making images, that is the present I desire.  Selling and searching and looking at Amazon rankings, not.  My present is my struggle with faith.  The laundry in the dryer and the new load to put in.  In hearing my husband’s car door shut and his feet on the steps. The opening of the door as he comes home.  The opening of the book I plan to read tonight.

My Heart is at the Window

 My heart is at the window.

I lean with longing on the sill.

I am at the edge of expectation,

Waiting, waiting

to see the future form, the grace

I have wished for, the humble steps

of hope, the whirlwind ready to kiss my cheek.

My heart is at the window,

I have been here so long,

the horizon has been hidden by the leaves’ ornamentation, by pages of years, by my too small courage.

My heart is at the window.

I pray that love sweeps down the lonely road

and breaks open my heart, so sadly patient,

into the seizures of a streaming sun,

shattering me into the light that taunts my vista.

When I Was My Grandmother

Seven Minutes . . .

Last night this strange feeling came over me that I was my grandmother Parala.  Never knew her as she died in 1922 at the age of 42, mother of Lois, Leslie (my father), Mary Ruth (dead at two), stillborn babies, and my Uncle Darius who is still alive at 93.  I saw a post card she sent once when I visited my uncle.  She signed herself Para.  I decided her mother was playing with language and came up with her name because they were sounds she liked, like a song.  She had a hard life, wife of a sharecropper who made moonshine, who wore her husband’s shoes, who saw her children die, who moved to Detroit and didn’t last long.  Did she miss Arkansas, and Mary Ruth, where the legend said she planted a white and a red rosebush at her child’s grave that never stopped blooming? The child whose head made a feathered crown on her death-bed.  My father, 12 years old, 1918, having quit school to pick cotton, remembering he did a somersault in the fields hearing the news that World War One had ended.  All in one  year, little sister he could not talk about even as an old man.  Was it the flu? No money for a doctor.  And his grandmother, Sarah Winn Johnson Eason, who buried half of her dozen or more children, whose life stretched out to old womanhood.  As a young woman in Mississippi, she buried a child and gave birth to another two days later.  I have Parala and Isaac’s wedding picture when they were both fresh and young.  I have his eyes and her thick hair.  The other two pictures I’ve seen, she has become this Grapes of Wrath woman, so thin and weary with life.  And I had this feeling last night that I was her and walked in her thin dresses and loved her children and how that for all them, save my uncle, did not save them from the darkness ahead of them.

The Boyfriend: Spawn of Satan

Selection from the novel I’m working on:

               It was a glazed doughnut and sticky. She licked her fingers one by one and then took a bite.  We went over a bump, and there was a loud farting sound. The boys in the back cheered.

            “Rhonda, you don’t know who Bo really is.”

            “Oh, yes, I do.”  Rhonda turned in her seat and waved at him.  Bo was on his haunches, his tail wrapped around his legs. “He’s the spawn of Satan and doesn’t care what I eat.”

            I was speechless for a moment.  “What’s a spawn?” I finally asked. 

            “I have no idea, but Bo says that’s what he is,” Rhonda answered, and then she whispered in my ear. “Charlotte, I knew you weren’t lying about Ezequiel.  Now we both have boyfriends.”

            My lunch pail suddenly grew warm in my lap.  “Ezequiel’s not my boyfriend, but whether he is or not, that’s not the point.  Bo isn’t anything like him.  He’s evil.”

            “He’s not evil, not deep down,” she said. “You don’t always know everything.”

Rhonda finished her doughnut in two bites, no doubt thinking I was being bossy. The picture of Mary Poppins on my lunch pail felt like it was burning through my dress into my thigh.  I opened it.  On top of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich there was the paper folded neatly like a napkin, now with the same branding iron seal that had embossed Ezequiel’s diploma.

  The bus entered the school driveway.  I clicked the pail shut, grabbed the handle tight even though the heat made my fingers smart, and left my friend sitting there waiting for her Bo.

            Rhonda was in a different class, but though Bo was now her official boyfriend he followed me into mine.  Mr. Harrison and the kids acted like he’d always been there, just like my family had.  I studied the class photo Mr. Harrison pinned on the wall by the door, and, sure enough, there he was with two fingers behind my head.

            We were assigned a boring ditto where we had to find the right place to put the accent on our vocabulary words and then read a story that seemed about fifty pages long.  After that, we had long division.  All but Bo.  He was allowed to lie on the rug in the class library and read whatever he wanted.  At least he was quiet and not making a nuisance of himself.  I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he flipped through a National Geographic (Mr. Harrison had pulled out all the naked pictures) and then start a Hardy Boy’s mystery.  He seemed genuinely lost in the book and every so often his tail would twitch like he’d come to a good part.  He didn’t even hear the bell for recess.

            “Son,” Mr. Harrison said in his kind voice, “time to go out and play.”

