Al Black's Poetry of the People Features Jonesy Stark

This week's Poet of the People is Jonesy Stark. I met Jonesy about 12 years ago at an open mic; he blew me away. Some poets are good with delivery or good with their word craft; Jonesy is great with both. Often, I'm left in awe of  the relationships he sees in words. Jonesy quietly gives back to young people in need of  support an amentor. A hidden gem in South Carolina's poetry scene, I am honored to know him.

-Al Black

'Father, husband, educator and advocate of turtles. The tragic end results of Peter Parker being bitten by a radioactive poet.' He is a dude with dreads. Oft mistaken for a poet. Olympic gold medalist robot dancer. PHD in Yamology.

_____

Cardinal Sin

Chapter one First verse

“Thou shall not come for the black woman.”

Whether you be other or brother

Must be out your cotdamn mind

To fix your lips to spit some foolishness

And assume I’m finna let it slide

I’m beyond done with you Quasimodos masquerading as Shaka Zulus

You who fetishize the motherland yet detest her daughters

Are unworthy of association with either

In order to be the king

You must lay your life down for the queen

But rather than stand tall

Y'all quick to hotep two step

Dance around accountability

Content to sit on sideline as she unnaturally shifts her spine

Criticize as she throws out her back to pick up your slack

Denounce her for doing for self what you wouldn’t provide her

As if she’d wish to wear the weight of a nation

Defend its borders

Administrate its affairs

All the while making it seem effortless in heels with slayed hair

To be black and to be woman

Is to know no compassion

It is to forever be measured and always found lacking

It is the expectation to be more than a woman

While being treated like less than a lady

It is to walk through a world of pointing fingers

Rarely encountering a helping hand

Because it takes less effort to punch down

Than it does to lift up

It is to intimately know the sting of a slap

While yearning for a caring caress

It is giving the blessing of life to sons who will curse you

It is being crucified and exposed before the world

By the man who was supposed to protect you

It is enduring it all

And still fighting for they who fight against you __

House

I started writing poetry because I wanted a girl to like me
And a decade and a half later
I can sincerely say not much has changed
Guess Hov said it best
“You are who you are when you got here”
Hol’ up
You are who you are when you got hair
Them short and curlies
Folk, I’ve surely yet to meet an adult
We all adolescents imitatin’ what we was taught
Trying’ to live out gimmicks and images we bought
I mean practice makes perfect
And I’ve perfected the practice of actin’
As if I actually have a clue
When in reality I’m equally as lost as my son askin’ how to
See he’s thoroughly convinced I have infinite access to the answers
That his author father
Is the Merlin to his Arthur
When really I’m no mystic
Somethin’ far more simplistic
Just older
And not necessarily wiser
Gifted
With opportunity to make more messes
But how can I confess his faith is fully misplaced
Shake the foundations of his sense of security
I can’t
So I continue to adorn my red and blue suit
To battle monsters in closets and boogeymen beneath bedframes
Doing my damndest to deceive both he and me
To defy my kryptonite
The gnawing that comes from the knowing
Knowing that despite my desire
The “S” on my chest can’t shield him from life
Eventually I’ll have to rack my brain
Tryin’ in vain to explain
Why Lex Luthor is often the victor
Why I raised him like a Kent
In a world corrupt and bent
Taught him to walk straight 
In a slanted land where the bad guy wins
On that day the facade will falter
His reality irreparably altered
As his eyes realize my mystique
Is merely a smoke and mirror mirage
My omnipotence
Certainly less than advertised
My omniscience, nonexistent
Simply a paltry parlor trick
That moment will be awkward
But it will leave us both better
Liberated I free to give what little know how I’ve acquired
To transmit my ideas clear
Unfettered by paternalistic pretense
And he to transmit my middling musings
Into something actually advantageous
Reconstruct my copper cognitions and leaden logos
Into glimmering golden gnosis
Perhaps through his process
Successfully plot his path to the fabled land of adulthood

___

Venomous Virility

“Y’all niggas’ gay!!!”
This was my induction
Into the fraternal order of black masculinity
You see apparently
Six year old me
Had transgressed the border between
Showin’ love for the homey
And havin’ homo tendencies
Cuz real niggas give daps, not hugs
And mosdef don’t smile
While engaged in a man to man embrace
Vulnerability was solely for sissies
And unbecoming of a brother
Tears were for queers
Emotions kept tightly wrapped under covers
These cardinal rules came to reign
Occupied cavity in chest
Freshly emptied of innocent heart
Anger only acceptable outward expression
Of inward issues
Fists replacing tongues
As practiced tools of communication
Because there’s nothing a broken jaw can’t transmit
As impactfully as an eloquent, impassioned plea
Or so we were miseducated to believe
Because every muted word
Every tear unshed
Was a link in chains weighing down our souls
Denial of half our nature
Naturally made us semi-realized beings
Being constantly at war with ourselves
Being strong at too high cost
Of mental and emotional health
Denyin’ self wealth
Of integral life experience
Because boys don’t cry
We crawl through life with faded vision
And I say crawl because men
See, we don’t run
Unless forced to confront
Foe intangible yet can painfully touch
One we can’t vanquish via violence
Neither kick nor punch
I once witnessed my father lose that fight
In a moment of brokenness bend knee
Allow hurt heart through eyes to speak
Tears stain cheek
Once he’d gathered himself
And once more donned his armor of pride
He apologized
I don’t know which was worse
The fact that he felt the need to
Or that I both understood and realized
That in that moment he’d rather have died
Than of himself reveal that side
Losing control was a sin inconsiderable
Father, son bonding
Belonging to ball parks and bar stools
Never bedrooms…
Sorrow shown silent
Only at burial grounds
This’ the mis-molded mess this world’s made us
Sensitive spirits shackled within testosterone walled prisons
Accented with homophobic bars
Boys playing at being men
Barely brave enough to question
Who made up
These malicious mores of manhood?
These Guantanamo Bay ways of approved gender displays?
Who galvanized this jihad against genuine self-expression?
I know not
But I know this
I’m staging a coup
I’m no longer content too
Goose step to cadence of callous rhythm
Ho-hum humdrum pattern stern and militaristic
Monotone,
Mirthless
I will dance daringly to an ostentatious orchestra
Melodic flourishes fully seasoned with life’s many flavors
All while wearing colorful dream coats
Tailored to transmit its infinite textures
No more austere armor
I’m casting aside my sword
Picking up a pen and building bridges with my words
I’m splintering shaft of my spear
And exchanging it for a paintbrush
With aim of illustrating a better world for my son
One where he can sing, dance, laugh, and cry
With equal pride
One where the weapons of war are ideas
And border skirmishes serve to break down
Those between self and others
Oh what a world it’ll be

