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Archive for December, 2024

Prost Neujahr!

Posted in Imagery, poetry, tagged , , , , , , , , , on December 27, 2024| 9 Comments »

 . 
[with 3 poems from Kakalak 2024]
 . 
How to Hold Small Things
 . 
You were this big,
Mom used to say,
cupping her hands
as if to keep a bowl
of holy water
from spilling.
 . 
Is that why I love
to hold small things?
Ladybugs. Twig tips.
Clover petals. Auger shells.
 . 
It’s in the way
we hold small things
that makes them precious,
how we tender moments,
keep them warm
and safe in our clutch –
the newborn kitten,
the wounded bird,
the crab shell that might blow away
if we’re not careful –
as if holding our breath
as we carry them
might keep something
inside of us
from breaking.
 . 
Tonight,
I hold you, baby girl,
cradle you against my chest,
your quick breaths
like scissored whispers,
your tiny fingers
thimble pinches,
and those blue eyes
dreaming with the fury
of newborn stars.
 . 
Michael Beadle – Raleigh, NC
from Kakalak 2024, Moonshine Press Review, Harrisburg NC; © 2024
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
God Bless You! Whether I’m at Food Lion, the post office, Dad’s nursing home, even at church, whenever I sneeze some friend or perfect stranger invokes God on my behalf in that benediction. And I sneeze a lot (I even sneeze when I chew peppermint gum). God Bless You! comes a small voice from around the corner in the condiments aisle. Why?
 . 
A medieval superstition is one explanation. When you sneeze your soul is expelled from your body and a quick invocation prevents the devil from snatching it. Even earlier is a tale from the bubonic plague of 590 CE in Rome – a sneeze or cough might be the first manifestation of that fatal affliction, and since Pope Gregory had implored the populus to pray without ceasing for delivery, benedicat Deus was no doubt a universal refrain. When I sneeze, those three words are raised as a warding or talisman to protect me magically from death.
 . 
What about Gesundheit? It simply means health auf Deutsch. Raise a glass of lager in Frankfurt or Bonn and your companion will likely toast, Sei gesund! (Be healthy!, as in To your health!). When I was a student in Berlin, however, the standard invitation was Prost! I never actually knew what Prost meant and just assumed it had origins in some dark Prussian drinking tradition, but surprise!, it’s Latin – a contraction of prosit, may it be beneficial. Another kind of blessing.
 . 
But here’s my problem – I don’t want you commanding God to bless me. It’s not just because I enjoy sneezing. It’s not because when you say those words it feels superstitious and almost pagan – a little pagan is fine with me. I disagree with God Bless You at a fundamental level. God is not a jurist who bestows or withholds blessings depending on whim or quota or petition. God who is universal and who is the universe has already blessed me in the simple fact of my existence. The greatest additional blessing I might seek would be to recognize the goodness of this earth and of every creature, every person, around me.
 . 
I am already blessed. What if the phrase on everyone’s lips were God has blessed us! Or even better, God is blessing us! Could this become an antidote to consumerism, tribalism, the culture of resentment and entitlement? Could I be healed of my feverish striving for more and more blessings and my coveting of yours? Contrary to my nature, I feel pretty pessimistic about the state and the fate of humanity as 2024 approaches oblivion. Is there any good that will survive our human perversity? Instead of wishing a Happy New Year, I might rather wish for you and me both to discover one good thing and hold on tight. The beneficial, the good, is around here somewhere. It always is. As my Prussian friends would proclaim, Prost Neujahr!
 . 
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
Upon Hearing U2’s “The Sweetest Thing” at the Harris Teeter in Friendly Center
