Hiram and Johnny

HIRAM COON, 1866

Hiram Coon had an “ungovernable” temper.
A farmhand with prison in his past,
And part of his right ear bitten off,
He and his wife ate at the same table
With Mr. and Mrs. Laker and their youngsters.
Though Mrs. Laker thought it a waste
To serve him steak, and cautioned
Hiram Coon not to talk about her ‘round town
If he partook of drink in taverns.

Hiram Coon knew a woman like Mrs. Laker
Was just looking for a quarrel with him.
Hiram Coon knew a woman like Mrs. Laker
Never had the damned Irish taken out of her.
Hiram Coon knew one sure way to fix that.

While they all ate the steak his wife cooked,
Hiram Coon excused himself and went outside.
At the woodpile, he tucked the ax in his waistband.
Returning, Mrs. Coon saw barest bit of ax blade.
Rising, she tried to put herself between them.
Hiram Coon shoved down his wife, determined
As he was, to take the Irish out of Mrs. Laker.

Mr. Laker fumbled past the fallen Mrs. Coon,
The Laker children whimpered in their chairs,
A single candle sputtered on the table.
Mrs. Laker picked up her chair, bumping it
At Hiram Coon as she backed into the pantry.
Hiram Coon swung high above it, hitting Mrs. Laker.

From the back, Mr. Laker came at him kicking.
Hiram Coon fled out the door, and past the barn.
They sent the oldest Laker boy for Dr. Moses
While Mrs. Coon bandaged Mrs. Laker’s head.
Mr. Laker stood at the door with gun in hand
‘Case Hiram Coon was of a mind to do more harm.

Now everyone was talking about Mrs. Laker
In the taverns.  She died some six days later.
The same time Hiram Coon was caught nearby.
No one would testify on his behalf, not even
Mrs. Coon, and the jury found him guilty.
Hence Hiram Coon was sentenced to be hung
His spirit then released from its clay tenement.

JOHNNY, 2009

Johnny is serving thirty-one years
For killing his eight month old son
I think of lying face down in his living room
Only the week before as he tattooed
My daughters’ names around my ankle
And we made small talk about birds

Johnny draws better than anyone I know
Despite his car accident, his brain injury
Sometimes his mother shows me pictures
He has drawn in prison with a 3” pencil
They do not let him have a sharpener
Johnny’s mother was sure she would lose her job
When the story made the newspapers
She had to testify at the trial, her son
The perpetrator, and her grandson the victim.

Sometimes people wonder what kind of person
Could commit such a heinous act? They wonder
What kind of parents could raise such a son?
I knew, and watched them struggle.  Mightily.
The daughter killed by a drunk diver, the son
Who never wanted to be the oldest, and the demons
That he fought, the family that struggled with him.

My daughter wanted to go into law enforcement.
My daughter's world was very black and white.
We talked about Johnny, I wanted her to know
The circumstances that can color a situation,
The shades of gray that follow us all.
Black and white, I want to tell her, is for piano keys.

Who Do We Become

I did not understand you
Were a living part of me.

Your memory forced
Me to redefine who
I Am.


I struggled for a definition,
Not liking my choices.

Who do we become when
The people we love
Leave us?  How do we

Fill the space where 
They once were? How
Do we stitch together 

The memories we are
Left with, to make
Ourselves whole again?

No Fear

I do not fear death for it is simply the
Comforting dank smell of last year's
Leaves fallen to the forest floor, now
Giving way to new growth, new life.
It is that final rest from weariness,
From pain, and a chance to sleep.

Who Are We?

Who do we become when we lose
the parent who guided us as surely
as a star guides us through darkness?

How do we look in the mirror
and still see ourselves as whole
when we know we no longer are?

What becomes of our future when
our shared past has been broken
and the bridge no longer exists?

Learning to Fly

My wings are hidden.  I have
Not figured out how to fly in
This earth-bound life.  My feet
Ache to leave the ground every
Time the wind blows through my
Hair, my face turned to the sky.