____

Inhuman

I didn’t want you to walk away 
But I didn’t know how to ask you to stay
I’ve never been one 
For one on ones
Too easily tongue tied when eye to eye
So on this stage I set free the secrets of this page
Prayin’ these words land not
Upon ears deafened by my silence
Victimized by my non-verbal violence
Tuned out by my inability to tune in
I am
More machine than man
Mechanically marching from moment to moment
Merely reacting to previously programmed prompts
Physically present but lacking sincere presence
In essence
I am empty inside
Hollow
Homunculi passing for person
Human in form
All the while lacking the essential qualities
A marvel of masterful magecraft
Cleverly crafted to casually deceive
Mirage of a man

...

Al Black's Poetry of the People Featuring Larry Rhu!

This week's Poet of the People is Larry Rhu. I think I first met Larry when Curtis Derrick hosted a poetry workshop and Tim Conroy introduced us. Larry and I cohost Simple Gifts and I cherish sitting in his backyard garden to discuss literature and Boston Celtic basketball. He is a generous and humble friend and I am honored to be in his orbit.

Lawrence Rhu is the Todd Professor of the Italian Renaissance, emeritus, at the University of South Carolina. He has published books and essays about the American and European Renaissances and edited Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale. His poems have appeared in Poetry, North Dakota Quarterly, Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Poetry Society of South Carolina Yearbook, Pinesong, Fall Lines, One, Main Street Rag, Conversations: The Journal of Cavellian Studies, Jogos Florais, Forma de Vida, and other journals. They have won awards from the Poetry Society of South Carolina and the Pirate’s Alley Faulkner Society of New Orleans. 

Instead of a Letter

Ever since your scary diagnosis, Jerry,

your Kawasaki Ninja’s helping us

document nostalgia’s hits or misses:

Fats Domino at El Casino Ballroom

in downtown Tucson, Oracle Union Church

beyond the Catalinas. Grandfather Ford—

an old Ford, he’d say, but still serviceable—

supplied its pulpit with clear messages

he shared implicitly (or I divined)

between approach shots on the practice range

when he taught me to golf during junior high

and we began our easy-going exchanges.

Nothing oracular about that town

except the name and my experience

of friendship with a kindred soul whose calling

required some explanation of its quiet

moments, like golf, when others take their turn. 

Chemo and radiation are still shrinking

your tumor while our sunset dialogues

help reconstruct our common histories

with anecdotes and our imaginations

in FaceTime calls from two time zones away.

Bits and pieces patched together come

to represent whatever meant the world

to me and you, my father’s other son

in spirit and my mother’s other student.

Grammar and medicine, their offerings,

helped you avoid English X at U of A

and then through medical school at UNM.

Transcendental brother, Anglo caballero,                              

biker, physician, my dear friend, your Ninja

and horses call to mind a life of travel:

happy trails, lonesome roads, and our reunions                    

in Rio Hondo, New Orleans, Missoula,

Boston, Prescott—even Italy,

when I was teaching high school there in Rome.

In just three months you’ve biked eight thousand miles

in perfect weather on backroads and blue

highways, inspired by sunlight and fresh air.

Has anyone lived long enough to be

“almost a native,” as some born elsewhere

used to say after many years in Tucson?

May we not homestead in creation, staking

our claims, not taking what’s given for granted,

settling in some ever nearer region?

Benefits of Doubt

For D. T. S.

No inference made, no implication either—

I did not infer what you did not imply,

but thanks. I appreciate your concern.

Ghosts haunt words with shades of meaning

difficult to dispel. Slips and lapses

make us marvel at the secret life

of language in conversation with itself.

Perfect strangers intrude upon the best

intentions, foiling our plans. Still, we’re thrilled

to entertain felicities unaware.

It all depends upon our being being

attuned. So, drop your guard. Speak your mind.

Learn what you mean in sync with those awaiting

news of you and yours. I’ll listen up. Online

or off, count on my friendship as a reader.

Arborist

Two trees or maybe three I knew for sure:

the fig and sycamore…but now I can’t

recall the third. The Church of Rome inspired

my confidence about the first—fig leaves

cover places Michelangelo

and Donatello felt the shepherd boy

need not blush to leave exposed. A protest

rallied us to save the sycamores

along the Charles River by Mem Drive.

