Absolute Trust in the Goodness of the Earth (5 page)

Where Is That Nail File? Where Are My Glasses? Have You Seen My Car Keys?

Nothing is ever lost
It is only
Misplaced
If we look
We can find
It
Again
Human
Kindness.

My Ancestors' Earnings

My Ancestors' Earnings

For over a decade
My ancestors
Earned for me
Over a
Million dollars
A year.

With our righteous loot
We bought
For me
Every house
We truly
Loved
Every car
& work
Of art in earlier times
 (Laboring, laboring
Over uncleared fields
& kitchen floors
That had no end)
Drenched in
Sweat
We were
Denied.

Now, sated
We rest.
Looking about us
We see
We have been feeding
The little
Child
Who wanted Things
For several
Centuries
& did not
Have them.

Wanted a mother
Separate
From her enslavement
Whether by field
Domestic service
Or her own art

Wanted a world
Cut off
From
Its
Woes

Wanted
In two words
Pleasure
Security.

But now begins
The downward
Slide.
It will all
Be over
Soon
All the wanting
Of this thing
& that
That drives
This plane.

I can let go.

Of houses
& of cars
Of art
& of
Artifacts. No material
Object
Will seem
Of relevance
Anymore.

I can let go!

Free-falling into
The very
Arms
That held me as
I shopped, the very arms
That worked
The broom
The machete
& the hoe.

My Friend Yeshi

My friend Yeshi
One of the finest
Midwives
Anywhere
Spent a whole
Season
Toward
The middle
Of her life
Wondering
What to do
With herself.

I could not
Understand
Or even
Believe
Her quandary.

Now
Thank goodness
She is over it.
Women come to her
Full
Babies drop
To her
Hand.
It is all
Just the way
It is.

Sometimes
Life seizes
Up
Nothing stirs
Nothing flows
We think:
Climbing
This rough
Tree
All the time
The rope looped
Over
A rotten
Branch!

We think:
Why did I choose
This path
Anyway?
Nothing at
The end
But sheer cliff
& rock-filled
Sea.

We do not know
Have no clue
What more
Might come.

It is the same
Though
With Earth:
Every day
She makes
All she can
It is all
She knows it is all
She can possibly
Do.

And then, empty, the only
Time She is flat, She thinks: I am
Used up. It is winter all the time
Now. Nothing much to do
But self-destruct.

But then,
In the night, in
The darkness
We love so much
She lies down
Like the rest of us
To sleep
& angels come
As they do
To us
& give her
Fresh dreams.
 (They are really always the old ones, blooming further.)
She rises, rolls over, gives herself a couple of new kinds of
grain, a few dozen unusual flowers, a playful spin on the
spider's web called the internet.

Who knows
Where the newness to old life
Comes from?
Suddenly
It appears.
Babies are caught by hands they assumed were always
waiting.
Ink streaks
From the
Pen
Left dusty
On
The shelf.

This is the true wine of astonishment:

We are not
Over
When we think
We are.

Ancestors to Alice

Forget about trying
To keep all
The pretty houses
Going;

These are only
The toys
We gave you
Because
In you
We felt
We deserved
To play.

Enough. We
Have grown up
Living on
Here
In the so-called
Afterlife.

Your true work
Is to
Remember us
To sing our names
Recount
Or even record
Our deeds
Laugh at
Our jokes.

Your true work
Is to notice
The big feet
Of the
95-year-old
Midwife
From Alabama
To feel
In your body
How long
She has
Stood
On them.
To hold them
In your hands
Stroking &
Soothing
Until
You
Can rest.

One of the Traps

One of the worst traps
Is finding yourself
Despising someone
Really good.

There they are
Wearing a miniskirt
Talking dirty
But washing
The filthy
Feeding the hungry
Defending
The poor
Befriending the dead

& all you can
Say in your
Defense

Is
Their bleached hair
& studded
Nostril
Hardly goes
With so much
Leg.