So I dare myself to let go of my
Branch, to free-fall into the
Unknown, to see if my wings
Will carry me into the world.
See if I have the strength to
Soar.

Rebirth

Take the time to wander the quiet
Pre-spring, the damp path of fallen
Leaves yielding to new growth
The first greens pushing forth
Tender and lithe enough to make
Way through the matted forest floor

Too early for the robin or the oriole's
Song, it is not truly spring until the
Trill of the red-wing blackbird is
Heard at the edge of the marsh
Along with the spring peeper chorus

Cool breezes from patches of snow
Still hidden by rock outcrops and
Fallen trees remind you that winter
Fights for last handholds as warmth
Gains strength in the March sky

You stop, eyes closed, and breathe
Deeply the musky earth, death and
Rebirth mingled on the forest path
Knowing you, too, are reborn for 
Another season, another year

Spring

Push past the matted brown grass,
Past the thickness that buries you.
Do not be deterred by your newness,
There is strength in your supple green.

Face the new day, new season.
Rejoice in being the first to rise up
To reclaim this land, reclaim yourself,
You, a child of the grasses that whisper

To the rabbits and fox that hide within.
The prairie holds the gentle secrets
Of the thistle, coneflower, and yarrow,
And those who know their names.

Blow with the wind, with purpose,
See where it carries you each new day.
Ride it like the seed of the milkweed,
Aloft and tender, covering new ground.

Alight gently, then move on again,
Borne by the desires of freedom
And the need to root and grow
So you can burst forth yet again.

She Is

She is a crescent moon

Daintily pouring darkness

Into a china teacup rimmed

With gold and painted

With delicate pastel flowers

That she flutters over like

A rare butterfly in an

English country garden

With a path that meanders

Down to a lily-dotted pond

Lit by a crescent moon

Trespassing

You ask me if I remember but
So many things I do not,
Because I hold recollections
Of other times, other places,
Crowding out here-and-now.


When I walk the very paths
You do, I feel another time
in those same places, when
You can only see how they
Are now. I am out of place.


Wisps of unnamed people walk
Beside me making it hard for me
To listen to you.  I know corners
Before I turn them and I go silent
Letting these places speak to me.


I try to mesh your here-and-now
With my places out of time so
You become part of my memories
So I can take you with me, the
Same way you have loved me.

The Piper

Who follows the piper on the grayest of days?
When far off, the wind carries the notes that he plays
Calling those orphaned, forsaken, or lost amid tides,
Those who've been shunned, disparaged, or lied.

Lonesome notes drift then swell in their veins
In soft bleeding colors that haven't a name
An ancient but tragic story is told.
For those willing to follow, a promise unfolds.

What have they to lose in the gray spray of mist?
Where now the sinners and sailors both coexist?
So they follow the piper across moor and sea
Trusting, and trading their heart for whatever will be.

Pain

This is not a cut that makes me wince, a bruised muscle
that makes me too stiff to move in the morning, 
or a joint that sends stabbing pain through a nerve 
making me cry out in pain.  No, those are now nothing
in comparison to what has happened to my body.  

A fire burns deep into layers of skin and muscle
spreading like lava to places the scalpel never touched
searing white hot, a soldering iron held to my chest, 
and I slip into darkness.

Glass shards grind along every nerve, churning like waves.
My nerve endings scream when I cannot. Steel claws
rip at me, a beast sporting with my limp body and I have
no will to survive, only a desire to escape the cruelty.

I rise and fall to the surface without will, unable to see
past the blackness that everything is. Falling back into 
nothingness is surrender, freedom, not knowing, 
not feeling.  Let the claws rip at me, let the fire burn.
I will sleep, unaware, unconscious.

Buoyant

She is wrinkled, sunken,

In her chair with clothes

That hang on her bent

Eighty-year old frame.

