Down to the River: Devotion

Yellow Daffodils
Lord, have mercy! They say they gonna cut my welfare check; They say I get too much. They say my children will probably no longer Get free lunch at school. And the radio says I’ll get a big rise in my Georgia Power bill.
But look out yonder in my front yard— There come my yellow daffodils. Washington can’t bother them; They can’t cut them down;
They can’t make them come up any sooner, or later; They can’t take the color out.
And even if they put my eyesight out, I’m gonna still see those beautiful yellow daffodils. For they’ve been coming up every March For longer than my years can tell, And I know they’ll keep on coming back Long after I have been planted beside them.
You beautiful yellow daffodils, You better not get frightened away And stop popping up your lovely heads Out of that cold, hard clay. Lift your head up high and show your stuff You’re bulbs of beauty.
Let me stand with you Barefoot on the hard, cold earth
And signal anew the advent of hope.
I lift up my head. I lift up my eyes. For my help and my beauty, my dear daffodils Come also from the Lord.
The Lord? The Lord’s not cutting us out on anything!
[One of Mac's favorites]

Statue in the Park
The statue in the park stands Quietly guarding the site during all hours And in all kinds of weather. The horse is poised, ready for travel; The rider, with lifted head, waits for the call to advance; The granite stone eyes pierce forward, never blinking; The sword at his side has been glued to the right hip for more than a century.
What a way to guard the park! Cold, hard eyes, hollow and fixed, watch for nothing. The bony facial features remain rigid and callous. A weapon of beautifully chiseled rock
deeps silent and unused.
O that the park were stately and safe, And the guardian lived up to his name!
Maybe this is the trouble; Who was this guardian before he went to stone? Nobody remembers his name Who is going to keep alive a cold, granite rock That forgot, and is forgotten?

The Rolling Store
Mr. Nightingale used to visit us every Friday morning Right in front of our frame house. He’d stop his truck on the side of the dirt road Get out and open up the back door and lower the steps.
With a nickel or a dime in hand The children would already be waiting by the fence, Having spotted him when this truck
topped the hill a mile away, Anxious to step inside and make a purchase. Baby Ruths were the best buy. You always got more of that candy bar, for the money. The store truck world was surrounded with candy and Canned goods and bottled colas…RC or Double Cola.
And to discover that he also sold beer? Mama considered saying that we could never stop the store truck again.
One day when everyone bought a cold drink, Mr. Nightingale offered Daddy a beer instead and added “You won’t have to pay for it, if you will drink it.” He took it, and he did.
Mama never liked Mr. Nightingale after that From then on, she refused to call him by name. She’d refer to him as Mr. Nasty Talk.

Twin Sisters
On hot, dog days in the August afternoon Slow-moving minds meander across the front yard And back again to rocking chairs upon the front port Getting nowhere, of any consequence, Except to note that the weather seems as hot as yesterday And conversation drags along at a snail’s pace; Fans from the funeral parlor keep moving In the hands of twin sisters, Who have shared the house, Unmarried and alone, For more than seventy years.
Wonder how’s Becky? Have you heard form Evangeline? When did Ada say she was coming? Why did Wilbur move that far away?
They said, about the same; I have no heard this week; I think she said it would be soon; He says he has to eat, you know.
When hot dog days in the August afternoon Trade places with locust screaming nights, The front porch rockers go to sleep And within the house, twin sisters, Unmarried and alone
Enter each that fast moving conversation With those who come to call
Becky, you look so good; you have a rosy color. Evangeline, you know you write too much for me to read it all. Oh, Ada, why don’t you ever go home? You have other things you have to do. And Wilbur, please move back to where;
You have your own life to live.
Upon the August dog days morning Before the sun appears, Twin sisters, Unmarried and alone,
Sit across a breakfast, oil cloth table With the only cup of coffee for the day And curse the damned insomnia That woke them early from their sleep And chased away their visitors
Before they finished all they had to say Or could invite them to return To spend more time with them that day.

Sunday School Class Christmas Party
The Sunday School Class Christmas Party is over And we are standing in line to pay for our dinner At the Hungry Bull Restaurant. There are eighteen couples in front of us now, And I am ready to go.
But wasn’t it a great class Christmas party! Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.
Except, that George Worthen’s jokes Were the same, dull ones he told last year; And Marian Wallace’s games were atrocious— Who want s to make words out of “Merry Christmas” again?
And of all the presents that were exchanged, Why did I have to get another bottle of Old Spice? Especially when you think of the nice revolving tie rack I gave. And Harold Cheek did not even open it. He will give it away tomorrow night at the lodge party.
And why of all things Did they have to call on Ruth Brennen
to have the prayer? She never knows when to stop. Especially when you are ready to eat. And speaking of time, it is nearly 10:25 and I’ve got to get the babysitter home in five minutes.
But wasn’t it a great class Christmas party! Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
I wish Joe and Carolyn Davis had been here. There just isn’t a party when they are out-of-town; And they were.
Why couldn’t Larry Crenshaw have been out-of-town? If he comes to another Christmas party In that ragged Santa Claus suit, I promise to walk out!
But I said that last year, And the one before that.
And my dear darling wife, Maxine, Volunteered for us to teach Sunday for Bobby Shurling Who is at home in bed with the flu.
And it’s Thursday night And Maxine and the children are leaving Tomorrow morning to spend the weekend with her folks.
But wasn’t it a great class Christmas party! Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
Only two more couples are ahead of us now. Where’s my bill? Here. What?
Fourteen dollars and sixty one cents for the evening? And the strip was narrow and fat, And the potato was baked this morning, real early, And the lettuce was wilted
And I think I am gong to be sick
And they don’t take checks, And they don’t accept credit cards, And I won’t have enough money left to pay the babysitter. And they hope to see us again next year
But wasn’t it a great class Christmas party! Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la

Lucille, Come Watch Me Move My Lincoln Continental
Lucille, come watch me move my Lincoln Continental Into the garage. It is dangerous to keep it out For the neighbors to see.
Yesterday, coming home from work, I had to dodge a flurry of kid-thrown rocks And was forced to run left on Holiday Circle To avoid a band of marching, Militant mothers shouting By voice and by poster that
I was to blame for their homes’ being cold.
What is this world coming to? What is wrong with everybody? Don’t they know that Our economy is based on
The solid financial reality That only those who can afford it, Can have it? They should know that, By now.
So, for the safety of my Lincoln Continental. Watch me move it into the garage Then, maybe the neighbors will say That I am as poor as they,
When I drive to the refinery tomorrow in My new, used Datsun.
(On the Energy Crisis, 1972)

Six Seventh Graders Suspended Seven Months From Southside Junior High For Smoking Pot in the Boys’ Restroom
How it all started, I cannot say; But this I can tell: Today Was to have been just like any other one Until I walked into the boys’ restroom At Southside Junior high.
If I had known what I know now, I would not have asked to leave Mrs. Johnson’s Word Study class.
Frank and Allen were there; And so were Raymond and Terry and my neighbor, Clarence. I should not have spoken to them, I had been told But I did. And, before I knew it. I was lighting up my first pot.
Why? Mama, I don’t know. I have no reason. Daddy, can’t you understand I was not trying to
hurt you? It would have been alright,
At least, I would not be here spending the night At the Floyd County Juvenile Home, If Mr. Bryant, had stayed in his office. There was no reason why He had to be our floor at 2:15
Were we that loud? Did somebody tell? Can he smell That well?
Unknown to us, the restroom door opened And hell fell in.
We were too late to run.
Six seventh graders suspended seven months From Southside Junior High for smoking got In the boys’ restroom.
And here I sit Alone, afraid and wondering If morning will come.