Not Children

Not Children

War is no
Creative response
No matter
The ignorant
Provocation
No more
Than taking
A hatchet
To your
Stepfather's
Head
Is
Not to mention
Your husband's.

It is something
Pathetic
A cowardly
Servant
To base
Emotions
Too embarrassing
To be spread out
Across the
Destitute
Globe.

The only thing
We need
Absolutely
To leave
Behind
Crying
Lonely
In
The dust.

You Can Talk

You can talk about
The balm in Gilead
But what about
The balm
Right
Here

What about
The healing of
The wounded heart
When someone
You have harmed
Gleefully
Embraces you?

Goddess

I am so glad
I can recognize
A goddess
When I see one.

There is Yeshi's
Trustworthiness
Glenna's
Patience
Sue's willing helpfulness (& genius)
Zelie's
Wild
Laughter
& song
Evelyn's
Loyalty

Diana's equanimity

Ruth's incredible
Storytelling
& inexplicable

Suffering.

The scent of
My mother's
Roses.
Is heart
Wisdom alone
To see this
Not—the added blessing—
Eyes.

Why War Is Never a Good Idea

(A Picture Poem for Children
Blinded in War)
Though War speaks
Every language
It never knows
What to say
To frogs.

Picture frogs
Beside a pond
Holding their annual
Pre–rainy season
Convention.

They do not see WAR
Huge tires
Of a
Camouflaged
Vehicle
About to
Squash
Them flat.

Though War has a mind of its own
War never knows
Who
It is going
To hit.
Picture a donkey
Peacefully
Sniffing a pile
Of straw.
A small boy
Holds
The end
Of its
Frayed
Rope
Bridle.

They do not see it
They are both thinking
Of dinner.
The boy
Is hoping for
Polenta & eggs
Maybe a carrot
Or apple
For
Dessert.

Just above
Them
Something dark
Big as
A car
Is
Dropping.

Though War has eyes
Of its own
Gas
& mahogany trees
& every shining thing
Under
The earth

When it comes
To nursing
Mothers
It is blind;
Milk, especially
Human,
It cannot
See.

Picture a woman
Beside a window.
She is blissful
Singing
A lullaby.
A baby twirls
A lock of her
Dark hair
Suckles
For all
It is
Worth.

They do not smell War
Dressed in
Green & brown
Imitating
Their fields
Marching slowly
Toward them
Up
The steep
Hill.

Though War is Old
It has not
Become wise.
It will not hesitate
To destroy
Things that
Do not
Belong to it
Things very
Much older
Than itself.

Picture the forest
With its
Rivers
& rocks
Its pumas
Its
Parakeets
Its turtles
Leopards
Snakes.
High above them War
Has turned itself
Into a white cloud
Trailing
An
Airplane
That
Dusts
Everything
Below
With
A powder
That
Kills.

War has bad manners.
War eats everything
In its path
& what
It doesn't
Eat
It
Dribbles
On:

Here
War is
Munching on
A village
Its missiles
Taking chunks
Big bites out
Of it.
War's
Leftover
Gunk
Seeps
Like
Saliva
Into
The
Ground.
It
Is finding
Its
Way
Into the
Village
Well.

War tastes terrible
& smells
Bad. It never
Considers
Body
Odor
Or
Weird
Side
Effects.
When added
To water
It makes
You sick
Sip by sip.

You could die
While
Choking
Holding
Your
Nose.

Now, suppose You
Become War.
It happens
To some of
The nicest
People
On earth:
& one day
You have
To drink
The
Water
In this place.

The Award

The Award

Though not
A contest
Life
Is
The award
& we
Have
Won.

Though We May Feel Alone

Though we may feel
Alone
We never
Really are.
The ancestors
The one called
God
The one called
Death
Prominent
Among them
Rest on our
Shoulders
Always.

It is as if
We carried two
Birds' nests
Just below
Our ears;
In these
Like so many eggs
The ancestors
Sit.

They ride along
Overhearing
Every conversation
Every
Thought
Watching everything
We do.