But I knew cacti of my desert boyhood

well before hope of a better school stole me

away from home to greener climes with all

four seasons, ice and snow, and trees Thoreau

once learned by heart alone. The orchard keeper,

my beloved, leads me now through arboretums

around the world. Unlike Walden’s chronicler,

even in dark woods, we wander as a pair.

Released from rigors of the father tongue,

which he so harped upon, the fallen world’s

transformed into a commonwealth we share.

Memento

No reason for the trip but Sunday free

we headed toward the North Shore on Route 1

— itself a brilliant stretch of salesmanship

where concrete cattle graze invitingly

on green cement before a steakhouse door,

one of many bright commercial fancies

up and down the strip.

We toured the infamous Witch House in Salem

where pre-trial interviews were held before

witchcraft and wizardry scared slaughter out.

There must be reasons why the Lord would fail them.

Soon, a host of innocents told why.

Our high school guide recited all the facts

and ushered us about.

Then, on to Marblehead where several hills

are strewn with brayed slate gravestones by a pond

the locals fish on weekends when they’re free.

Hourglasses, death’s heads, cross-bones are the frills

that trim the verses written for the dead.

We paused and read their prayers so quaintly rhymed

and lost to history.

May her virtues take her where they should

graven on the slate of Mary by her John

invoked the angels she’d soon bide among

To such as she I’m sure that death is good.

We moved from stone to stone like other tourists

till evening took the light and brought a chill

that made us move along.

Going back on the same route we came by

we passed a dinosaur at a putt-putt course,

a lowering hazard on the thirteenth hole.

The traffic slowed. A siren gave a sigh

and blinked upon a wreck beside the road.

Three bodies, under cover, lined the pavement.

The cars slowed to a roll.

Streetcar through Parnassus

Don’t you think somebody ought to pray for them? - How six-year-old Ruby Bridges explained her prayers for protesters against school desegregation

From Lee Circle to the Garden District

nine muses cross the tracks,

divinities of total recall

once upon a time.

From history to astronomy

along St. Charles Avenue

the streetcar bumps and grinds

from Clio to Urania, the goddess

Milton summoned puritanically 

insisting on a Christian meaning

for her pagan name. No such

precise distinction here obtains.

That culture clash sounds academic,

the harmonizing rhetoric antique.

The Heavenly Muse now names

some lapsed Presbyterian

daughter of faded Memory. 

Yet, in the roundabout, Lee’s empty place

on the Olympian column top

prompts Clio to review her latest draft

—its epic or tragic plot—

with Calliope and Melpomene.

That vacancy makes room

for hope to change the shape of time

imposed by powers that be—

or were and wished to stay.

Cycling between the Odd Fellows’ Rest

and the Archdiocesan Cemetery,

beyond the neutral ground,

I turn toward Metairie and soon discern,

from beneath the Interstate,

a marble soldier

ready to read the roll of casualties,

the toll his counterparts memorialize

on a thousand small-town New England greens.                   

Whatever local muse prompts song,

as I recall, no run of Boston streets

bears gaudy classical names

if you don’t count the Marathon.

There’s no Mardi Gras with krewes,

like Bacchus or Endymion

or Comus’s raucous gang

routed in that Puritan’s court masque.

Yet who’s to say they won’t be coming back?

Here or there, in Cambridge or Fenway Park,

or on the banquette where first graders once

braved mobs with Federal Marshals,

walking to school and hoping

against hope for a fresh start.

Poetry of the People with Al Black featuring Mary E. Martin

This week's Poet of the People is Mary E. Martin. I first met Mary in either Rock Hill or Charlotte at a poetry reading put on by Jonathan K. Rice. She has facilitated some of my readings in Rock Hill and has journeyed to Columbia to read for the Mind Gravy Poetry series. She is a elegant poet who writes from a gentle, graceful place. Rock Hill, South Carolina is blessed to have her in their midst.

-Al Black

Mary E. Martin is a poet, dancer, and teacher at Winthrop University in Rock Hill, SC. She
grew up in the west and the south, preferring the rich landscape of the south. She explores a
fusion of text, movement, and music in community performance projects she has developed in the Carolinas. Her poetry has appeared in many journals, including The Kansas Quarterly, The Journal of the American Medical Association, and The Southern Poetry Review.

At the University Inn

As a student waitress
I served Denise Levertov
breakfast—she drank tea,
not coffee.

I almost spilled
my adoration, but her reverence
for the moment stopped me
from recalling the spell
her reading had cast--
only her poetry
breathed, her images
sacred, almost palpable
renderings of the inner
paradise we know exists.

I kept the check slip
she had signed,
taped on a wall
near my desk,
an artifact that lasted
as many years as it took
for me to realize
beauty’s minutiae
is just as sublime
as what we claim
breathtaking.

My Dog Looks Up at the Moon

Late night he pauses
on the deck, doesn’t howl
but quietly stares
at the bright curve above,
his big head, black and white
sixty-pound hunter body
more a still life, a whisper
between dog and moon,

he listening as the moon
tells him he is a being
who loves, a love
that can travel anywhere,
a dolphin splash love;
he wishes he could swim
to the moon, lick her
powdered white cheek, sleep
overnight in a velvet smooth
crater, dreaming an unknown
tenderness, then slip back
down just as I awaken;
mythically happy to see
him again, I kiss him
and feed him breakfast.

Folk song

I like to howl with my dogs
in our own backyard Olympus,
out-sounding the sirens
by blending our voices.

Without judgement or fear
I like to howl with my dogs;
we are neither dog nor human
out-sounding the sirens.

Crooning welcome tears
without judgement or fear
I stretch out my neck;
we are neither dog nor human.