            Bo heaved himself off the floor. I followed him out.  He made a beeline to the swings where Rhonda waited for him.  Some demon-magic lifted them off the ground, and they swung in high arcs perfectly in tandem. Most of Rhonda’s class and mine were gathering around them chanting:

Rhonda and Bo

Sitting in a tree,

                                  K-I-S-S-I-N-G

The words were truly a curse.  When it was time to go in and they came to a stop, Rhonda leaned over and kissed Bo’s cheek, the first girl in fourth grade to  kiss a boy. 

            On the way home, Bo took over my place next to her. Mr. Teddy told them that they were too young to hold hands.  I brooded as I sat next to a second grade girl with a drippy nose. I decided to do what Daddy was always accusing Mommy of and give them both “the silent treatment.” 

I didn’t tell Rhonda, “See ya’ tomorrow,” as we got off the bus like I did everyday.  I watched her hesitate, waiting for me to say goodbye, and it felt like a worm was beginning to chew a hole in my heart. I clenched my teeth together and headed home. They could share more kisses and all the gummy devils in the universe if they wanted to, but I wasn’t going to watch.

The garage door was open, and I could see Daddy leaning on the freezer.  Mommy said as clean as he kept the garage you could eat off the floor, and she didn’t understand why inside the house he could never wash a dish or put his underwear in the hamper.

Daddy stared at the wall where his hammers and wrenches hung holding a shot glass.  A bottle of Jim Beam perched behind him. 

Bo caught up, panting from running.

“Daddy’s broken the promise he made to you, didn’t he?” he said.  “Last time, at least, he went for almost a week.”

“Don’t you dare call him Daddy,” I hissed.

“Can if I want to,” Bo said fiercely.

Daddy was so lost in thought he didn’t hear us.  Bo went into the garage and gave him a hug.

I went inside.  Bo was back in the Christmas picture, but this time he looked older than Connie and his middle finger was raised. Mommy was making a salad, cutting a cucumber so fast I was afraid she’d chop off one of hers.

“I hate that man, Charlotte.  It wasn’t even noon, and he started to drink.”

Bo piped up behind me. “Too bad you don’t have any job skills, Mommy.  You’d be too ashamed to raise us all on welfare.”

In less than a minute, Bo had grown as tall as Mommy was.  His freckles had given way to pimples, and he reeked of Daddy’s Old Spice after-shave.

“If I just felt I could take care of the three of you.”  Mommy was now attacking a tomato.  “I couldn’t do it by working at a dime store, and I’ve never done anything else.”

“Traffic is so bad in Vegas, isn’t it, Mommy?” Bo put an arm around her shoulder.  She stopped chopping and leaned against him.  “You might get killed. Or worse.”  His eyes grew big.  “You could kill one of us if you drove.”

Mommy nodded.  “Oh, Bo, did I ever tell you about the time that your father tried to teach me to drive?  He yelled at me from the get-go, and I knocked the fence post over as I was trying to back out of the driveway.”

“Maybe you could try again,” I suggested.  “I bet Millie would help you learn.”

            “Millie’s too busy,” Bo said.

            “Millie’s too busy, honey.”  Mommy took a can opener from the drawer and began to open a can of soup. She smiled at me.  “Chicken noodle, your favorite.”

A couple of moments later, Connie stormed into the house.  She threw her books on the floor headed straight to Bo with clenched fists.

“You dirty, little creep.” She went for his head. “How could you do this to me?”

            “Mommy, Connie’s picking on me,” Bo whined.

            “He’s spreading lies about me,” Connie said. 

            “Quiet down,” Mommy said, pulling her off Bo.  “Tell me what happened.”

            “Bo told everyone that . . .”

            Daddy walked in, and Connie stopped herself.  I wanted to disappear into my room, light a match for Ezequiel and disappear into Hell.

            “Connie fooled around with Freeman at the carnival,” Bo said.

            I could feel the heat of Daddy’s anger along my spine.  “You  . .  . little . . . tramp.” 

            I wanted to ask Ezequiel how Bo could be two ages and at two places at the same time, how could he kiss Rhonda in a tree while he was ruining my sister’s reputation?

Daddy took off his belt.  Mommy pulled Connie behind her.

            “You’ll have to use that on me first,” she said. 

The soup was boiling on the stove, but I was too afraid to move to turn it off.  If I stood there, maybe Daddy couldn’t get to Mommy and Connie.  Maybe my body had a force field to protect them.  Daddy had never hurt either one of us before because he loved us.  He’d come to his senses any minute and know that Bo was lying.

“I didn’t do anything,” Connie pleaded.  “You know that, Daddy.  You were there.  You took my picture.”

I had no force field.  I could give no protection. I was invisible as he stepped around me, winding the belt in his hand.

Galaxy Girl

There is a question next to her,

a small dog’s face,

loyalty to what she carries,

a cluster in the sky.