Papa Should Have Known Better
Papa should have known better Than to expect the grandchildren To eat oyster stew, even if he And all the other adults of the family could eat a gallon each.
Why didn’t he buy more oyster crackers So that there would be enough for everyone— Even for the grandchildren to have some too? Rather than repeat his rule: Crackers are for stew eaters only.
Oyster crackers are so good and great fun to eat. Even if one does not flavor them with hot milk And butter and slimy, smelly oysters That some folks ooh and ah about.
It could not be that they were ooh-ing and ah-ing about oysters.
They were longing for oyster crackers, too. Such punishment; to have to swallow the oysters; Just to eat, and play with oyster crackers.
Why didn’t Papa buy more oyster crackers When he invited the family to come home For his famous oyster stew suppers? Oysters might taste better now if he had; One thing’s for sure,
Every time I think of Papa, I wouldn’t think of oysters. I would remember Papa As the oyster cracker man!

Nicos Theod
Nicos Theod came to Eatonton more than twenty years ago.
On foot, all the way from Jacksonville, Florida. Leaving a divorced wife who took all that he had, except A grocery store he left rented to someone else.
He came to Eatonton and worked with Griff Bulloch, Planting peach trees and caring for the orchard. He kept the money he made from his work and the sale of his grocery story And lived in a lone room shack of a house That was two miles south of town on Highway 441.
He was a walking Greek who did not own a car. His feet carried him everywhere he went. He would not accept a ride; he was afraid of cars. Whether it was to the grocery store in town or Going to Florida before the onset of cold weather, Nicos, tanned by birth and by the sun,
Traveled by foot.
He was known to have ridden once to town Nearly five years ago, it is told,
to deposit $21,000, in the bank That had accumulated and was too heavy
to carry around. He agreed to ride with Griff to town. Before entering The car at home and again when he left the bank, The devout Nicos knelt beside the car to pray, To pray that he would not be killed while in the car.
He had no family to go to, no close acquaintances to confide in; His only aunt was eighty
when he moved here twenty years before. He was a man, a man who knew that he was alone.
Two weeks ago, before he died this past Friday, He walked to town and went into the sheriff’s department And offered the deputy $30,000 to shoot him dead. But no one listened further
except to repeat what he had said.
His body now lies dead and cold in the funeral home Waiting for tomorrow morning when it will be placed Into the hearse and driven
to the Greensboro Road Cemetery And left in a bronzed markered grave which reads, “Here lies Nicos Theod, At Rest.”
He left behind his $30,000 unused.

Ode on Cracked Confinement
Searching, staring Musing medic, Standing still for fifty
years, yearning to talk briefly, but an anchored, motionless mouth, palely painted
by Byron Andrelley, artist, forever fails to talk.
What words could conceivable originate or actually articulate from frozen muttering mediums so silent and accidentally fading from high humidity within Wilmington’s Holinshed Hospital lobby—left standing stagnant and anciently still?
Should I intrude? Perhaps pertinent qualified questions and answers unspoken until dooms day could come forth from inside illusive dormant, dust- filled features and assure voluble visitors of opportune possibilities prescribed
for finding expressive existence. Your yellow gold guardians also aged by battering days, delay that translation so secretly desired.
Does The time for fostering change come yet? Yes. Speak. Step out of
silence. Shout, figure from the towering west wall. Manipulate Medicable legs, less
Rigor mortis rise and artistic treasures turn slowly sour. Negate now
that textured mass mounted onto oil cracked confinement. Let loose
the tarnished and aching Voice, violently hushed (half smiling)—shut by brutal
force, fifty annum ago.

Mrs. Elmer Weinstein
Mrs. Elmer Weinstein was the only Jew in town. She and her husband migrated to Wrightsville to open a clothing store during the thirties. Her husband was a short, fast-talking salesman who was always standing at the door of the store ready to show his dresses to the women who came to look and, unknown to them, to buy.
The thousands of printed cotton dresses that traveled out their front door would be enough to fill every closet and every chifforobe in Johnson county today.
At least half the women who died during the thirty-five years the Weinsteins were in business were laid to rest in dresses and suits and gown and robe sets that were on display in the nicer section of wares near the back of the store. close to the small cubical fitting rooms which had been added when they remodeled the building shortly before moving in.
From the front window of the store the red brick courthouse could be seen on the square. The clock at the top of the building announced the time in four directions and chimed on the hour and half-hour. the eight-thirty bong marked the exact time that the welcome mat was placed on the threshold. Every week new homemade signs were placed
in the front window announcing the half-price sales and the recent arrivals of new style dresses that were seen in the ads of Look magazine.
Mr. Elmer Weinstein had a heart attack and died in the fall of fifty eight, right in the middle of another Fifty Per Cent Off Sale
His body was taken to Atlanta’s Greenwood Cemetery. Another star of David was chiseled in another marble marker that filled the hill. Mrs. Elmer Weinstein wept. Had anyone from the town gone to the funeral, they would have seen her tears.
Mrs. Elmer Weinstein returned to the store and kept up the merchandise and the sales for nearly five more years. She looked the same as before. And even though her work doubled, she looked the way she had looked all the time. Had anyone from the town gone to her home at night, They would have seen her tears.
Mrs. Elmer Weinstein died last night. She was the only Jew in town She left behind a store on the square, a county full of dresses and an unanswered question of how she stood the loneliness.

Cotton Pickin Mama
Who’s gonna keep my little baby While I pick a sack of clean white cotton? Can I leave her in the shade at the end of the row? Or should I pull her along on my cotton croaker sack? I’ve gotta make some money to pay to the sheriff So Jimmie Lee can get outta jail And go back to loggin for Mr. Roger Mason.
I’m tired o paying double for the liquor That Jimmie Lee drinks on Saturday nights. My baby daughter’s tired of the hot sun and
the cotton pile pallet at the end of the row There ain’t no reason why she oughta pay, too, For his liquor and his fights.
When I stop and think about Jimmie Lee, I’m really not angry at him I know exactly how he feels When pay time comes at the end of the day. For picking two hundred pounds of cotton, I’m gonna get $7.00, and all the water I want From the wooden keg under the sugar berry tree. That ain’t much to live on.
I’ve grown tired of side meat and ho-cakes. My little baby knows nothing else. Everyday I bring with us to the field A Georgia Ribbon Cane syrup bucket filled With side meat and ho-cakes. The bucket lid Keeps the ants out so we can eat it all.
Jimmie Lee, he’s not mean; he’s not a drunk. It’s just that his pay won’t buy anything But side meat and flour, After Mr. Roger Mason takes out
For getting him out of jail this spring He drinks to hide his shame from me and the baby; He fights to prove that he is still a man.
My poor Jimmie Lee. I wish that there was some way the good Lord Could help him wake up and see That his side meat and ho-cakes Are enough to keep us alive, and together.
I’ve gotta pick a whole lot harder, I gotta pick a whole lot more. Cotton is the only way me and my little baby
Can buy back manhood for our Jimmie Lee. Who’s gonna keep my baby?
Lord, make a nice big shade under the sugar berry tree And end a cool breeze to fan her while she sleeps, And double up your power and shower it on me, Lord, And let me keep on picking cotton till the sun goes down.
I’m gonna keep on working till I can get Some freedom for this family
you have placed on this earth. No grandchild of mine is gonna sleep In the shade of a sugar berry tree.

Brenda McTier
Brenda McTier Dirty Freckles Stringy hair Black shoes, polished white Poor Ridiculed Childhood Friend

John Roberts
I knew a real live Scrooge Whose farm was down the road His children were hungry and ragged His house was a crude wooden shack. He died year before last And left fifty thousand dollars in his mattress.

Madison Avenue
There are more sun worshippers out today, Than any other day of the year. Spring has not come yet; But this is the first day that
People believe anew that winter is a dethroned dictator Exiled to the Isle of Elba.
Yards which thought they had been deserted Are suddenly pounced upon by rakes and hoes And energetic hands which trim and prune Away the shrubs and plants that have survived The biting, ice-hanging days of a few weeks ago.
Streets and sidewalks, recently covered with snow and ice Are now congested with walkers and bikers Of all ages and descriptions.
Forsythia, flowering Japanese magnolias, ornamental pear trees March in the sun welcoming parade And are joined by jonquils, crocus, and hyacinths. Trees, brown all winter,
Show hints of green shoots and baby leaves and promise shade For the coming sun days of summer.
But on this day The thing which signals most convincingly That the warm sun has returned to bless the earth Is seen on the front porches
As stored white rockers are brought out By elderly ladies who sit, rocking In short-sleeved house dresses In the late afternoon
You can see the sun smile in their eyes.