 . 
I’m rushing through the grocery store on a Friday evening
after a long week, filled with deadlines, with news of another
sick friend. All I want to do is pick up a bottle of chardonnay,
a rotisserie chicken, and disappear into the weekend. I consider
buying some cookies too, and then among the masses pushing
their grocery carts, I hear the first chords of “The Sweetest Thing,”
on of my favorite songs, and stop, lean against the Oreos
and Chips Ahoy, and listen, at first only humming, then Bono’s
voice has me swaying in the aisle, and I start to sing louder
as people step farther away from me. But I don’t care. I need
this song, on this day, in this grocery store, and when I look up,
there’s a woman, about my age, staring at me, lip-syncing
the words. She steps forward and somehow we’re dancing
in the snack food aisle. I can’t tell you what she looks like
because we’re in motion, and The Edge is strumming his guitar,
and the whole damn week washes away as we hear a man
in a striped shirt, whom I assume is the manager, say Okay,
that’s enough now. She grabs my hand, and we run along
the back of the store, where the seafood counter guys smile
at us, and this one guy, who reminds me of my long-gone father
because of his graying beard, starts to clap, and my God,
his clapping, her hands in mine, this trip to Harris Teeter
feels like the sweetest thing in the whole wide world.
 . 
Steve Cushman – Greensboro, NC
from Kakalak 2024, Moonshine Press Review, Harrisburg NC; © 2024
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
One good thing that arrives as the New Year approaches is the annual Kakalak anthology. It grows each year and has become a gathering of almost two hundred artists and writers; this year there are dozens of names new to me. I especially appreciate the skill with which the editors curate micro-collections within the greater work, often placing several poems in sequence that share a theme or image, complimented by the art. Thank you to Julie Ann Cook, Angelo Geter, and David E. Poston for Kakalak 2024, and to benevolent deity Anne M. Kaylor who makes it happen and gives it life.
 . 
Purchase Kakalak 2024 HERE:
 . 
❦
 . 
Michael Beadle teaches kids to love poetry, to write poetry, to speak poetry.
Steve Cushman works in IT, which does not inhibit him from finding poetry in everything.
Jessi Waugh is well on the way to having everyone on Bogue Banks engaged in poetry.
 . 
 . 
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
Canopy Disengagement
 . 
The year is closing and won’t come again
 === this day, the way the sun slants shadows
through the space between leaves that will fall
 . 
and never grow again, the ones next year
 === will be different on a changed tree, you can’t
step into the same river twice
 . 
We look for patterns with our primitive minds
 === searching the space between leaves for meaning
and when there is none, we relax and drift
 . 
let the chaos of a system with a thousand variables
 === wash over us and defy explanation, why try?
O sweet surprise, oh symphony of endless instruments
 . 
My child grows taller by the day and further away
 === The tree watches each lost leaf with a sigh
We’ve done our jobs, these rules aren’t yours or mine
 . 
Only the space between leaves and the moment
 === the sun shines through us and the blaze of blood
orange fire as the wind plays with your hair
 . 
I lose the pattern and accept the asymmetry
 === heart lightened by knowing there’s nothing more
I could do, nothing more would make you stay
 . 
We step into the everchanging river your palm in mine
 === and a red sweetgum hand lands like a swirling gem
Your fingers disengage to catch it, the wind blows
 . 
And the space between leaves shifts slightly above us
 . 
Jessi Waugh – Pine Knoll Shores, NC
from Kakalak 2024, Moonshine Press Review, Harrisburg NC; © 2024
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
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Dream