I stand erect as they do
crooning welcome tears,
eyes toward the clouds
as I stretch out my neck.

A pack of screeching troubadours
out-sounding the sirens,
no better heaven than ours
than when I howl with my dogs.

Flint

I sit on my couch

waiting for a spark

of an image, just enough

to keep me writing

in my small house, on a quiet

street, Flint Street,

the only sharp edges

the barking dogs

in almost every house.

My words, the hard quartz tools

I rely on to shape the world,

are like the rough tools

tribes relied on to survive

in the wild brush and windowless caves.

I think of the steel that strikes

flint into fire, angry voices

of a small Midwestern town

shouting out their abuse,

the City of Flint forging

their words into a hard

refusal, to be more than

their namesake’s core,

to be the unshadowed

flame of the heart.          

El Paso
                   When I was young and shy

The dark brick scrubbing
our hands when we grazed the body
of homes on the army base
as we darted everywhere to find
a place to hide. We played at night
with flashlights, the fat tree trunks
our gathering place, the touch
of the bark friendly rough.

Later we lived in an off base adobe
cuddled all around by bushes,
bushes full of secret
spaces I quietly lingered in every day.

Walking to school I always hesitated
at the canal, loud water tumbling over itself,
the bridge with no rails the only connector
to the school. I swear I could see loose
animal bodies shoved through foaming
water, wet fur, and bared teeth.

Our father treated us with short trips
over the border in Juarez,
always stopping at the same restaurant;
we sipped orange sodas,
stared at the polished blue and white tiles,
while my father drank beer
or tequila; none of us
ever questioned why always
the same place, the same food.

The cruel misperception
of others, always a lack
of embrace-- the 1950’s shadow
pulled me to hide
and grow where I hid.

This week's Poetry of the People is a guest from NC - Andrew K. Clark

This week's Poet of the People is Andrew K. Clark.* I first got to know Andrew after a poetry reading in Hilton Head when I had dinner with him after his reading. He was living in Savannah with his wife, Casey, and preparing to relocate to the mountains of North Carolina where he grew up. He now resides and writes in the mountains outside Asheville. He is a prolific poet and author and is a delight to know.

-Al Black

Andrew K. Clark is a novelist & poet from the Western North Carolina mountains, where his people settled before The Revolutionary War. His poetry collection, Jesus in the Trailer, was published by Main Street Rag Press. His first novel, Where Dark Things Grow, is forthcoming from Cowboy Jamboree Press on 9/10/24. His work has appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, UCLA’s Out of Anonymity, Appalachian Review, Rappahannock Review, The Wrath Bearing Tree, and many others. He received his MFA from Converse College. Connect with him and read more of his work at andrewkclark.com. 

beautiful screaming

I tried to quit
I really
did
throw’d everything away
so many times
swore off the makeup
swore off them wigs
I’d go to bed
try to forget everything
squeeze my eyeballs
inside out
but seemed like
it called to me
from in the bin
called me
to put it back on
come stand in front of the mirror, boy
it was hardest when
the sun went out
***
first time I didn’t even
mean for it to happen
I got all made up
& I don’t know why but
I went outside
down there
by the pond
that old dirt road
you know the one
the lover’s lane
there was a car pulled
near the water
and I wanted
to see inside
catch me a peek
of what they was doing
only when I did

the girl seen me
she screamed
screamed so loud
it busted my ears
so loud she shook
the whole goddamned world
and the boy trying to jerk
up his pants
& I fell in love with her
right there
& the sounds she made
I ain’t never heard
nothing so beautiful
& she made me
beautiful too
& she seen me
like nobody ever seen me
& she saw how beautiful I was
& everything tingled everywhere
in the whole goddamned world
the whole world tingling up
its goddamned spine
and down between
its goddamned legs
& I went back the next night
& the night after that
seem like more cars come
down by the pond
like people wanted me to
just scare the living
shit out of them
like it turned
them on too
& I gave them what they wanted
& they gave me what I wanted
all that screaming
them tires spinning the dirt
***
them kids made up
hashtags for me

things like
#clownscare
& #clownopocalypse
& it went on like that for a long time
& I made all the papers
& it was beautiful
till
they caught me
& they put me back
in the home
& they chained me
under the box springs
pumped me so full
of all them drugs
& I love all them drugs
when I’m under
the box springs
pumped full
I can’t remember
who my first-grade teacher was
or where I learned to dress up
or who my daddy is
but I do remember
all that screaming
all that beautiful screaming
& how they seen me
really seen me
for the first time

equine | canine

the horses up
the mountain
went wild, forgotten
by their people
nobody come by
to even feed them
until
they forgot they
were horses
grew as feral
as jackals
fought off bears
killed off the coyote
stayed alive
even during winter
no grass on the ground
teeth grinding
down the trees
they fucked each
other constantly
foals rising from
the dark earth
each spring
they ate their brothers
whose legs fell lame
teeth rounding
sharpening canine
until
their eyes grew large
dark manes matted
no one could
approach them
no one could
pet them
but me