Joel
The state trooper reported that the Camaro Was traveling one hundred twenty miles per hour
upon impact. The driver and his rider will never refute the report. The five people in the green Ford that crept out
of a side road at the bottom of the hill never knew what hit them much less how fast the Camaro was going. They will never corroborate the troopers’ report either.
The like of such carnage or the slaughter was known only on
The battlefield of war. Pieces of human flesh And bone and metal and glass were hundreds of Yards away from the impact of the colliding Vehicles on a country asphalt road.
The tears that were shed by families and friends After the accident are still being shed now more Than fifteen years after the tragedy. The questions Of “Why?” will go unanswered. The concerns
Of the reasons for the particular people who were In those cars being where they were at the Particular time and place will never Be answered. It would be unfair to credit God with the fault. God must have cried real tears, too. Surely God also remembers that loss of humanity in The early afternoon.
The state trooper said that the driver of the green Ford no doubt stopped and saw nothing coming in
Either direction and pulled out on the state highway. The Camaro topped the hill
at better than two miles a minute. The driver had not time to raise his foot to brake.
The haunting question was not ‘Why?” or “Where was the driver going in such a hurry? But: “What was he running from?” That’s one question for which we will never know the answer. But that is the question that surfaces with the tears.

A Lost Civilization
Sri Lanka’s islands hide a lost civilization in the jungle greens;
An inhabited coral reef now, Once held the presence and activity
of an unknown people. Were they visitors who navigated to those shores And left the crumbled monuments that remain? Or were they the people whose boats
used the wind currents To carry them to distant places
to discover from other cultures The knowledge and skill of construction and building?
The ruins of this distant atoll Suggest that more has happened on this earth Than we (who know so much and have developed so greatly) Have ever thought, imagined or dreamed possible. As powerful, mighty and advances as we are, We cannot explain some of the mysteries
of how people of the past Could have accomplished such feats
of architectural and artistic magnificence Without the aid of skilled instruments of modern technology.
Such discoveries have a way of intimidating us. Just who do they think they are? What right do they have to tear away their botanical cover now
And expose themselves to a world that knew nothing of their existence? Why should this sleeping monument rise up to question Our right of feeling that we are the fulfillment of all
O f humankinds’ achievements and intellect. Such ruins question our own sense of magnificence and authority.
There is only one thing that keeps us from Bowing down to the past great builders And admitting that they
are the advanced peoples of the earth: We are able to ask with our head lifted high, “Just who do they think they were?”

In A Forest Of Fog
Alone, Driving home, Near the Grant Memorial Forest
as night approached, I took a short-cut, a county maintained road, And passed the “5 Miles to Rock Eagle Mound” sign, Where I was engulfed suddenly By a forest of fog, so dense That I could not see Its matted trees or forest floor.
In the midst of this muted, ashen darkness, I sensed the sacred stillness that had descended Upon this seldom traveled, black-top road.
A village of faceless Indians, In tableau, Danced around a stone-piled effigy, Some in suspended, slow-speed motion; Others, frozen; still,
Except for the movement of the orbiting cloud That formed the gray, damp bounds of this unknown world;
Disturbed only by a forest of fog With a ghostly apparition Of an ashen car with a faceless driver,
In the eyes of a vigilant brave
Bedecked for a ghost dance ritual.
Exchanging cataract stares Of near recognition, We nodded to each other
In a reaching silence, Feeling the inner fire and warmth Of ancestral kinship
Of blood upon blood.
Seeking not to disturb, further, The clouded forest through which I entered and expected to pass, I lifted the accelerator And inched along quietly, Searching for the way Without the benefit of broken yellow lines Or reflector lights implanted in the road,
As a scout in unknown territory, Looking for safe passage Through guarded Indian burial grounds;
Aware that this mysterious presence Was all around me, My forward movement was guided By a confident hope
That this uncertain trek, Would somehow, Give way to the warm and glowing blaze Of the living room fireplace at home,
Where I could consider, And maybe never forget That unknown time and place I was privileged to pass.

Maranatha
In his cloister A monk, a master of his art Began to think about his work Of copying the Holy Word.
For seven months His task had been daily before him; The old book being worn, a new one was necessary. And being only half-complete The book would hardly be ready For the coming pontifical visit.
Mary, Mary, Mother of God, Jesus Christ And all the saints Send thy light upon my head and swiftness to my fingers In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
Rise up, O brother, From your bed And work from dawn to dawn. The strength I will give For your task is great And you are late Reaching Ezekiel. Spin all the wheels of time For so great a chance to serve Must not be wasted. The Blessed Father Comes but once To Little Chalcedon.
Greet your opportunity; Complete the book. Then look for rest.
With quill in hand, And bottles of ink before him Thomas opened wide his Vulgate And began to read And copy with complete dedication. His speed was fast, His hand was sure, His heart was right,
And working day and night, He completed the Revelation, Save the benediction, Two weeks before the scheduled visit.
Tired and exhausted, For so extensive were his labors, That he fell from his table At a quarter till three And laid there, undetected, Until breakfast.
Such sleep he had In that brief time Was not enough to revive him Or allow him to continue his work that day.
Twelve days he lay motionless In his cloister bed. “What shall we do? The brothers said, “We have no new, completed Bible.” “Worry not! Make the plans
And keep them well,” the abbot insisted. “The Pope does come, day after tomorrow. We must be ready. God will take care of His word.”
On Wednesday morn Thomas did rise And slowly walked to his table. With the stroke of life that remained Wrote the “Come, Lord, Jesus.” He powdered it and brushed it off, Then closed the book, And rose not to carry it away.
Instead of pomp and circumstance And stately pageantry The papal visit was one Of quiet solemnity.
A Mass was said In memory of the faithful dead Brother Thomas, with A papal address on the virtue of devotion, And a reading, “Come, Lord Jesus.” From Revelation.

Down to the River: Reconciliation

Reminders of Thanksgiving
Beautiful leaves: red, yellow, brown Chill in the air and frost; Squirrels gathering nuts for the winter; Wool sweaters and heavy coats; Football play-off games on Friday night Thoughts of family get-togethers and shared love Fresh sweet potatoes, cranberries and mince meat pies; Canned goods being brought to the church
For needy folks We thank you, Lord, for all these blessings.

No Sad Christmas Stories
There are no more sad Christmas stories to tell. The little match girl died long ago. Bethlehem has adequate motels for tourists. The cobbler has been replaced by a shoe manufacturing company In Italy, Spain or Brazil.

Throw-Away Christmas
It is time to recycle Christmas.
It has lost its significance. But, how could it lose something It did not have? Has Christmas ever known a time When people knew and lived by God’s Word? I think not. We have always done things our way, As if we had never heard
That a king has been born That a messiah has come That God is alive.
It is time to recycle Christmas. To return it and collect no deposit. God, can you take it from here?

Our Angel on the Shelf
There stands our angel on the shelf— Erect. With outstretched wings and still; With no tidings, Just a reminder That the crèche, started on Thanksgiving Day, Remains unfinished. The Madonna and Child will be easy to construct, And Joseph’s three pieces only need gluing. Four shepherds, three wise men, a donkey, Two sheep, a camel, a cow and a manger Not to mention the stable Remain uncut In the Make Your Own Nativity Kit. Tomorrow night we will all probably stay home And complete it. If not tomorrow, Then maybe next Tuesday or possibly on Saturday. Lonely angel, Don’t be afraid; I bring you good tidings of great joy. For unto you will come a Savior, And all the rest. Some time before Christmas.

