Responding to “For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet” by Joy Harjo

Footfalls Trigger Singular Dust Clouds With Every Strike

Her blessings brush surfaces
where invocations languish
I am an inhospitable landscape
affirmations skitter off

Spirit blown by my howling
pounding tent stakes into stone
you are alien in my aridness
too weak to restore my soil

My Eighty-year-old Mother Petitions God to Assassinate Putin

 

The chemistry of the recipe suits her disposition 

more baker less chef if left to her own stirrings 

baked delicacies would have lavished our meals: 

     her bread best sliced, toasted, buttered 

     homemade granola generous with almonds 

     rhubarb cream pie, rum cake, flan with caramel 

     batches of M&Ms/peanut butter/oatmeal 

     so massive we called the cookies Monster 

Dutifully, she was scientist enough to serve us sensible 

later, a drudgery she shamelessly retired to my Father 

“When did Putin turn puffy?” I’m appalled 

“He’s an old man,” my husband matter-of-facts 

but I think Putin’s body balloons 

pressured by the prayers of mothers 

who choose to flout obligations 

flaunting an appetite to laden him 

with all that is sweet unhealthy

they will his heart to fail faster

Warfare Elsewhere

alarm's red light an hour from sounding

slept-in bodies' exhaust fumes surround

waking up with a low-grade worrying

impossible to pinpoint, pray away

somewhere someone's somebody suffering

next-door dog woofs once to be taken out

Lamentations

Photo Credit: The Rev. Nancy K. Flader

 My People.  My Children. You.

Celebrants of faceless efficiencies.

I would discover to you a hillside

snowdrops bowing their petals towards the Earth

but you were too invested to gladden.

COVID Xmas 2021

 

Sharing my COVID Xmas poem at the Poetry Super Highway Open Reading.  I come in around the 18:00 minute mark.  

The poem had its beginning in a strong negative reaction to a house's outdoor Christmas decorations.  I walk by the house on my way to and from work, and it was always one of the commute's low points.  The single string of red lights made it look like the leafless tree it was wrapped around had the measles.  The single strand of snowflakes seemed out of proportion to the tree limbs it was strung between.  The word Paltry came to mind; not an adjective I usually use to describe decorations.

I tried to free write my emotions about the unfestive Christmas lights, but nothing clicked and I set the idea aside.  Then news of the Omicron variant hit just as the holidays arrived.  I felt depressed by further evidence that COVID wasn't over yet, and I hated that family gatherings could cause a rise in case numbers.  Writing the poem flowed once I had the So What? focus.

As Above So Below

Smokestacks fluff out clouds cotton candy pink 

fields of confection as far as dawn's reach 

slips of shine outline lavender whales' throats 

grooves stretched to store a maximum of sweet 

By noting details causing eyes to pause 

might glad observations inwardly sink 

dispelling smallness from its inward roost 

feeding a kindness difficult to keep?

The Black Particle

 My poem, The Black Particle, published in Riff/t has a multi-linked backstory.  At a panel discussion series organized by Daniel Boscaljon that explored different conceptions of Home, Donté K. Hayes shared his experience of being at home in his body, and connected that perspective to the Afrofuturist theme in his artwork.

Later that same day, I attended a Free Generative Writing workshop led by Daniel and held at Public Space One.  Daniel encouraged us to explore the art exhibit at PS1, and allow an artwork to inspire us.  I was drawn to Donté's piece, "Welcome," and the poem grew from this rich mix of hearing the artist discuss his point of view and experiencing the physicality of his art.

I hope you will visit Donté's website and follow him on Instagram so you can appreciate more of his amazing creations.

Title: Welcome

Material: Ceramic, stoneware (black clay body)

Date: 2018

Photography by: Donté K. Hayes