Southern Legitimacy Statement, it is what it is. Growing up in South Philly, the rest of the world was a world away. North Philly was as far as Quebec. But then I went to North Philly. Met the good people, and those I thought would be the scary ones too. Found out that people are people. Then when I moved to South Jersey, North Jersey was as far as Nova Scotia, but a lot more hectic. And they rooted for the Giants. And then, I met the good people, and those I thought would be the scary ones too. Found out that people are people.

I know now that the parochial me that was boxed in is now this old sage, still needing to be understanding of those faraway, even those south of Alabama, those in El Salvador, and south to Uruguay, and beyond. Even those way up a world away in Quebec and Nova Scotia. Life is finding out about how people are people. Wondrous. And how cool it is to feel legitimate wherever you’re from, and to see that same dignity in every soul you meet.

Thanks for existing!

Three Very Fine Poems

Midnight, Mississippi

Daybreak may forget where once there was an indomitable tree. But long ago when I was brazen to dream, not yet afraid of winter nights, I’d fall asleep and know I’d see it again. And now tonight, my eyes are old, the windows closed, and the Yazoo River is so far as it swiftly flows. And I am seeing this particular wish tree, so much rooted in my history. It burrows deep like the mourning sun so soon to pass underground, and back again, I always believed. Life moves, and it moves ever so fast, leaps land to land, sets and sleeps, and this too shall pass, all disbelief.

Mother taught me to believe. I remember as a child what paradise looked like. It would leave, and yet return. Stand still, and yet swirl. It was a tree structured like a snowflake, even there in the heat of night aside our home with its elbows bending to juggle the moon. By day, its lines divvied the sky into mosaic, a stained glass watermark even then stamping heaven, even there in the heat of day with saddled arms upward.

It is now gone, I know. The tree. And, seemingly too, all that its arms could hold.

I wish I could say I don’t miss it though, some kind of embrace of heaven, for the sky is now open and unbroken, yet so much harder to climb, so far from home. My soul seems to sorrow all my memories now brushed aside like leaves that were, like lives, like all that I miss of family, like love, like the courage that existed in the defeating of lies. I wonder if the leaves may still linger at my feet, even though so much of me has run away to the cold.

And now tonight as I sleep and dream dreams of what once was, my soul yet again swirls here up against the tapestry of all that is weaved upon present walls. Perhaps walls cannot hold back a budding leaf. Perhaps paradise is in this moment breathing all that is greened by belief. Perhaps the root is forever somewhere deep within the soul. And I am far from alone as Mother smiles at me. Yes, I believe. Love is twined with eternity. Perhaps apparitions distant are the future where once there was an indomitable tree, ever returning.  

zyzzyva in between

Life is a monstrosity. We settle in the cracks. You may think to know all the facts. In the beginning there was the Word. All begins with God. Everything else falls into place. How far the start and how far the end, my friend, even if we could perceive it, we can’t. Life’s expanding catalogue expands again.

How deft we all may seem to need to be, but it is awe commonplace indeed. For all of us, the phenomena we all are, even tropical weevils like us, it’s everyday Joe. And for all the ants and the stars, all the memoirs to be written in between, it’s such a wonderful life to know.

Yes, we compete with other wayward beasts. And to disbelievers, seem destined to defeat. I say, naysayers, there is room for us all to dwell. And upon measuring stick, we are all the same size. Still, how many of them beasts can climb up this hill? Yes, many in their own way, and in fact all of them if they only knew.

Wow, a cliché, but I’d say the horse is out of the barn.

And so I say, be as sure as a leaf. Bloom green and turn silver to sun in front of yourself, and wave back to the past with thanks. Yes, look at me as I surf resplendently back down all the way to the pizza and my lovely lady at the picnic table under the boney trees. I sail there gloriously. See, my perceived small life is just the opposite as many think it may seem.

Tomorrow, it’s back up the proverbial hill. Fortified by the cheese.

As for you, I’d say think of your resplendency this very moment as you go as you please between the crevices of all that binds our shared big ball of yarn.

under the trees, may 7, 1864

Let us walk the world and talk
with all the angels of the past and future,
of all faces and creeds, heaven’s states united.
New leaves, as now, the Lord is with thee.
We stumble on. Let us gather our path

and go arm and arm as children, despite bullets
under the canopy, with earth now at our feet
here in the Battle of the Wilderness
in all our present lack of peace. And so it is,
time pierces like a bayonet.

Spring sun shall soon set autumn red.
Time has long bled, and bleeds now again.
Maybe, if only, like flowers through a fence.
And see, you rest on a bed of broken roses.
Feel free to fall fast upon it, and to dream.

The thorns of history soon now fasten you,
and fold you like a parchment tent,
like a flag, for so go the turning leaves.
I am just a medic cutting the flesh, the bone,
almost the spirit.

And you speak scripture without a candle,
your wax falling in sheets, the heat
on your greased and chiseled cheek
soon like a burning bush here face to face.
You are certainly death come morning dew.

Then, let us walk the world, me and you.
And see, by grace, nothing incinerates.
And yes, as now, see the new leaves, rustling.
Tell me of these scattered angels.
Tell me we shall again be united states.