Sheep Keepers
The shepherds were fearfully clinging to each other, in danger,
When angels sang to them of the babe born in Bethlehem’s manger
They could not understand why they had been chosen to hear the news That God had sent the promised Messiah, the King of the Jews.
Who were they that angels should announce to them his birth?
When they were peasant flock-keepers, not noble persons of worth?
No one would believe the story that they would tell How god’s angelic chorus sang, “Noel! Noel!” They were only poor people who worked nights; They were accustomed to earthly sounds and commonplace sights.
Their eyes were ready to look after the sheep And drive away wild animals that threatened their sleep. With crooks in hand they maintained the fold; They were diligent, watchful, steady and bold. They were familiar with things of the earth; They knew about green pastures, polluted water, ewes giving birth. In Bethlehem, the townspeople were accustomed to their dust and sheep smell; Why would they listen to a message that lowly shepherds might tell?
“Fear not,” the angels sing. “I bring you good tidings of great joy.
For unto you is born this day in the City of David, a Savior who is Christ the Lord.”
Are not the sheep keepers of this present age Keeping watch over earth’s darkness
and confusion that rage? Are not we filled too with great trembling and fear When we are told that the Savior is here? The message of his Kingdom, his power and love Are often foreign, unbelievable, so much above Us that we refuse to open our eyes, And catch a glimpse of the angel-filled skies, We are accustomed to watching the earth And miss hearing the angles sing of his birth If our world is to find peace and have good will for all, Then modern day shepherds must journey to Bethlehem’s stall To welcome the Christ Child on the day of his birth And work to accomplish this peace on the earth.

The Ladies in Black
The ladies in black have come and taken the green away They have boxed the red and white and have stuffed Cardboard homes with glittering glass
and plastic ornaments, All of which will be graced and docile for eleven months.
Packed away for most of the year; What good does it do to scream out on a cold day When the attic floor freezes from the
howling winds of winter? Or what need is there to wish For cool breezes on a mid-summer-heat-wave day?
Wait until a new December dawns When the ladies in green and red and white return And release the captives from their captivity; Letting them strut and parade and prance upon the green cedars of Christmas.

Rejoice
When life is dark and hazy And Christmas runs us crazy A still, small voice calls out Amid our confusion to offer Life and Love and Hope. But, we do not hear it. Do we? Ding-Dong Ding-Dong Hear the bells this Christmas! And hear the voice. Rejoice!

In the Dawn, A Spark
Christmas comes at night It never comes as day bright shadow A glance A flicker A spark. Never a shout, Or a scream Or an explosion. Christmas is born in the darkness And grows to meet the dawn.

Christmas: Atlanta
It did not snow last night, But the trees were tipped with white
The weather of Christmas has not been lost; Thanks to a crisp and snowy frost.

For This New Year
For this new year and our new chance to live, We praise thee, God, and pray that we may give Ourselves anew to thee each day we live; Sing praise to thee; we sing alleluia.
We thank thee for thy church through the earth; For Jesus Christ who loves us from our birth; Glory to thee who sees in man some worth, Sing praise to thee; we sing alleluia.
Help us that we in thy love will abide And in thy strength and confidence confide, Thy word, thy truth and name be glorified, Sing praise to thee; we sing alleluia.
Tune: NATIONAL HYMN

The Church Cannot Save Us
“They have overrun the city; There is no place to hide. They have taken all our leaders Some mortals have just died.”
Then over to the church we ran, It seemed that this was best. For we were taught, “The church is safe.” There we went to find rest.
Outside, the soldiers kept marching Close toward us they came, And we thought that we would perish (Now, church was not a game).
We gathered around the altar, And everyone did pray, It was a desperation cry Made on that fateful day.
The door had been locked and barred “No one else can get in.” And though at every door some knocked, No one would let them in.
They cried and screamed in anguish, As the soldiers slew them And the ones inside felt certain That life was very slim.
We begged the soldiers to bargain,
“A cross or a stained glass!” But the conquerors only laughed “Not gold, silver, not brass.”
The doors did fall; the bells did ring, And all of us did wail, For death was now reality And all were bound for hell.
The church was not what we had thought Twasn’t a rescue station And because we thought it to be, We received damnation.
Its gold and silver was melted Its stained glass, all crushed The cross was broken and burned The Christian mouth was hushed.
All of us inside were murdered. The church did not save us. The past was wrong: the church won’t save Only He who made us.

When God Comes to Judge
When God comes to judge The Reverend Martin Luther King Will he declare That curly hair Is the only smudge On Rev. Martin Luther King?
Would Moses rise and Raise his eyes And question the heavenly king? Why would he discharge The Revered Martin Luther King With such a charge?
Moses would not rest With this vain thing Against Reverent Martin Luther King He would request A second hearing At the judging nearing.
Together they would communicate And plan to demonstrate Against the Lordly ruling Made on Reverend Martin Luther King.
A heavenly chorus would ring A rebellion in heaven.

Poor Costly Nard
Nard applied to his feet, dirty feet, Smelly, dusty feet. Why waste the costly nard to clean dirty feet? Why waste the expensive salve On the crusty and corn infested feet Of a wandering Galilean rabbi?
Of a better use, Judas imposes, For the sake of the poor That precious ointment stuff could be traded To a proud lady, (Who has no need for body lotions), So soft, clean and unexposed to the sun and wind And Palestinian sands. Pricely nard Is her fragrance of affluence and stature? Why waste it on common, dirty feet? Feet that know not the smell of feel Of softness and gentle caress.
Ask not “Why?” says he; It is a beautiful thing That has been done for me, An act that always will be told As the anointing for my burial.
Go, Judas, he is ready to be sold. Waste not the nard, Waste not the man, Thirty pieces of silver await
To help you feed the poor.
Poor Jesus’ feet. Poor costly nard. Poor traitor, Judas. Poor poor.

Night Weeping
Dear God, As I come to the end of the day And have not dread Who am I That Thou should be mindful of me?
If I should come to the end of my life And not horror, Who am I fooling That thou should be mindful of me?
And should I be mindful of Thee When I am so blinded or reason And am unable to understand Life or death in its season?
Why must the hidden be your bound volume? Why must my eyes be slanted from true sight? Why must my thoughts be questions? Why must the path be black night?
Are you not a regarder of persons? Are you not a lover of Life? Are you not a solely holy, lowly Lord? Or, are you less than we had expected?
Free me not from my doubt… Free me from my faith…
Free me for living… Free me for dying.

How Great Thou Art
“How Great Thou Art?” Is this the point At the funeral of a seminary senior Preparing for a lifetime of ministry? Does he miss out now? Or is he prepared now? Graduated?
Lord, prepare me today For what you are preparing me for.
What’s the meaning? What’s the point? Is the point, which we do not want to accept, That it is not for this world that we are created? That God’s creation of us here is temporal? That life eternal is his gift, his plan.
Life eternal is built into his creation How great Thou art! How great Thou art!

Follow Me

I. “Why don’t you do something To relieve the souls of men, Why don’t you do something To save their souls from sin?
The Lord answered the devil: “I will, I will.”
“Why don’t you look down at man And let him have your best Why don’t you look down at man And send him peaceful rest?”
The Lord answered the devil: “I will, I will.”
“Why don’t you come down From your regal throne, Why don’t ‘you come down
and make the world your home?”
The Lord answered the devil: “I will, I will.”

II. So the Lord came down from heaven And set His throne on earth. So the Lord came down from heaven
And was born of humble birth.
And the devil laughed: “That’s good, that’s good.”
So the Lord grew up in a lowly carpenter’s shed. So the Lord grew up; A simple life he had.
And the devil laughed: “That’s good, that’s good.”
When the Lord was older, He preached in every place When the Lord was older Men spat into his face.
And the devil laughed: “That’s good, that’s good.”

III. A short time later, They nailed him to a tree, A short time later, He died on Calvary.
And the Lord said to man: “Follow me, follow me.”
Then he arose from the dead To relieve the souls of men Then He arose form the dead To save their souls from sin.
And the Lord said to man: “Follow me, follow me.”
And the Lord reigns victoriously In the heavens up above. And the Lord reigns victoriously In the giving of His love.
And the Lord said to man: “Follow me, follow me.”

At One with God
It’s odd That God Would choose to do things this way. But then who are we to say That God’s Ways are at odds With ours?

