Believing, Doing, and Sharing in What Was True

We can walk around the block
in the time it takes us to listen
to Wang Chung’s ‘Dance Hall Days’,

so I wanted to write a poem
tying the song’s lyrics
to observations made along the way.

For instance, I’d quote,
“And take your baby by the ears”
as we stroll by the police station

while employing certain literary tools
to highlight comparisons between the cops
and now-faded pop stars from the 1980s.

And I’d somehow tie together,
“And you need her and she needs you,”
to urban gentrification

and how pushing away the poor has somehow
escaped potentional developers of downtown Kansas City, Kansas
despite wholly reshaping Kansas City, Missouri into something…else.

And then I’d end the poem repeating,
“Dance hall days, love, dance hall days
dance hall days, love, dance hall days.”

But without a smoking sax solo,
the entire affair seemed hopelessly missing
that something wholly necessary for lasting greatness.

Believing, Doing, and Sharing in What Was True

Huron Cemetery Poems VIII

May 15th, 2018

Unknown

Bits of broken tombstone surround the tree of life, jagged little reminders that all monuments someday crack and crumble.

A speck-like spider falls from the tree of life onto my pale hand. Before it has a chance to find its own way home, I send it to the land of wet grasses on a gust of self-generated wind. I have never cared for spiders, however minuscule.

I count no less than twenty shards of gravestone and wonder if the tree of life is to blame. The tree of life, grown so large from all the now-quiet bodies if hovers over while under the bone-infested ground, the roots of life seek water.

I spy no faces upon the tree of life’s cracked and ornery skin. I only spy black ants and sick-yellow lichens.

Are the faces then underground with the roots or perhaps higher up on the trunk, well above eye-level, spied only by wandering drones or a telescoping eye from a nearby window? Are the faces then in the branches, obscured by oblique leaves?

Perhaps the tree of life has no faces at all…

Perhaps the tree of life is just a dis-envisaged voice repeating so slowly, “So happy now you’ve gone.”

And what then for us still left to hear?

What new lessons do we have to share?

Huron Cemetery Poems VIII

Huron Cemetery Poems VII

May 10th, 2018

MANY UNMARKED GRAVES
IN THIS AREA
WILLIAM E. CONNELLY
SURVEY OF 1895-1896

In Kansas City, we finally lost the Spring. We finally lost rebirth. The birds now arrive too late. There is an ambulance, a fire truck, a police car, a sleeping man, a city bus, a casino, and authentic Mexican food. I mistook for a woman carrying a baby a woman carrying her coat and shoes. Bare feet traipse through the cemetery grass and not one eye open for green snakes in the sun. Google says they don’t bite and I have long forgotten what my grandmother once told me about the legless. For years, the rumor in our family was that we were touched by Cherokee blood. Had my genome sequenced over Christmas and we were all made to forget many things grandma once told us about us. Remembered then that history can always be erased. History is a dandelion’s seed borne high upon a lost Spring wind. History is bone and word and point of view. My body ages and aches because of history and a lack of magic mushrooms. Walking across the curved earth our feet gather dust and pain but, after a while, we recall how to traverse over sharp objects and how to respect the dirt. In Kansas City, we leap from cold to hot and shift with the quickness from slight to shot. I dreamed I needed a history to claim a home. But what can a history be without a home to first anchor it? Grass grows where it’s allowed until it remembers its history. Nature doesn’t take sides. History does. Dandelions grow where they are needed and do you see how many dandelions there are? In the daytime, we walk over sharp, broken bones and our thick-soled shoes provide such sweet relief from constant hurt and filth but, in the end, they completely wreck our posture and we find ourselves lost between Winter and Summer, reading through our travel diaries and seeking trained hands to help us stand up straight again.

Huron Cemetery Poems VII