Fragile as eggs
But tough
Cookies
Too
It does not matter
To them
If we lose our
Way
On occasion
That we become
Lost
Or fall down.

Missteps are
Common
On every path
They've seen
 (& they've seen lots!).

What matters to them
Is that
We right ourselves
Keep a better watch
Over where we're going
That they retain
The high view
They like
& what is most
Crucial
For helping us:
Balance.

When We Let Spirit Lead Us

When we let Spirit
Lead us
It is impossible
To know
Where
We are being led.
All we know
All we can believe
All we can hope
Is that
We are going
Home
That wherever
Spirit
Takes us
Is where
We
Live.

Dream

Sometimes
When I dream
About
My mother
She is in
One of the
Shacks
Her art
Made
Radiant.

She might
Be lying
All in pink
Just
In
The doorway
Sunlight
Warm
Upon her
Singing.

In Life,
A Methodist
Then an
Atonal
Jehovah's
Witness
My mother
Did not
Sing.

At least
Not the
Subversive
Jazzy
Melodies
She favors
In
My
Dream.

On my altar
For years
Two women's
Framed
Faces
Have inspired
Challenged
Nourished me
In every way:

(Although I had not noticed, before my dream, their
resemblance, as close as twins.)

One contained
Righteous
In her garden
My mother;
The other an Outlaw
In a smoky
Nightclub
Lady Day.

We Are All So Busy

We are all so busy.

We say: I am on fire
To see you
But next week
I'll be away
In Boston
& the
Week after that
I have
An important
Meeting
In Kalamazoo.

Ah, Kalamazoo.

A place
I spend
Far
Too much
Time in
Myself.

The Backyard, Careyes

The Backyard, Careyes

Autumn 2001

Lying grateful

Under a tree
Wind blows.

Yellow leaves
Cover me.

Gold

Leaf shower.

Practice

Though
Like you
I am awake
At least
Some
Of the
Time

Deep
Slumber is far
From
Unknown

I am
A
Practicing
Alice.

Dreaming the New World in Careyes

Every night
While
I dream
The New World
Right next door
All night long
A raucous
Gathering
Of idle
White
Men
Is intensely
Partying.

Their music
So loud
It more than
Hurts
My ears
It wounds
My heart.
Their cries of pleasure
So disdainful
Of my
Comfort
I pull the covers
Over my
Head.
They do not listen
When I advise
Stopping. They do not want
To acknowledge
I am
The shadow
That has always
Lived
Next door.

The changes in
The world
They sense
Rather
Than know. Yet they
& we
The dreamers
Are real.

Much of earth
Is enduring
This sleepless
Night.

The night
Of our
Transition.

Of bitter
Revelers, even their play
Turned to war—if only against
Their scribbling, sleepless
Neighbor—
Unhappy
But
Determined
To disrupt
The dream
Of peace.

Patriot

If you
Want to show
Your love
For America
Love
Americans
Smile
When you see
One
Flowerlike
His
Turban
Rosepink.

Rejoice
At the
Eagle feather
In a grandfather's
Braid.

If a sister
Bus rider's hair
Is
Especially
Nappy
A miracle
In itself
Praise it.
How can there be
Homeless
In a land
So crammed
With houses

&
Young children
Sold
As sex snacks
Causing our thoughts
To flinch &
Snag?

Love your country
By loving
Americans.

Love Americans
.

Salute the soul
& the body
Of who we
Spectacularly &
Sometimes
Pitifully are.
Love
us
. We are
The flag.

Because Light Is Attracted to Dark

Because light is attracted
To dark
As dark is
To light
Let's face
It
You're
Fucked.

What can I tell
You
Lie back
Enjoy it.

You're about
To lose
That lockpicker
Nose
You
Always
Hated
The predator
Eyes
The
Stringy
Hair
You're always
Shaking out
In mixed
Company
To reassure
Yourself.

About
To lose
The
Unbecoming
Tendency
To strut into
Other peoples'
Lands
Claim
Everything
As your
Own
Except
The sweetness
Of dark
Angels
Welcoming
You
Home.