Dear God
Dear, God, Is it a joke That the King of Siam Is no better than I am? And what about the president? Is he no better than the resident Countryman?
Dear God, If it is not joke That the king of Siam Is no better than I am And that the president Is not better than the resident Countryman,
Then tell me,
Dear God, Why they are surrounded with gold While we are hungry and cold? And they have their hearts’ content While all our money is spent?

Can Stones House Data
Can stones house data? Surely they can. Fossils, carbon-14 tests, formations are All identifiable to the trained eyes But can stones house data? Can they hear and record the things That happen around them today? Does each stone have its own computer Within its stone soul?
Can stones cry out when mortals are silent? Can they come forth in future times To release knowledge about the past? They must know if George Washington slept here Or if Jesus was buried in Nicodemus’ tomb.
If they were to cry out Who will hear them speak? And who shall interpret if the stones were to shout?

Life Is, Death Is
Life is
the daily opening of closed boxes To discover the things that hide Inside the wrapping and the ribbons; Accepting the present given and Discarding the empty boxes.
Death is Hording treasured-empty boxes And refusing to reach out to get another box; Only to be surprised by a self-opening box That displays the last hidden mystery Equally to the blind and to the one who
wants to see.

Suddenly and Unannounced
Whenever death surprises us and comes suddenly and unannounced,
We who witness its coming are filled with shock and uncertainty.
We find it hard to explain to ourselves or to those who were so close.
The questions of “Why” and “Why, now?” “Why not later?” surface
And constantly flood in upon our thoughts of life and existence.
We wonder about this destroyer of life called death And realize that its power to still the living
is not only for others It too can and will bring our lives to that quiet stillness When lips and limbs refuse to move
and the heart ceases to pump The sudden death of a friend brings
to us those silent fears That prior to now we have been unable
to face and anew… Fears that remind us that we too
shall follow that same road When suddenly and announced
we are surprised by death itself.
The end to earthly friendships, to common and everyday conversations;
The beginning of a void and empty compartment of our lives.
At this point, life seems so fragile and frail that
Life is a near contradiction in terms—a word of opposite meaning. Life says there is more to come, there is reason to hope, that plans and
Ideas are essential and good, that one can have real expectations of tomorrow.
Why then does life also speak of death, of endings, of the grave?
Who put death in the vocabulary of life? Who is responsible for changing certainty in to mystery? Who will help us search for solution
to this life and death relationship?
Our answers come slowly and painfully. They come in the midst of tears and sobs of remorse. But then they surprise us and come suddenly
and unannounced And we who witness their coming are filled with hope and determination To go ahead and live.

This Body Too Shall One Day Drop
This body too shall one day drop And join the fallen souls Who inhabit death’s cold regions; To know that uncertain certainty Whose river flows to the
Vast chasm Of shaded eternity.

Icicle
The cold funeral home is a deeper coldness than any. It is an iciness that freezes all thoughts, all senses and All dreams. It is a liquid frozenness that cannot Be melted, even though there are people who
Try. Hugs, handshakes, pats on the back embraces, Words of sorrow, flowers
quiet music. And all the other attempts to make things
better..They all try but the ice is still there. The
coldness is the bitter frozen
ness of
life it is
the art ic of the
soul at
the mid
ni
gh
th
o
u
r .

Let Me Do It on My Own Terms
Keep your pair of silver dollars I am not ready to claim them; I don’t even care to borrow them.
O keeper of the silver, Catch me not My pace is faster than yours, now But you pursue.
Let me see only the present, I ask not for the future. I want to keep my eyes open.
Shut them not until I close them myself. I care not to greet you with my sight. I would rather be surprised in my sleep. Come not when force must be applied to my eyelids.
I promise to cooperate, if you will.

Death by Cancer
I see the face of death Upon the far room wall And in the eyes of a friend During a hospital call.
I smell the scent of death And oh, I try not to run But stay and sniff her potted flowers In the late evening sun.
I touch the feel of death Upon a hairless head And sense her calm acceptance Of life going dead.
(1981)

Inside Dwells a Stranger
Inside dwells a stranger Within my wall of flesh and bone That knows no manners; It was not invited to come at all But it came on anyway And piggishly pushed and shoved its way in; And grows bigger everyday.
I have tried to combat its growth. But have not known how To deal with the damned intruder.
And now, The stranger knows every part of me; But I accept it only as An enemy from without That stole my homestead rights.
Little does it know That even as it stalks me murderously, It, too, will die When it has defeated me.
I still have that trump card Unless its aim is suicide.
(1988) [Note: Mac Died of Colon and Liver cancer in 2006]

Down to the River: Wonders

Into the Woods
Farther into the woods Following a shallow creek Turning and twisting through briars and mud, But moving on deeper into the woods As if led by the hand of an explorer Always pushing on and Never thinking that my uncharted course Was unmarked by the unknown friend That called me into the woods.
Throughout the time of the eastern sun And never really noticing that its trek Had long passed its midday position, Driven legs continue to pull through bogs And step on fallen branches and logs, Seeking and believing that the creek Would soon give its waters to the mouth Of the river where self-charted dirt roads lead home.

Deer Stalking
Deer stalking With no talking And no walking Just hawking
The woods on a stand.
Gazing in all directions And waiting with a gun, Hoping to see the reflections Of a deer on the run
In the dawning of the day
Cold fingers Holding hot coffee in one hand; Hot fingers ready to command A cold trigger in the other.
In the flash of a given moment.
Leering Hearing Deering Nearing
If only in imagination.
Taking aim Over and over again At any game.10
And always the same, No deer prances in the thicket
After a full day, without a buck But with an appreciation and greater love Of the things around and above, I descend and walk to the truck
A better man.

Blackbirds Play in the Cedar Trees
Blackbirds play in the cedar trees, And white-permed dandelions sway gently in the breeze, A patch of oaks show off their negligees, While overhead, the afternoon sun chases
puff clouds and blue skies in a friendly game of hide-and-seek.
All of this springing upon me in the park Transforms my winterized heart.

An Afternoon Sun
I sit with my back to an afternoon sun That shines through the recent-barren branches Of trees on the edge of the wood.
The warmth that I feel from the rays Almost convinces me to remove the woolen over shirt And to write these words on the shirt sleeve, But the breeze that blows is chilling Enough to persuade me to continue The covered bath of an early December sun.
Before me are the brown and sparingly yellow leaves That have fallen to the ground. There’s a slight dampness in the piles of leaves That tell of the past weekend rains that fell, Occasionally, lonely leaves fall from the trees
That have served as homes ever since the beginning of spring.
The shadow of my head Rises over the table before me And rests on the leaves.
And, I am reminded That just as the leaves converge on the ground, I too shall follow that shadow I who know not the damp coolness of an autumn bed, A coolness that a beaming sun makes warm.
And here I sit with my back to an afternoon sun, that shines.

Down to the River
The pasture needs a’mowing The garden needs a’hoeing The grain needs a’sowing But I, I need to be going
Down to the river.
I hear the river calls “Take off your overalls; Leave your mules in their stalls; Hang their bridles on the walls.
Come down to the river.”
Down to the river Come down to the river.

When Butterflies Find Moisture
When butterflies find moisture Along the clay road near the creek, Flocking like yellow and purple Patchwork quilt squares along the way, Moving only to find new cool spots Under the hanging oaks beside the road On a scorching summer afternoon,
The corn stalks line the unshaded fields Like boy soldiers marching to early death In fatigues, now more brown than green. Many weeks before they could accomplish any Productive work…The ears are mere nubbins, Stunted and baked by the fire of the sun.
The usually fruitful land, In waterless furrows of hot powdery sand And cracked, stone-like clods, Lies drenched only in the false hopes of rain. This April, this May even this June The sun drank the moisture from the Field’s water reservoir And the rains came not to replenish That which was taken.
The sun shines on the just and on the unjust, They say that too about the fall of the rain But the injustice of the sun and the unseen rain Speak only of the drought that has fallen now On the just and on the unjust alike.
Where is the justice When the sun takes all the water from the corn And the rain refuses to fall While the butterflies flutter from one Damp spot to the next Caring not that the sun has freed the field Of a harvest of corn?
Butterflies are free, and so too the sun and the rain. The field is free: free of corn. The corn is free, now, indeed!