Posted in Christian themes, family, Imagery, tagged , , , , , , on December 20, 2024| 3 Comments »

 . 
[excerpts and art from
The Donkey’s Dream, Barbara Helen Berger]
 . 
Once there was a gray donkey. He was
walking along as usual, with a load on
his back. A man was leading him. And
as they walked on and on through the
starry night, the donkey began to dream.
 . 
❦
 . 
He dreamed he was carrying a city,
with gates and towers and temple domes.
He dreamed a child cried in the city.
And doves flew all around.
 . 
❦
 . 
He dreamed he was carrying a ship.
I rocked like a cradle. It shone like the moon.
And the sea danced all around.
 . 
❦
 . 
He dreamed he was carrying a fountain.
Its waters splashed and sang like a child’s laughter.
And a garden sprang from the desert sand all around.
 . 
❦
 . 
He dreamed he was carrying a rose, soft as a
mother’s touch and sweet as the sleep of a baby.
Angels stood all around.
 . 
❦
Then he dreamed he was carrying a lady full of heaven.
They had come to a town. But only the village dogs
ran to greet them.
 . 
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
The donkey’s lot in life is to carry. He is bred to carry. All his days are carrying, and if he remarks upon a particular burden or complains, well, for the donkey tomorrow will still be carrying.
 . 
As for us all. So much we carry. So many things, and heavy. My dreams, as the donkey’s, are mostly of things I have carried or will carry or am still carrying. Burdensome. Worrisome. Or have I misinterpreted my dreams? Beside our bed, Linda keeps a little handbook of Jungian dream symbology. But can dreams be constrained to pages and print?
 . 
The world is heavy upon the donkey’s back. He is tired, he labors beneath the weight, and yet his dreams are of light and beauty entering the world. For the donkey, as for us, the longest night seems always to stretch before. And yet a star lights his trough. He sees his burden with new eyes and his weariness is no more.
 . 
In this dark and heavy world, is it still possible to dream of light?
 . 
And, dreaming of light, is it possible we will wake?
 . 
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
But the donkey was left alone outside.
He had walked so long, his back was
aching and his legs were sore. One star
high above him shone in the watering
trough below. The tired donkey drank.
 . 
❦
 . 
Just then a cry rang out in the cave.
And its echo rang like a bell,
over the hills, all around. The night
was so still, even the stars heard it.
The man came out of the cave.
He whispered to the donkey, “Come.”
 . 
❦
 . 
Together they went inside the cave, where they lady lay
on a bed of hay. The donkey’s saddle was her pillow.
She smiled. “Come,” she said to the donkey.
“See what we have carried all this way, you and I.”
 . 
❦
 . 
And suddenly, the donkey was not
tired anymore, though he had carried
a city, a ship, a fountain, a rose,
and all the heavens on his back.
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
The Donkey’s Dream, written and illustrated by Barbara Helen Berger; Philomel Books, New York NY; © 1885 by Barbara Helen Berger
 . 
 . 
Merry Christmas, Maya! (Michael & Diane, too.)
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
IMG_7952
 . 
 . 

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Pieces

Posted in Imagery, tagged , , , , , , , , on December 13, 2024| 5 Comments »