paper dolls

drought and famine and violence and
tinder enough to burn the world down,
and it’s only tuesday. but one thing you
understand is that you got to get right
with god. it don’t pay to wait. you ‘re
on the last verse of just as i am, without
one plea, sister gail keeps playing long
as there are sinners out there and you
better get up, fight your curled up
atrophied limbs, fight your jangled up
trifling, get down front to that altar and
make yourself low before the preacher.
you don’t have to do it, i know.
salvation is a choice. but if you don’t,
you should know a few things. one, the
devil has nightmares too. they wouldn’t
make sense to you because they’re
made up of all the beauty of gods green
spring bright fondling, the way vines
creep under doorways and rise to
choke the tallest thickest trees in the
woods out back. did you know there
are flowers with black spider eye
faces? god made those too. bottomless
night holes that fall for miles, sucking
you in by your eyeballs, pulling fibrous
orange slice chunks from your back,
bent and stretched and uglier than you
can imagine. two, you had no choice
but to do it. you might could’ve
become a preacher yourself, shopping
pinstripe suit catalogues, starching
your collars out in a dingy basement,
pull cord lightbulbs burning your scalp.
you might could’ve earned your keep
on the mission field or in a soup
kitchen but when mama took up that
knife and cut that man across his face
for the way he mocked her cooking,
you ain’t had no choice. three, scissors
and girly magazines in your hiding
place under the skirting of the trailer,
stretched out on the warm dirt, you

found magic powers. kaleidoscoping
girls every which way and that: take
this head and put it on that body, put
these legs under those hips, take her
tits and put them on that one there, and
this one, she should be a dancer, so
change her shoes. so much flesh, so
much sin and skin that you mix and
match in peach and black and orange
and cream - you’re nothing if not
wicked. four, when they found your
stash, pulling back the purple curtain,
they took all your lovers away, best
friends too; you had no choice. sister
gail finished the song, and the preacher
ain’t called for another verse, so thank
hallelujah for lighter fluid, kitchen
matches and sweet sulfur black and
blueness.

Pollination
(after Lindsey Alexander)

My beard is a honeycomb you lick when hungry.
On your way to the icebox,
on our daily hike through the woods,
you can’t help but stop and taste it.
Bright and untamed,
Zizzing like bees
in a white box;
your face stays sticky and
you keep licking your cheeks all day,
even during video calls.
Eventually, you send
a dozen mouths
to extract me,
drip by drop,
while you lie back
and wait to be fed.

*While Clark is not a SC poet, we are honored to share his work with you this week via Poetry of the People!

This week's Poet of the People is Moses Oaktree - Al Black

This week's Poet of the People is Moses Oaktree. I met Moses several years ago in Augusta, GA, when he was the manager of the Book Tavern Bookstore and a staple of the local poetry scene. Pre-COVID he would sometimes make an appearance at Mind Gravy. After COVID he moved to the Midlands and exploded on the scene. He is (in my humble opinion) the best spoken word poet in the area. He owns the stage and his work stands up well on the printed page. He is a top draw in the region and I fully expect him to become a force throughout the Southeast on his way to a national reputation.

- Al Black

Moses Oaktree is an artist, storyteller, and co-founder of Charleston, SC’s UnSpoken Word Open Mic.  Mosely has performed his signature features across the United States, especially for his homes of New Orleans, Atlanta, Columbia, and Charleston.  His style melds southern lyricism, historical intrigue, and a surrealist take on the African/African-American tradition to create a contemporary black American myth.  He is currently working on his first book of poetry, “Heaven Be A Black Land”.

  Just. Like. You.  

 Met someone who looked Just

Like You Today.

Honestly, it was uncanny. Your curves;

Your style--

God knows I missed your smile. She was a song

I’d once known well.

I reached for her hand out of reflex. A habit in death throes;

Memories of you echo Through places in me That have no name.

Why do you remain?

Your smile could lift the waves.

I stopped myself just as I felt

the warmth of her body. Goosebumps;

Hot needles in my skin turn to ice. Shudders;

She walked way in the moments tween my

Stutters.

I am reminded

Your smile was paradise.

I, too

                                                                            I love telling folk how Dr King’s “I Am A Man” slogan turned queer in the next iteration of the movement.

I love talking bout Black Lives Matter being run by queer/women.

I love talking bout Bayard Rustin.

I love talking bout how voices, once hushed, still can find their way into the Light.

“I Am A Man”

We are equal as human.

                                                                                                                                            “Black Lives Matter”
                                                                                                                                         We are equal as human.

The final rendition will be “I, too, have a soul”

 But if they kill me, they’ll say it wasn’t true.

  Notes From Abraham

“Life was a constant miracle”, He say.

His body like smoke in the wind; He who gives shape to mist.

Substance like vapors, Both solid and shapeless.

He leans closer before he persists.

“Each breath was a gamble with death”, He say.

“I won so many times I musta cheated. Pain----

Illness----

At times, I was broken.

I took losses, but was undefeated.”

“I wanted it all…” He say.

“I made deals with the Devil- Chasing keys to Heaven.

We don’t realize the moment we

Lost Cause

The more I realized what beauty was;

The more fluent I became in the language of

God”

                                                                                                                                                               Time

Time Manifested

as flesh and bone

Dove into itself to discover its soul Then walked Earth’s mighty plains As the ghosts of the future.

                                                                                                                                                                         I am

                                                                                                                                                                                             .

This week's Poet of the People with Al Black is Lang Owen

This week's Poet of the People is Lang Owen. Before the printing press, balladeers carried poetry and news to the people; Lang Owen writes in that tradition. He is a gifted singer/songwriter who writes poem songs about people and the human condition. Every so often you meet someone who paints stories that sound new every time you hear them sung - I am privileged to know Lang Owen. www.langowen.com/

-Al Black

Lang Owen works straight out of the 1970s singer-songwriter tradition, employing poetic lyrics to express the challenges and possibilities of the current day, often viewed through the perspective of individual's imagined interior lives. Lang’s gift for seeing the world around him and dialoguing with others about their lives informs his songwriting, which often takes the form of conversations between characters in his songs. Lang released his third album, Cosmic Checkout Lane, in April 2024, his second collaboration with musician/producer Todd Mathis. “Cosmic Checkout Lane is about living our wisdom at any moment, including standing in a grocery store checkout line,” Lang says.