She is a new constellation,

lead by nebula light

and a galaxy brain.  ‘

Shy girl hiding her face beneath stars, exposed with her large naval,

all the dark matter of her belly, the crook of her arm, womanly hips.

I am in love.  I believe she would carry me to the dimensions of dreams,

through the night as minutes pass.  Call her Midnight and be done.

Sad Elephant

  Sad Elephant (seven minutes)

The winged insects flew

in from another world.

My stomach churns diamond shards

but my tears only drop red paint.

I step into the desert half crazed and wary.

I was a dandy but now I am old

and heavy with stars, scars on my skin.

I look for the palo verde and hope for healing.

My tears become little men

who pick the palms.   I’m leaving the wild ocean

for temptations of rocks and yellow sand.

I am blessed to wear elephant shoes,

but I grieve the water wings

I leave behind.  Cacti rattle hymns

for the predetermined God, the One who lives

in arid spaces.  I’ve gone to listen for him.

The ocean was too noisy.  My birth jungle brims

with confusing myth.  My tears speak of the wild gifts

buried within my heart.

I pray erosion will uncover them,

the crazed animals, dear unformed art,

the unknown blessings.

Les Eason, My Dad Aug. 30, 1906- Aug. 3, 1978

Stars Falling in August

Daddy, the stars fell when you died, skidding across the night

Like chips pealed from chrome, carried by burnished wind across the sky.

The creosote was drunk in the dry desert air.

And though I wasn’t there, I’ve imagined how you flew from your soul,

Leaving your daughters like thistles blown over the chaparral,

Our breath thin as the stems of the palo verde that grew stunted in the yard.

The house filled up with uncles.  My boyfriend and I slept on a cot out back,

As we made love, the stars became silver nighthawks,

Fish tails swimming through the blinding air.

I was numb like the space between stars that are too stable,

Refusing to stray from the safety of their paths.  I didn’t  feel the meteors

Of broken glass falling to earth in silent breaths.

Daddy, thousands of stars have tumbled since then,

Streaking through the heat of a hundred nights. Each second

They have been in the sky, these variegated strands of burning air

Have burned open the portion in me that closed

More than twenty years ago.

Now nights stay sober save for the drink of starlight,

And the odor of yarrow and summer grass.

But the sky will never be shorn of star flakes,

Nor the earth of burning sand. The stars fell

When you died, carried by the wind luminous across the sky.

Bastille Day

Bastille Day

 

Resist writing beautiful words if none

are called for. Admit that your knitting needles

click at the bottom of the guillotine. Freedom

is formed from nightmares, made from the messy

soup of the chopping block, in breach births,

and in the haunted souls of the stillborn.

Liberty is written as the mad harlot’s song,

rising with the smells of the boudoir

as she gives birth to the blind child

who will one day cast silhouettes of hope.

 

Lies must be digested and shat in the gardens

of darkness, decomposition igniting light. Resist

all beautiful words if none are called for.

Do not trust overlays of light not yet explored.

Go free. Ring ounces of pretension

from your nakedness. Kill the aristocrats,

and then have your enemies as dinner guests

in rooms purged, made spacious enough for light

to filter through high arched windows. Resist

beauty if you can not find it in despair,

in the clenched fists clung to barbed wire, on walls

upon which the graffiti of limits are written.

 

Resist beauty if it is false. If it remains in palaces

instead of on the streets. If it exchanges terror

for cosmetics laced with lead. Your sole may leave a

bloody footprint as the baskets filled high with heads.

Offer yours.

 

Resist.

It’s still July 14th on my side of the world.

I wrote this poem a few years ago for a reading I did at Cafe Arrivederchi in San Rafael, CA.  Subsequently, it was published by THE DICKENS, the wonderful literary magazine that Copperfield Books put out for a several years.  It won the Eugene Ruggles Poetry Prize, sponsored by the magazine.

 

Hashtag, Handle, Bitly Register

So, since I’ve started this blog I’ve written about everything but my book.  I’ve been shy, I guess.  Or because this place has been a wonderful  to fheave stuff on to it that fills up my brain and life.  And that has a purpose.

I want to share an exciting moment in the life of an author.   I could pretend this is a found poem and title it “How I Spent My Summer Vacation”:

• did u figure it out?

• you put the tweet that you want tweeted in as a comment

• you have to follow that format

• you pick two hashtag words

• then put your handle in

• then your books name

• then the link has to be shortened

• you do that at bitly

• there is a link to bitly on there

• you go to bitly and register

• or you might not even have to register

 

Open House and Wild Things

We were hard at work making our Wild Things when news came of Sendak’s death.  This is first grader Braxton’s poem he wrote the day before:

I am a wild thing.

I look at the cheese moon

That is bright and hairy.

It chases a star squirrel,

And then Max came along,

And Boo came with me,

And Sam did too.

Here are all of the Wild Things,

some animal conversations,

and, finally, a couple of our habitats.