Storm Systems

Storm Systems

In my story window of the cramped framed house my father’s
cancer built, I stood by the sick bed, the broken farm skies still numb

from lightning. The radio warned of blues falling on Alabama,
but I’m not worried about the heavenswith their continual ruptures.

The preacher said I better find Jesus in my legs,

remember the silver pain of the farmer in the land of Uz,

where the oxen plowed through a hard summer storm.
Meanwhile, father is in the sick bed again, the ghost bed,

the forgotten bed, somewhere as, the sons of man
asked God to reset the grandfather clocks

Walking from the burnt okre to the field with lost brothers,

The sons of man speak there is none like you on the face of the earth,

yet in that particular abandoned barn, a the clocks lies broken,

their second hands point unto three trees where the seal breaks.

In the framed corner, the great mahogany gloom of the piano,

spills the dark day light onto the ceiling in wild fits. I don't ask why
the trees break into fire each winter, or why the clocks
seem unteachable. I don't ask why we walked to the field
while the blues streaked mirrors of wet red clay with whispers

of the dogwood tree. I know no care for past cancers,
no concern for the elements or the direction
in which God's falling clock might strike.

Tomorrow we will pray again from different places,

and so the wrong time shall turn the radio dial, as it plays

Lili Marlene again, aside burnt cornbread and soup in the kitchen.

“There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs,” of empty

plates, now, as all I have are these, returning empty

plates and lightning bugs. Night after year, why must

they be so beautiful?

an older draft revised girls back home



The girls back home


Tonight's performance a tragedy entitled Home
something Home, for supper jellybeans and cornbread:

The aged house with stone fire places,
thirsty porch and mounts of clay.
Its orchards, gardens, barns and breeches
Where Rose climbs the loft of hay

To shun the switch she hides there reading.
Hides their reading till the noon
An aged barn provides protection
From her papa coming soon.

An aged farm where Rose and celeste,
sing their songs and stage their plays .
To share with rag dolls, and old orange peels.
play till firelight breaks the day

Imagination reels as rose slides
over the hilltop, and the field
she finds a rainbow wind fast blowing
landing in a tree swings bloom.

August winds blow, rainbow and swing.
Hair floats Flaxen, from the girl
And when her eyes float through the colors
From the rainbow borrows blue.

Two fronts they hide behind the backdrop.
Prisoners of war help papa plow.
Niedliches kleines Mädchen, und blondes Haar
blaue Augen, girl with features fair
Merry adorations are aimed at,
sweet Rose blue eyes und yellow hair.

Evening comes and sister Winnie,
Picnics by Lake Cleverness,
feeling The Magoo of pure flesh,
soft folds round the soldier Jim.
Glamour boy he makes sweet promises
'I’ll be home soon For my Win’.

Outside the San Jose clip joint, the
Modock drugs-up, just before
Hiroshima skylines remind him
of pain, of killing more and
A fetish, the opiate fruit, picked from the islands black market,
help him monopolize meaning, Balls-up, he fosters his task.

Somewhere a nun lies prostrate, while Abraham cries freedom,
A muslim packs, and Buddha sits.

All are awaiting the radio broadcast to hear, new survivals.
Their bodies fail them, poets fail them. and all cry,
where are you shining deity.

:Tomorrows performance a parody of Little Mary Sunshine,
The lunch menu, plucked from the garden, green okra and tomatoes.