In 2022 Lang released She’s My Memory, which the Post & Courier Free Times ranked sixth on its The Best of South Carolina Music 2022 list. Lang’s 2019 debut album Welcome To Yesterday was hailed as “evocative storytelling at its finest” by music writer Kevin Oliver. Lang has played multiple venues in North and South Carolina, and received airplay on radio stations in the United States, Canada, Ireland, and Luxembourg.

Everybody Here 

Everybody here’s my therapist

I need all the help I can get

I look around, I’m losing my ground

I don’t like what I see one bit

I float by like a whisper, you hand me a megaphone

In our own little worlds somehow we’re not alone

We’re not alone

Everybody here

Everybody here’s my archeologist

Digging in the dirt for things I miss

Down on hands and knees beneath the olive trees

Finding my love still exists

We live in memory like statues standing in Rome

In our own little worlds somehow we’re not alone

We’re not alone

Everybody here

I don’t know what I’m dreaming any more

I just know you’re believing

I don’t know whose shoes are on my floor

I just know you’re not fleeing

What I can do is wash your feet

Patch you up when you’re bleeding

I’ll keep your secrets discrete

I’ll say what you’re meaning to me

I float by like a whisper, you hand me a megaphone

In our own little worlds somehow we’re not alone

We’re not alone

Everybody here

Gravity 

I’m not a smart man, but I know gravity

I drop nails from many a roof, it’s physics obviously

Don’t take paper in a frame to see that things fall

I’ve done this job for twenty-eight years, I’m a jack of all trades

I fix everybody’s leaky walls, water moves in strange ways

Don’t take paper in a frame to know a hammer’s what you need

House to house, I drive around, lots of new cars everywhere

From my truck, I see it clear, this town’s in disrepair

I guess that’s why God put me here

My knees are shot, all the ups and downs, I tell my boy get your degree

I’ve done some things of which I’m proud, it never came easily

Don’t take paper in a frame to know what builds you breaks you down

House to house, I drive around, lots of new cars everywhere

From my truck, I see it clear, this town’s in disrepair

I guess that’s why God put me here

I paint all your empty rooms, I like the smell of something fresh

I leave a little bit of me in there, where your baby lays down to rest

Don’t take paper in a frame to know love’s all in your hands

House to house, I drive around, lots of new cars everywhere

From my truck, I see it clear, this town’s in disrepair

I guess that’s why God put me here

Love Sputnik 

Mr. Hardy taught the sciences, the stuff of life

Backrow kids mocked thinning hair and tattered ties

Astronomy was his true love, Mr. Hardy had no wife

Russia launched first satellite shook the world

Beep beep on ham radio, spaceage unfurled

Mr. Hardy daydreamed at his desk of a long-lost girl

Oppenheimer called out God

Galileo searched the stars

Mr. Hardy lectured genius does no tricks

Sir Iassac’s apple fell to ground

Einstein wrote it simply down

Mr. Hardy questioned who on earth invents

Love Sputnik

18,000 miles an hour light across the sky

Mr. Hardy said change rockets into our lives

When she burned up in the atmosphere, Mr. Hardy cried

I recall a film about the sun Hardy showed

Man in glasses explained giant stars someday explode

In the cosmic scheme of things no one is betrothed

Oppenheimer called out God

Galileo searched the stars

Mr. Hardy lectured genius does no tricks

Sir Iassac’s apple fell to ground

Einstein wrote it simply down

Mr. Hardy questioned who on earth invents

Love Sputnik

Mr. Hardy gazed alone at night crescent moon

Mr. Hardy knew she’s inching away too soon

Mr. Hardy retired from everything that very June

Oppenheimer called out God

Galileo searched the stars

Mr. Hardy lectured genius does no tricks

Sir Iassac’s apple fell to ground

Einstein wrote it simply down

Mr. Hardy questioned who on earth invents

Love Sputnik

Man With A Broom

Thirty years I swept floors, F & M Bank

Retired with a big mug, too many last hugs

Cards and thanks

Now I use a red broom, sweep my curbside

Photos, bottles, pennies, cigar butts

You know it’s not right

My sight is still good, careful when the cars pass

My doctor says she’s never seen a man my age 

With such a strong back

I’ve got so little to leave this big world

I never had a son or a precious little girl

I’m just an old man with a broom

On the street in the sun Monday afternoon

Man with a broom

I found a brown shoe on the sidewalk nearby

My whole day puzzling what happened to that foot

Can’t say why

My shadow tells time, I don’t wear a watch now

I can see no point in counting the hours 

As they wind down

Who’ll pick up this broom? Nobody wants to sweep

I’m scared things all go to hell when I fall into

That long sleep

I’ve got so little to leave this big world

I never had a son or a precious little girl

I’m just an old man with a broom

On the street in the sun Monday afternoon

Man with a broom

Neighbor kid walks by with those earphone things

Give me a listen, though it don’t beat Bob Dylan

My heart still sings

Wife calls me inside, says I’ll die from the heat

But this broom’s what I’ve got, and I’ll sweep ‘til I drop

On this clean street

I’ve got so little to leave this big world

I never had a son or a precious little girl

I’m just an old man with a broom

On the street in the sun Monday afternoon

Man with a broom

Used Books

I Sunday browse your shop for hours

We talk about writers when no one’s there

And you proclaim love for Hemingway

For your age that’s pretty rare