Winter, Farewell
When in February Spring invites itself to come and stay, Can it be that it has forgotten That every season has a time Or is it plain piggish?
Behind what March dawn Does winter stand in wait To pounce upon this unannounced guest To usher it to the door And fling it to the wind?
But why so? Must winter not want to warm itself? Must it not melt in joy of the Blazing fire that spring paints everywhere?
When in February Spring invites itself to come and stay, Why worry, winter That it should sleep so soon.

Yellow-Bellied Hiccups
Yellow bellied hiccups belch forth From malcontented scarecrows Munching straw from their bosoms, Giving substance and sustenance to Bloated bellies,
Malnourished by rickets’ diet.
When up the hill The black crows mime The chewing and grinding songs Sung by teeth and unsatisfied stomachs Of starving straw men and women Who watch straw babies starve in the field. Corn, forbidden to be touched by anyone Except the hungry green giant That clamors through the autumn field, Harvesting the hardened fruit and Collecting all the golden hard kernels And spitting out the chewed up cobs And diced shucks.
Hungry babies, See all this and die in the frost and early snow And carry with them into their frozen graves The dreams of stewed corn and succotash, Corn-on-the-Cob and cornbread pone. Surrounded not by dead stalks and lifeless roots Little scarecrows cease their work of frightening away crows And die until spring comes again.
Unrequited dreams?

Take My Hand
Take my hand And run quickly with me. For swiftness flows like White bellied rapids That explode over jagged Rocks embedded in The raging water of the River.
While the water pulley Races eagerly around each Cog that enchains the Slave that churns Ever forward to the Roaring wall of the Falling abyss.
Suspended in Liquid motion—gushing Forth in wild containment Head over heel, over heel Over head, side to side Ever spinning and Reaching for a new Water bed. Engulfed By the mist and the Spray and finally Jackknifing into the Pool—Descending And ascending once Again to breathe new Air and flow again.

Magnolia Majesty
Framed magnolia blossoms grace the wall Of our entrance way at home. They tell the proud and gallant message That dwells in the artist’s heart.
The green leaves and white petals Glisten in the gentle tones Of Georgia earth. They sing of life, of birth, of death: Some, only in brown buds;
While others show forth the first signs of magnolia white; The central blossom has opened fully It majestic petals, exposing the inner core Which drops its tiny, red-tipped particles Upon the bed of white, soft and fragrant.
You can smell the South when you see them. You can see waltzing young women In flowing gowns at the spring cotillion. You can hear the orchestra play its music.
You can feel the certainty that these blossoms Signal a new promise of joy and life For today, and for tomorrow.
Come, see; Share this magnolia gift!

Mountain Monuments
Mountains are eternal monuments to a creator who continues making the wind to blow on the mountainside. The rushing of the breeze whistles against my ears and plays with my hair as if each hair were a childhood friend playing a game of tug of war.
While the britches legs shiver as if afflicted with palsy and cooling currents run head on through the woven threads
to chill the bare skin all over my body… making cold the inner warmth of the soul which also stands within me on the mountainside which is also an eternal monument to a creator who continues to breathe into me the breath of life.

Walking in Shirt Sleeves
Walking in shirt sleeves on a busy street Greeting the friends and the strangers that I meet Welcoming the smiles, Gathering the doubts Sharing the lives of the people who are out.
On the street: messengers, dreamers, Sick, men exercising weak hearts, schemers, Tired, crying children; lost, me-starers Frustrated, shoppers, helpers, no-carers; Idealistic, beginners, hungry. Broken, ulcerated workers, angry; Lonely, drug users, pushers, runaways, Mad, happy lovers walking in a daze; Afraid, savers, pick-pockets, policemen Wishing children, old people forgotten.
On the street, seeking adventure and fame All with faces but only one with a name.

Never Lost, Never Found
Never lost but never found and never alone. Befriended by the flowing creek And tall hanging trees and dense thickets Of branches and briars and
A constant stream of animal cries And woodland violets and fragrant shrubs And a river that drew us all to its banks.
How vast, how wide How glad to see it in the dusky light. But sad that I had come to the end Of a day with an unknown friend Tempted and almost yielding to return By the route that I had taken through the day, I take the charted dirt road That leads out of the woods And promise to return another day.

My Neighbor’s Crocus
My neighbors crocus are blooming So purple, so yellow! And mine are still tightly covered In the brown paper bag
Stored away in the closet.
My crocus bulbs will not bloom; They won’t look pretty They are too late to flower this year
Maybe I will take time to plant them this fall So my yard will flower too.

South Georgia Gnats
South Georgia gnats have a keen sense of knowing When to arrive at the opening Of a mouth needing a quick breath of air Or a chance to spit out chewing tobacco.
No matter if citronella has been rubbed on all exposed skin Or 6-12 has been sprayed all around the yard, They know how to time their aerial attack On a mouth in the act of opening.
I have often wondered if they have Not planted wire-taps or other electronic bugs Within a person’s body So that they can have an early warning Of the opening of the body’s hangar door.
Exactly what is it that gnats like About getting into a person’s mouth? Is the tongue sweet? Do they enjoy the smell of plaque and tooth decay? Are they thirsty? Do they like the warm, dark cavern that they discover When they are shut inside? Or, Are they plain pests And care only to annoy?
When summer comes this year I’m going to sit under my old water oak In my front yard and Swing in my gliding settee And wait for the gnats to come. I’m going to ask them all these questions, And listen. And fan.

It Was a Quiet Wood
It was a quiet wood Green and peaceful Shaded by oak, poplar and chestnut trees, Inhabited by occasional hunters And bands of children playing hide-and-seek Or going on expeditions to uncharted worlds Within hearing distance of home.
For decades it was the place where dreams were made. Where memories were born and grew In the hearts of friends and neighbors Of town emerging into a city.
The wood Having escaped the cutting of dirt streets And rows of houses being built Stood as a monument to the forest That had covered the land During the time of the Cherokee.

If I Were A Bushy-Tailed Squirrel
If I were a bushy-tailed squirrel And had to climb through trees Jumping from limb to limb On my hand an my knees,
And had to go nutting on the cold ground, And build a house from the leaves that I found, While listening for the noise of an old barking hound, I’d probably find time to play too. Wouldn’t you?

I Can See the Wind
I can see the wind. I see it as a friend who comes to greet me On the mountain. It comes as a good friend I haven’t seen in a long time. It makes sure we renew our acquaintance; It does not stand off and wait for me to speak first. It rushes in, even breaks down the door to be with me. It whistles and talks and even whispers directly into my ear And tells secrets and shares dreams with me. And if I open my ears, I can hear it speak. And if I open my eyes, I see it clearly.
I see it in the sky with the clouds, Playing hide and seek; or I see it hard at work pulling cotton apart As if it were inspecting the fibers for trash; I see it shepherding unruly sheep.
I can see the wind take the limp cloth At the top of a flag pole And like a merchant enticing the eyes of those Who know the beauty and the value Of silk and satin in delicate patterns, It unfurls the material and collects the price required From buyers who claim it as their own.
I see it giving a ride to a hitch-hiking hawk. Granting peace and flight to the bird as it soars, Ascending so high that it becomes a suspended black dot
And then gracefully glides back to earth.
I see it dancing with the trees and even tickling the leaves and branches. And by its caresses It undresses the trees in autumn
And showers the ground with a new robe for the winter cold.
I see it as it towel-dries my body After a brisk walk up the mountain. And at the same time It showers me with a coolness Like the water form a cascading mountain stream.
I can see the wind.

Growth
Once a tiny seed Glued to a cone,
Then a freed seed Flying all alone.
Once a landed seedling Nestled in the earth,
Then a pregnant seedling Waiting for its birth.
Once a tiny shoot Protruding from the ground,
Then a planted shoot Rooted in a mound.
Once a tiny sapling Reaching out for light,
Then a growing sapling Extending up in height.
Once a tiny tree Swaying to and fro
Then a mighty tree Weathering wind and snow.
Once a tiny seed Flying all alone,
Now a might tree Mothering a cone.