 . 
[with 3 poems by John Amen]
 . 
Ode to Country Music
+++ after Sparklehorse
 . 
I come from men who shoveled reserve for a living.
Who needs the wings of communion?
The veindrain of forgiveness?
Las night, my drowned brother paused at the fence,
parties his lips to sing, then vanished,
a shy oracle leaving a trail of mud
in the yellow leaves. the world
has always been broken or breaking,
&who can say whether loss or contentment
is the heart’s lifeblood. Who can say
whether time is bored or ambitious. Who’s
beyond reloading, firing a prayer into the long night?
 . 
John Amen
from Dark Souvenirs, NYQ Books of New York Quarterly Foundation; © 2024
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
Who can say whether time flows, one long line cast downstream with the current? Who can say time streams unbroken and we can ride that roller that curls but never crests? We don’t know, we aren’t paying attention, we don’t even feel the tug until we try to stop and look around, try to see what brought us here and where it’s taking us next. Then, if we’re honest, we confess we don’t know anything about time, especially this one particular moment of time. All those past times and all those future times keep roiling our mind like a pebble caught in the mad froth beneath a waterfall, hard edges knocked off until every pebble looks like every other pebble. How do we get back to sharp?
 . 
Who can say time is not clots and frags and whirling pieces, uncoupled and festinating like an old man with one leg shorter than the other? Who can say those sharp chunks of time won’t break open right in front of us over and over and each time we will fall into them from a different angle? Time can be a hard-jawed mastiff that won’t let go of our leg. Time can be a poem that isn’t afraid of the truth and will overtake us no matter how swift we may think we run.
 . 
Dark Souvenirs will break open right in front of you, every time a different angle. Dark Souvenirs will get you back to sharp. John Amen’s poetry is a can of broken glass shaken and scattered across the pavement. The splinters draw blood if you touch them but you can’t manage to hold yourself back. The shards are dull and bright, clear and clouded. Piece by glittering piece they begin to reveal a pattern that skips and stretches across time. The writing of these poems must be a last ditch bid to make sense; the reading of them and re-reading is to join the travail. As Amen himself says in Waiting for the Sibyl who never shows her face: For years I’ve studied the shadows that lurk behind a curtain, listening for a voice in the rafters. . . . I’ve made it my life’s work to put words in her mouth. Time, jagged wrenching unrepentant time can’t save us, but words can try, and sometimes with light to spare.
 . 
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
Days of Love & Horses
 . 
That Memorial Day when I was nine,
the demon leapt from my father’s hands.
My wax-paper mom crumpled in the kitchen,
surrounded by coffee mugs. All June & July,
trailers, U-hauls, our house was gaveled
into smoky embers. I kept flying Emily, though,
my Morgan with the milky left eye, surging
above the hospital, courthouse, labor camp.
++++ These days I rarely see a horse,
but that smoldering August
before the glow turned to ash,
I found myself lost in Scriven’s Holler,
toeing those dinosaur traps in the jimsonburr.
Emily carried me through Jones’s Gulley,
past the gray & yellow farms, night crashed
as we reached the dilapidated barn.
++++ Years later, May ‘99, IC unit on the Oconoluftee,
I grabbed for rocks, branches, craving subsided.
Sprawled on a grassy bank,
I dialed three exes, apologized
for stampeding through their sober lives.
A friend had warned me not to expect sorrys in return.
Good thing, I didn’t get any.
++++ Recently in a restless dream, I beheld
that familiar kitchen. My wife hummed the national anthem,
frying slabs of meat in a Mississippi wok. I crawled the floor,
gathering the coffee mugs, & woke to the canter of rain.
++++ I haven’t climbed a saddle in decades,
but when sleep eludes me, skull
throbbing with twisted math & phantom schemes,
I pretend I’m atop my loyal Emily,
we’re stranded in a minefield, blind beneath moonless sky.
I squeeze my thighs against her mahogany loins,
bury my face in her mane.
The champing in my belly calms, dawn returns,
the jumps I need to clear don’t seem as insurmountable
as when the world is smothered in darkness
We make it home again, with light to spare.
 . 
John Amen
from Dark Souvenirs, NYQ Books of New York Quarterly Foundation; © 2024
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
John Amen is founder and managing editor of Pedestal Magazine. His five previous poetry collections include Illusion of an Overwhelm (NYQ Books), which was finalist for the 2018 Brockman-Campbell Award of the North Carolina Poetry Society. Many of the poems in Dark Souvenirs explore addiction and recovery. A moment that recurs is John’s brother Richard’s suicide. Reading the book cover to cover in sequence one enters a mystical landscape without pathway or signpost, where time makes its own rules and where meaning gradually but persistently accrues as if percolating up through the floorboards of the subconscious.
 . 
Purchase Dark Souvenirs from the publisher, New York Quarterly Books.
 . 
❦
 . 
So is time a continuum or is time quantized? Is it a silky thread or pieces? Is there a smallest finite particle of time of which all emergent time is an integer multiple? Is time even real, or is time simply a perceptual phenomenon, an illusion our consciousness creates to make sense of the quantum reality utterly beyond our perception or comprehension?
 . 
No one knows! But you and I certainly know how time refuses to be shackled or delimited in dreams, and when we awake we know that moments supposedly separated by vast measures of time crowd in close and overwhelm. Only poetry can corral and release time, its sharp jab in the ribs, its clutch around the heart, its cool hand on the forehead. With wary reluctance and a shudder I say this to time – Welcome!
 . 
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
Dark Souvenirs
 . 
I studied your craft,
how you drove the demon of gluttonous age
from his hiding place,
freeing the infant who starved for 84 years,
pang & its host
dismantled with a single twitch.
Little mess, little clean-up,
nailbrush, toothbrush, soapy sponge.
No mention in the real-estate ad,
the previous owner’s
impeccable marksmanship.
No way to preserve your opus,
air that still trembles,
trying to catch its breath.
Memory does its best
to salvage a keepsake
– pulp, bullet, bone,
a new constellation in the night sky –
but symbols are lost,
art fails, except as it screams at the dead.
I hope what remains of you
can recognize my voice.
 . 
John Amen
from Dark Souvenirs, NYQ Books of New York Quarterly Foundation; © 2024
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
Doughton Park Tree 2020-03-07
 . 

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