You say you can relate

To wine and war and fate

And how this life is so unfair

Your eyes ask me why, you wait for me to try

I scratch my head, I can’t help you there

You wanna be heard, you gotta listen

You wanna be read, you gotta buy somebody’s book

You wanna be found, you gotta know who you’re missing 

You wanna be seen, you gotta really, really look

Oh I swear, my sweet Karina

I once told a girl you never mind my words

“I mind them too much,” she said with a smile

She vanished like a ghost in a cloud of cigarette smoke

I missed that coming by a country mile

I tell this tale to you, I’m no fountain of any truth

Might be the one thing I do today worthwhile

No doubt it’s been said by poets long since dead

There’s nothing in this world we can’t defile

You wanna be heard, you gotta listen

You wanna be read, you gotta buy somebody’s book

You wanna be found, you gotta know who you’re missing

You wanna be seen, you gotta really, really look

Oh I swear, my sweet Karina

Old Man and The Sea, I peruse with iced coffee

I’ll soon forget every page I turn

My days are scribbled down, torn up paper on the ground

Take what I say this once for what it’s worth

You wanna be heard, you gotta listen

You wanna be read, you gotta buy somebody’s book

You wanna be found, you gotta know who you’re missing

You wanna be seen, you gotta really, really look

Oh I swear, my sweet Karina

Poetry of the People with Al Black featuring Tim Conroy

This week's Poet of the People is Tim Conroy. I met Tim Conroy several years ago at a Columbia literary event and cajoled him into doing his first poetry feature. We became fast friends, haunting and terrorizing coffee shops throughout Columbia. Later, we teamed up with singer/songwriter, Lang Owen as the Two Hats & a Ponytail trio. When Tim's wife retired, they fled to Florida; however, he will be back in Columbia to perform Tuesday, 05/07 at Simple Gifts and Wednesday, 05/08 at Mind Gravy with Lang and myself for the Reunion Tour of Two Hats and Ponytail.

Tim Conroy is a military brat who has lived all over the country and eventually ended up in South Carolina. A retired educator and beloved social rabble rouser, he has published two books of poetry, Theologies of Terrain, Muddy Ford Press 2017 and No True Route, Muddy Ford Press 2023. During COVID, he co hosted the YouTube poetry interview series, Chewing Gristle

Lousy

My Dad said lousy a lot

to describe his children

a lousy jump shot, a lousy right fielder,

a lousy bedmaker, a lousy dishwasher,

with a lousy attitude.

We had lousy eyes, freckles, and postures.

But he would never admit,

we were stationed in lousy towns.

We could have become lousy

because he fought in three lousy wars,

where he won a few lousy medals.

Every year, we left friends and moved

on lousy cross-country car trips.

He had a lousy temper and backhand.

His world turned lousier when our mom divorced him.

He was lousy in love with her.

He tasted lousy when schizophrenia

came for one of his sons.

Afterward, he was never a lousy grandfather

or a lousy money giver.

He remained lousy at saying sorry.

When he died, we never felt lousier

and knew a pilot's love didn't land empty,

his caps and his godawful shirts,

his lousy flaws, our hearts.

No True Route, Muddy Ford Press, 2023

The Flight Jacket

hung in the closet to forget the throttle

and how it zoomed from carriers during

the Korean War, dipped into battle

of the Chosin Reservoir for the troops

to make a break for it through scarred paths

and never told its story, zipped up mute

stayed cold to the touch preferring the dark

every day its arms down not saluting

while its empty pockets refused to hold

onto the sound of bombs and men waving

screaming hello, goodbye, and blood marking

each sleeve forever, but the leather saved

many lives, though not Dad’s, his explosions

and how he didn’t want us to touch him

The Child We Need

 In front of imperial drones,

swollen under cement blocks

—tongues, old and young

because we doubt what is told

because it takes silence to listen

because we need to learn gestures

to rise reversals from wombs.

War-born babies and hostages

with no chink of light, no angels,

no safe mangers even for donkeys,

only hunger and inconsolable wails

until we embody the dead,

the child we need to live won’t

sing and fly paper kites in Gaza.

The Best Part

The truth be known,
gay or straight,

the priest gets paid,
the nun has a shitty deal,
the minister wants his ass kissed.

 Meanwhile I have felt a voice
in the forest of owls and ordinary spaces.
Strangers have rescued me from peril;
like you, love has saved me.

Your neighbor is human.

We don’t listen or tell it right,
we take it literally,

we can’t write it down better,
we make it too complicated.

Who have you loved in this journey?
What is it you have given?

From Theologies of Terrain, Muddy Ford Press, 2017

A Fitted Game

 The American Legion is full of men and women who battle

video games for printed slips to exchange at the bar for cash.

They don't dare add up the losses, so full of gin and silent friends.

Some say it's a loss of purpose and only passing time.

My Dad would have died playing if he hadn't croaked in bed.

His fingers reached, but I did not know what to tell him.

Their sacrifice isn't gone, and the popcorn kernels are still free,

salted, and buttered, sliding down throats that burn like cigarettes.

The flashing screen doesn't care who presses the fortune of the hours,

shouldering memories with sips. No soldier deserts the machine

that programs a fitted game, though many dream of a different outcome.