I Am Glad to Be in the South
I am glad to be in the South, When spring green is seen And dogwoods glow with snow And camellia and azalea
Color the earth with birth. I am glad to be in the South,
When summer sun is fun And hot bare feet reach the beach And biking and hiking Fill a picnic day with play.
I am glad to be in the South,
When autumn leaves strip the trees And the forest ground is yellowed and browned And living and thanksgiving Find expression and confession
I am glad to be in the South,
When winter’s dross is frost And scenes are evergreens And cold winds blowing and snowing (Contrary to the wish of every child) are mild.
I am glad to be in the South.

Down to the River: Struggle

How to Visit a Poem
It is possessing, never possessed You can never claim it As your own
even if you write it or memorize it.
You can never take it home with you.
It exists beyond experience. It grants
visitors’ rights publication copyrights.
It is not conceited; it denies itself to no one. It encompasses all people… It cannot be destroyed Though you burn it or forget it
Like a revelation, a poem Reveals itself to a poet.

Solitude
Solitude, O Solitude, Praise be to thee. You make the mind to quicken. You make the soul to think.
Solitude, O Solitude, Praise be to thee. You make me search for knowledge You make me love the truth.
Solitude, O Solitude, Why do you leave me? Why are you pushed out by yell
by bell by fears of hell?
Solitude, O solitude, Could it be that I left thee?

Eclipse
At mid-day when the earth turned dark And the sky became an eerie charcoal gray, Fear ran rampant in the hearts of ordinary folks Who began the day unsuspecting of what was to happen. In past experiences, Explanations ranged from someone’s sins causing it To a certain assurance that the world was coming to an end. Rash promises have been made to God and others at such times Hoping to set things right while there was time; Suicides, blindness, bad dreams—even nightmares Have followed those occasional happenings.
Today, it is a spectacular event…planned and promoted By television coverage. Parties of celebration have been Scheduled to experience and record the event. Dancing in the street, peering into the sky,
Sneaking a peek through peepholes, Feeling that eerie feeling of non, near nightness That pervades the earth for the brief moments of darkness.

Potential
Empty vases and flower pots Stand proudly on the shelf with fading memories Of earlier arrangements That florists had made and delivered One was a youthful spring bouquet. One, a dozen roses. Another a pot of poinsettias The others, with aging memories, Unable to specify what flower or plant They held, only know that the flowers were pretty.
Empty vases and flower pots Stand proudly on the shelf with budding dreams For the future. I’ll want more flowers. I’ll want more greenery. I’ll want a living plant That will provide a lasting scenery.
Empty vases and flower pots Dead, but yet alive! Filled, with memories and dreams Aware that though discarded from their duty They remain potential bearers of beauty.

Coming to the Storehouse
Coming to the storehouse, Packed with random thoughts and sounds— Some tucked back so tightly That they seldom find room to escape. At the same time Some so often called forth That not only are they dog-tired, But are now considered unimaginative and unwanted. I stand gazing and digging to strike The harmonious chorus of perfect Thought and sound.
Chanting, incanting, stretching into oblivion: What pictures awakened, and are now aroused? What memories? What dreams, what unknowns Do surface and skim like cream at the top of the pitcher And fly away as other ghostly apparitions On a hallowed All Saints’ Day.
Are they all within the shelter Of one’s own skeletal and body tissue? Or come they not from the outer wall to Impregnate the storehouse and Cause the virgin’s womb to grow And finally house not only a heartbeat, But a newborn baby that lives on After the umbilical cord is cut?
Come sound, come thought. Let us go together And make the sweet music of birth.

I Have Not Gone to See the Riverbed
I have not gone to see the riverbed To check the springs; to smooth the spread; Buy yet I feel that I must go And tell the people that I will go.
Does it matter what they may think If I go; or if I sink? What affair is it to them? Why would they really care?
Is it just to keep afloat And know the direction of my boat That causes them any concern, And not really any genuine care of me?
Do they care if the current is swift Or if they rapids send me cascading Over the fall, or dash my head upon a rock Or cut my leg upon the dock? What about me? What about me?
In the midst of the river, do they see me? In the heat of the summer, in the cool dark Night are they really aware of the Things that I fight—inside and out? Or am I a lone person apart from my work?
Am I divided into pie squares and Left with the empty aluminum pan To have for my self? Is that where I am?
Where is the rest of myself?

Ode to a Stuffed Mannequin
O mannequin, why stand you so pale— So calm, so life-like but motionless? What fills your rigid form? What gives your body its perfection? What lies behind the plaster and that paint? Are you but hollow features with no bones to support you?
What stuff is there within you That gives you that aura of decay?
What you can do about your existence Is just the opposite of my condition. So, why stand I motionless, Hollow and alone?

My Office
Today’s assignments, Yesterday’s newspapers, Last week’s junk mail, Last month’s correspondence files, And last generations’ books:
My office.
Plus, Garbled heaps of Trash, including the telephone; A desk, including my disarrayed thoughts; A “These are the good old days” poster; Along with the dreams of A better day in the morning.
I really don’t fit in this room. Or, am I kidding myself now. That possibility frightens The hell out of me.

Modern Department Stores
Synthetic wigs and Paris hats And imported, plaited front door mats, Cookbooks, clothes and fishing lures, And toys and jewelry and more Create a modern department store.
Gift certificates, And credit card plates Personal checks and dollar bills Please Rich’s, Macy’s and Marshall Fields, And all the other giant merchandise floors That call themselves modern department stores
Crawling escalators And unattended elevators, Cash registers and glassed-in counter tops For candy and nuts and underwear
and tools in the garden shops, Credit offices, parking lots and data
that the computer stores Equip the institutions known as
modern department stores
Mannequin dressers and cosmeticians, Travel agents and trained beauticians, Druggists, gift-wrappers, the TV repairmen, Bakers, sales people and the Board chairman, And the roving night watchman
who opens the locked doors For shoppers who inhabit modern department stores.

Business Luncheon
Muffled madness And bursts of gladness; Constant laughter Before and after Every puff of smoke And drummer’s joke, Trumpeting the success Of the company’s business, In order to close a deal While waiting for the meal, Surrounded at every table by instruments, Who achieve the concert to business, Not much unlike the piped melodies Of the hundred strings’ recording.
In the symphony that arises, It is not the drummer Who sets the pace, The drummer eats, and beats the time Set by the conductor, pretty waitress, Running from table to table
Bringing food and drinks, But much more importantly, Bringing a mood and feeling Of care and attention That every performer expects to have.
It is she, and not the food, And not the drummer, Who keeps the business growing; By polishing the brass and giving the score
That brings prosperity to a nation.
When the performance come to a halt, And the conductor is applauded, The drummer returns to the office to feed the vault, That stores the fruits of business luncheons.

Your Look is a Loaded Gun
Your look is a loaded gun: aimed, cocked, fired. Murder is running rampant in your heart. Your eyes have covered me with a white sheet; Neatly have you dug a grave and laid to rest My mortal remains and my plans for the future. The red blood that rushes through your veins Shows on your corduroy neck and shouts
The final amen of the preacher’s “dust to dust.”
No blood will spill upon the ground. No ambulance will siren its way to an emergency room. No “dead on arrival” will be written. No police report will record the incident. There will be no newspaper headline
to announce the crime. No television reporter will add this murder to His nightly message of who killed whom.
And even I, Who witnessed my own brutal murder, Will have nothing to which I can testify. I can tell no friend or loving wife That I died in your eyes tonight.
Why did you murder me? We, are not strangers. For years awe have known each other. We have taken for granted our friendship. Did I kill you one day last week or maybe last year? Are you returning a judgment upon some crime I spoke against you?
Did you see me murder you another dark night? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, A murder for a murder, a look for a look?
Unspoken murder, You and I have to live with And hope they remain unheard. But we carry with us always The fear, the guilt and the silent death Each time we remember. The murders which keep whispering “Forgive me, I’m sorry” Speak louder than whispers And erase a lot of unspoken crime.

