Testing Those Vulnerable Vertebrae

for Thanos, my herstory,
my never-born, and ‘that’ woman on Bus 56

the heart shaped blood spot.
nice touch, unborn

pain in the ass.
a pad too full to protect

my knickers. vermillion
toilet water singing Red’s song

in every tone that concept has
to offer. except pink.

this time, quietly
Grandma Elder slips herself
into my space on Bus 56.
i acknowledge her
space filling

my surreal recollections.
AIDs stolen, lymphoma ravaged,
still born, tumours eating
12 year old brains to death.
she hums.

rubs
painful hands like when
Maida didn't want us to hear
agony’s way of betraying
the spirit in

the shell. howls. twists. fills
diapers with shit-piss. now,
cramp ejected gooey garnet
lumpy lineage plops
into whatever toilet bowl

i can get to. begging
kinswoman - is this what we do when agony
dares to disrupt our dignity ?
toneless tunes? rocking
fixed smiles on silent

uplifted heads?
your twisting bony hands
my brick stained undergarment mausoleum.
diligent forbearance composing .

note less
vibrations. we rock.


hum. smile-share
age pains. crowned


by some hallowed
concrete nimbus.

our necks must hold.

hearts quake.

for Thanos who needs more Jamaican lightning
and Julia Reichert who is recovering health.

hearts quake.

shudder.

thump mud.

bludgeon

blood’s innate

inertia

to embrace its

more transient

state.
movement happens.
and it does. change

punches. it is like that

relentless

battering

organ

pounding

life’s

monotonous

bass

tones

and the resulting

crimson

hiss

thrusting

cellular

renewal.

years make origami
skin. chiselled muscle submits
to sculptor’s hand buffing

hard

edges soft,

smooth.

tears alone are free
to race, weave, rumble
through emotion’s

elegant artistry.
thick
and thin memories

resembling Queen Ann’s Lace. Skeletons
dissolving after Autumn’s eternal frost.

Beginning Literacy

unedited this time

Glitter Glue Collage

It’s starting to rain.
This is the night sky.

Stars, they’re twinkling.
Twinkling, twinkling.

Black night sky
and it’s raining again.


Big Cat Collage

Mama Tiger misses her baby.
Cheetah gotta go, oh dear!

He’s coming for everyone,
the little, little lion.

Tiger and cheetah.
Gold and sparkly,

the sun is setting purple.
Everybody’s gonna get

some chips.


NOTE: Winston and I have begun to play with letters and sounds. So, I thought in true Antioch School tradition, I’d begin to work on reading readiness by making books. Today, he made collages with glitter glue. Then I typed what he said into the computer. I printed it out and read it to him. (This caused much laughter. He loves the idea that I can repeat back everything he said - exactly as he said it - as many times as he wants me to do it. ) Then we glued them to the collages. (I only hope he doesn't become a poetry slam champion at age 12 and retire from writing poetry. Hint - hint to whom anyone this might have happened. You still got poems in you!)

in every picture

1.

my jester brother dances.
ogles. face precision twisting.

reassembling in time with the camera’s
shutter opening closing.

shirt & trousers garishly 70’s
fashion fabulous striped or

polka dotted. how our parents
never caught on

until after the film
came back to their furious

grim set lips squeezing out
how could you? commenting

tightly you look slim, chris
but you’re squinting again -

as frozen serene me
dutifully tries

to smile into the sun
with open eyes.

my properly coy
smile neatly in place.

the only outrageous
or absurd things about me

are the itchy outfits from Paris
that my hair and I were

pressed into each morning.


2.

there is only picture of Brian

standing upright, poised

and representative of the Race.


at the Tower Of London,

he had the nerve to snicker

at the Beefeater uniforms.


Daddy’s face snapped serious

inches from my brother’s.

quietly said,


these are stone cold seasoned warriors
trained to take their bare hands
and turn you into 25 tidy pieces
in under 50 seconds neatly arranged
in formation on this lush green grass.


in that picture, Brian smiles

appropriately. but, his eyes slide

curiously up and


to the left. a Yeoman Warder’s

practised jovial smile beams down at him,

hand resting lightly on his shoulder.


my hip is cocked to one side

hand on my waist

smile smug and not squinting.


this is the one in a silver frame.

daddy’s special ride

thanks Jess for asking

  “I gotta get on this jazz and blues thing.” 

1. 

that ancestral submarine 
jazz can i ride it? dive  
atlantic deep wake 
my vessel tir
 
up music-quaking bones. 
truly understand 

commit  drown
squeeze myself 
through half notes?  reborn

inside a father’s passion
like i have have been 
only once  before

  i could name vowels;
  sound out Canis Major’s
  children on fingers; link
  my solitary pointer
  tip to Polaris
  then contract eighty times
  to the end of beckoning
  vulva humming here here here.

hear the squiggle-lurch of myself
fast forwarded to a present.   basking 
in my son.  father  drunk on whole notes.
all of us together.  Dizzy loud 
 bouncing this newly born rider 
  barely able to walk
   dancing. his undefined self
  timeless in time

to the music.  laughter. crashing 
palms electric flesh   joined.
salt splattered  genetic euphoria

an aqua silver plasma line 
knitted by invisible arthritic hands
to cover these loving harmonies

right now.
i’m  on this jazz thing   warm. 
pure.   clean    family heat
geysering that dead cold ocean.
bones moving in unison.  is that jazz?

Winston’s Winter Song

(with a Mommy editor)

Snow is on the ground,
winter time is here.

Foot steps make no sound,
but, we are filled with cheer.

It’s warm to us so we must
be polar bears.
Tromping through the crunchy snow
without a care.

Spring is coming! (click, click, click)
Spring is coming! (click, click, click)

Today, Winston has been seeing himself as a composer. He's been insisting that me make more songs like our Rain and spider web song. He's got some good ideas.

i knew to stand in your presence.

for the woman on Bus 56

broken toed and wincing,
i had to rise to your occasion

on this bus - cinnamon mahogany
elder woman. skin and bones

unfurling that personal song
of my own DNA. You paraded

my grandmother’s bone straight back
as if it were your own. hands

fuller than her crepe paper
flesh - festive and funereal

over bones -
I last remember...

her flawless skin
hospital light highlighted

perfect bone structure
like the torn wrapping paper smile

you gave me.
crippled and tired -

it was obvious,
some kind of home training

had knocked my head right.
underneath all modern ailments

love still honours strange kin.