And she is formidable.

Never tell your mother,
She says, if your husband
Or children cause you
Grief.  You will deepen
Her grief and yours,
Defending them to her.

She raised her children,
She survived a husband.
She knows.  Her stories
Have an underside but
The loss and heartache
Are almost missed in
Her buoyant laughter.

Death

I have seen my death and it is water.  It has spent a
lifetime coaxing me into its company so I will not
be afraid when it comes for me that final time. Or
maybe I am the one who seeks the water knowing
I will need to eventually make my peace with it.

When I was very young I fell head first into a tub
of water. Mother pulled me out, panicked, unsure
how long I'd been under. I only felt its warmth, and
heard it whisper to me. "I will come back for you."

I once had an accident on the water, hitting it so hard
I almost passed out.  When I was pulled from the lake,
bright red blood ran rivers down my wet legs.  And the
water whispered to me, "I am yours and you are mine."

There are times when I have sought out water, waves of
warmth and relaxation soaking deep into my muscles.
I can feel knots untwisting like tentacles letting go of
prey.  The water whispered, "You love me, don't you?"

I have sat, my belly nine months swollen as water pulsed
across it, washing away the waves of pain, down the 
drain, letting me float away to a different time and place.
The water whispered to me, "Come with me this time."

There are times water has invaded my body, going to
places it has no right to be, so we struggle against each
other as my lungs fill.  I cough against the fluids; water
simply reminds me, "This is how I will come for you."

Pieces of My Heart

I am so hungry my hands shake. My stomach is knotted as I drive.
I am angry I have no food with me, angry at the drivers in my way.

I lift one hand from the steering wheel to see how badly it shakes
from my hunger. Then I wonder why I do this to myself.  As if I
need a reminder of growing up when there was not enough money
for groceries and my mother sat at her desk crying, wondering how
she would pay the monthly bills.  A reminder of having to eat the
awful school lunches because my dad was unemployed and we
got them for free.  We choked down the canned green beans and
mystery meats because we were hungry. We also got teased. We
were the only ones at our table to eat lunch on a tray.  People knew.

And now people comment how fast I eat which makes me feel
ashamed.  They do not know when I was growing up sometimes
there was not a lot of food on the table.  We had small portions
and if there were seconds they were only for the first ones done. 
Even when I have enough, I forget to slow down when I eat. 
But I do not comment on what folks are eating or how they are
eating it,  other than to say it looks good.  You just never know.

More important than the food in my belly are seven hungers
that haunt me, call to me like sirens.  I search among sacred
rocks, waters and trees in hope feeding the fires that burn in
both body and soul.  Walking among the jagged rocks, I cup

my hands in spring-fed waters, raise them up to a sun that
filters through ancient trees.  I watch droplets run down my
arms, creating streams on my skin, rivers on my body.  I

gather stars, daring not to drop them as I search for my heart.

I. Color

I hunger for color in the winds of autumn, in the music of
a spreading morning and in the touch of a pine tree silent
with snow.  I hunger for color in your warmest kisses,
In the breath of lilacs, in the sound of unguarded laughter.

II. Journey

I hunger for the road, this one beneath my feet and the
one beyond my sight.  To be moving, going,

III. Remembrance

I hunger for those who came before me, their story that
is my story.  That in knowing them, I will know myself.

IV. Touch

 

I hunger for the warmth of your body against mine, of my

baby's fingers entwined with mine, your hugs hello and goodbye.

V. Creation

 

I hunger for the words to spill, the colors to drip, the notes to fall.

VI. Belonging

 

I hunger for my sense of place, these places that call me home.

VII. Word

I hunger for the poetry of the soul, the stories within.

Gutted

I have been gutted

This child no longer
In my womb, heart
Beating with mine

I have been gutted

My lungs heave,
Your words burn
Angry in my chest

This rock, heavy in

My stomach, leaves
Me unable to cry
I have been gutted