When Dreams Die
When dreams die, all is lost— The very existence of everything of life flies into oblivion For dreams are the fabrics of living expression And when they are gone,
life turns into stone, cold statues Unknown and ill-fated reminders of an uncertain past.

Who Locked the Library
Who locked the library? Who lost the key? Who will break the window For you and me?
Let dust gather. Let time do its thing. Let the pages yellow. Let the air mildew bring.
A storehouse of knowledge, Decaying in our midst, Conquered years ago Without fire wind or fist.
Who locked the library? Who lost the key? What did you say? It was you and me?

Imperfect Human Beings
Why is it that imperfect human beings want everything to be perfect?
We want Hawaiian weather. We want children sweet and quiet We want the yard to look as if it recently returned from the manicurist. We want plenty of money in a balanced checking account And we want all we want Plus the little extra that comes Right after all we want. We want other people to be perfectly predictable. We want perfect health We want a perfect 10 in a spouse, We want the things we do to work out right. We expect life to be perfect And usher us to heaven’s favored seat. Our problem is that we have not understood The meaning of perfection; We have always seen with this moment’s eyes.
Who is to say that it is not perfect? That changes come, that dreams fade away, That wants trade places with what is at hand. That life draws to an end. That imperfect human beings act as perfect human beings ought to act. There is a great sense of perfection In all of This human existence.

My Heart Aches for America
My heart aches for America With its struggle to clasp The silver-lined eagle That tries to fly to
Other protected lands where It can raise a new crop of eagles And favor a new land with the Showers of liberty and justice That America has known for More than two hundred years.
My heart aches for America. Has it lost its knack for Training eagles or attracting eagles? Its supply of grain and field mice Sours and rots in the fields
Like unattended mash left for weeks In the drums along the creek bank Not found by the revenue agents Who had raided the owner’s house And taken to jail the piercing eyed And over-worked husband and wife Who were trying to make ends meet.
My heart aches for America Its rat-infested towers decay, more slowly than its people; Its masses of the poor And under-privileged reach out to receive its share Of the good land that bombards the Colored TV screens which enchant, entice and lure them To believe that life is only what one buys
And can possess.
My heart aches for America It has turned its hallowed dream (not a dreaded, recurring constant nightmare), Possessed but not possessing. The eagle flies in search of a new land Where the stench of dying spirits and Decomposing bodies are not to be smelled Is this the land of the raven? The land of a dying dream that smells Like a dead carcass still held in the arms Of an unbelieving wife?
My heart aches for America That it would sing anew An ancient song and pray for the wings of a dove To build a nest of freedom in the wilderness.
My heart aches for American, not to fly, fly, fly away, But to accept its own wilderness And build a new nest of freedom and life Within the bounds of a new American hope.
We are the wilderness, the rot, the alarming nightmare.
Every wilderness borders a promised land. Decay fertilizes a new crop: there is always a morning to follow the darkest night.
My heart aches for America. Rise up, O people, and let us turn our wilderness Into a land where eagles can live And people can make a promised land Within each heart.

That House That Had Been My Home
That house that had been my home Disappeared today, without a trace— It ran away with everything Except the memories that it could not carry with it. That is the pile of baggage
that the bank could not repossess. Those are the packages that will be added to my back As I look for affordable rental property In a more economical section of town.
I am sure that I will search throughout the roads and streets For weeks and months and years,
Looking for the house I lost. How did it disappear? High-interest rates, increase utility bills, Added costs for food and cars, more this, more that More taxes, and less, less, less money
for the family inside.
Juggling acts belong in a three-ring circus. Did my home catch a train when the circus left town today? What do you think?
For the 217,000 American families who lost their homes in 1984 because they could not keep up their payments.

America Knows Not How to Die
America know not how to die It hears no pealing bells. It complains of nagging headache, And takes another aspirin; It feels a sinking dizziness, And takes another aspirin; It coughs and wheezes, And takes another aspirin; It spits up blood and vomits out bile, And takes another aspirin.
About death, America feels one thing for certain: Death won’t come And the bells won’t peal… As long as it has aspirin.

House Calls
The plumber comes to fix the pipes. The maid comes to clean the house. The garbage man comes to gather up the trash; The postman comes to bring the mail.
I sometimes wonder why I come home All the things that used to be done Are handled by a corps of specialists And I, I am no kind of house specialist. I am not sure that I yet know enough To qualify as a general practitioner,
But I continue to make house calls.

March 26th
On March 26, 1874, Robert Frost was born. And now, (eleven years have passed When his death the world did mourn) His poetry and thought still last— Alive and fresh as before.
Eighty-nine years of living, Eighty-nine years of giving Himself unselfishly In his life of poetry.

I. On March 26, 1941, Sixty-seven years after Frost’s life was begun, My dear friend appears And today, after thirty-three years, He too, lives and gives Himself in friendship and in deed In living poetry.
And as for me, I hope that God believes It would be fine, For you to live To be eighty-nine.
II. Oh, So Cold The weary bones creak and scrape as legs crunch through barren streets
And air-infested woolen socks make the once pink flesh turn blue.
Walk on through the frozen night, for stepping brings frostbite
Or develops into that sustained frost-bitten state called death.
Put up these feet. Move one after another, ahead of the other; Since death stalks so closely and eagerly
awaits to pounce upon its prey Listen, head. Your job is to remind those legs and those feet Of the impending lameness When bones and sinews lie silent and oh so cold.

Future
Never shall I want to be a Useless dodo bird and know no present Or future. If there is only a past, when future Days remember my days, what does one have to hope for Or even to build on or dream on?
The past has no dreams. Its dreams have all been fulfilled or all thwarted.
The yesterdays have come and gone And now they hold not a promise or a curse. Except, insofar as I want yesterdays to control and rule my present… But the past has no dreams…only memories that I allow to fertilize or poison what is here or what lies ahead. O let me be an eagle that soars through The winds and swoops and glides I hold not myself back; My “May I’s” fall away To be engulfed by “I am’s.”

He is Like a Dog
He is like a dog that barks at passing cars
saying that they have no right to drive in his street.
He wants his to be his, And his left alone.

Three Poems
One Lined Poem A moment is one sniff of freeze-dried concentrate.
Two Lined Poem
True love is an “I love you” With another “I love you” tagging along.
Four Lined Poem
Limit your poem to four lines. That’s the same things as saying to a cheese lover, “Eat only one paper-thin slice” of a new hoop of aged Cheddar cheese.

Maybe Then
If your attaché case Makes me fall on my face, Maybe then You will put it in its place
If your company’s data Make me ugly and fatter, Maybe then, You will sense something’s the matter.
If your returning trip home Finds that I have packed and gone, Maybe then, You will know I won’t live alone.

Small Town
The sounds of night have filled the air, In our little town so fair. The moon has lighted the early darkening night, which before it, saw a long, hot summer day’s light.
A cool breeze now blows, which refreshes the day that goes, And the folks in our town Will soon be bedded down.
Farmers are now in from their day of heat and sweat; And from the shower standing—calling for a towel, wet.
The woman of the house wants to call the day Bur she knows there is no rest before The little one’s “down to sleeping.”
Then the houses go to sleep and all The lights go out Except in the homes of the few who have Nothing to be tired about.
Our town is a close-knit place, all Intertwined.
No one ever does a thing that isn’t known in time.

Just Everyday
How can I appreciate what I have now, When it’s so ordinary, so plain, so much the same?
Just everyday
Is there anything special about last year’s clothes? Or last night’s sky? Or a thirteen year marriage? How can I appreciate what I have now— When it’s just everyday?
But how could I live without what I have now? When it’s so special, so seasoned, so comfortable? Just right? Last year’s clothes? They fit; they are mine. Last night’s sky? Still full of lights. A thirteen year marriage? A love; a trust; surprise. Just everyday?
No just right.

Birth
When waters break and birth arrives And air replaces membrane skies Amid the heaves and screams of pain The child closes its umbrella on
a nine month rain.