I have loved those players who won once

Al Black's Poetry of the People Features Janet Kozachek

This week's Poet of the People is Janet Kozachek. Shortly before COVID I hosted an ekphrastic poetry event at the Arts Center in Kershaw County, Camden, SC; Janet has had a lot to do with introducing me to many opportunities to host poetry events in Camden, Orangeburg and Hampton County. She is a dynamic advocate of the creative arts and a talented poet, writer, and visual artist. I look forward to participating in whatever event she creates next.

-Al Black

Janet Kozachek  has led a long and eclectic career as a writer and visual artist,  pursuing work and advanced study in Europe, China, and New York.  She was the  first American to matriculate in the Beijing Central Art Academy (CAFA), where she studied  painting, poetry, and calligraphy.  Ms. Kozachek moved  to the Netherlands with her husband Nathaniel Wallace,  to teach with the University of Maryland overseas division for two years.  Returning to the United States she became a graduate student at Parsons School of Design. 
During graduate work at Parsons in New York, Kozachek studied painting and drawing with Larry Rivers, Paul Resika, Leland Bell, and John Heliker, and poetry with  J.D. McClatchy.  It was this brush with McClatchy, then editor of the Yale Review and author of Painters and Poets, that first inculcated the idea for Kozachek that painting and poetry could emanate from the same creative source in western as well as in  eastern art.

In South Carolina, Kozachek embarked on a long peripatetic career as an artist in residence and sometimes adjunct professor teaching Chinese art and Mosaic making throughout the state under the auspices of the South Carolina State Arts Commission.  Kozachek founded and became the first president of the Society of American Mosaic Artists in 1999.  She wrote for, and co-edited, the society’s quarterly publication, Groutline, and co-authored the catalogue for the first international exhibition of mosaics in the United States.   She also actively wrote for Evening Reader Magazine, publishing essays on art and social issues.  She is the author of four books of poetry. 

Song of the Sinuses

(On the occasion of the discovery that researchers playing ancient ceramic musical instruments would sometimes hear a note that others could not because it was generated from resonance inside their sinuses) 

The archaeologist,

with his vinyl gloves 

and his plastic straw,

played the ancient globular flute,

last touched a millennium ago

by Shaman’s lips.

Six whole notes

climbed up a scale

as the pressure of modern air

yielded sound.

For the record there were six notes.

The archaeologist heard seven.

Investigators played that tape

again and again

– in search of that seventh note.

that they were certain that they heard.

What was that seventh unrecorded final note

that could not be bound 

yet rang persistently in their heads?

It was a singular sinus sensation!

The lonely note was for 

the hearing of the solitary.

It was a spiritual resonance

of an internal sound

echoing in the caverns of their skulls.

Not every note must be noted.

Not every thought must be voiced.

Not every sound need be heard by others.

Not every action must be known,

nor every meaning ascertained.

Not every desire must be met.

There must be quiet in the world

to leave a space for internal music.

Listen.

News Cycle

( After a Drawing by Laurie Lipton)

Another school shooting

the jaded eyes and numbed mind

observe on the rectangular

porthole to the outside world

Another invasion

I watch the troops float onscreen

above my painted toes

Another disaster

A family sleeps on borrowed blankets

outside the rubble

of what was once their home.

I scan them while reclining

in my own bed

in my air-conditioned room.

Another war

feeds my evening news cycle

I watch it through

the hazy steam

that emanates from my

museum shop coffee cup 

decorated with scenes from

Picasso’s Guernica

aesthetically wrapped snugly

around the glazed form.

Purchased for just

$9.99 at the museum shop.

Another famine

plays out across my television

Mothers cradle emaciated infants

My cat cries out

wanting to be fed

I pause to feed her

and switch the channel

I am told

that brain surgery is performed

with just local anesthetics

to get below a scalp’s surface

with sedatives to blunt awareness

of what is inserted or extracted 

from the matter of mind

Brains don’t feel pain

Patient patients

close their eyes then

and don’t panic 

at what they see or hear

Another massacre?

Too many in a day now

to be counted

With the precision of a scalpel

the news cycle enters

through an anaesthetized cloud

of indifference

blunted by frequency

numbed by distance

cushioned with a thick cotton blanket

blocking out the fear

that the news 

some day

will find me

Celestial Beings and Lesser Gods

(Zaparozhia and Melania Perik)

Objects upon a white cloth

lay as offerings to people passing by

in the torpor of late afternoon shadows.

A solitary apple, a tempting trinket,

sit as the trappings of yearning

for a warm bed and respite from hunger.

A mass of woman sits

swaddled in a woven coat

and a thinking hat.

She nods her head downwards,

as hypnogogic hallucinations

fly within and without the hollows of trees.

Celestial beings and lesser gods,

half human and half chicken,

turn right side up and upside down

in their flight between somnolence and wakefulness.

They have been conjured.

They cavort among the boughs,

and then are exorcized 

from haunted limbs. 

Crow

Crow watches you

with eyes you cannot see,

black on black  against the setting sun,

waiting in quiet silhouette upon a branch.

Crow seeks you

in benevolent predation,

to feed upon your sorrows,

and swallow your regrets.

Crow finds you

alone among the living,

lost within memories of departed souls

who call and call your name.

Crow grasps you

in her claws folded

tight around your waist,

her black beak cool against your face.

Crow knows you

when you cross the bridge

into that great void

and come back home again.

Poetry of the People: Jo Angela Edwins

My seventh Poet of the People is Jo Angela Edwins. What impresses me the most about Jo Angela is her humor and ability to find the divine in unexpected places. 

Jo Angela Edwins is the poet laureate of the Pee Dee region of South Carolina and a professor of English at Francis Marion University. Her collection A Dangerous Heaven appears in 2023 from Gnashing Teeth Publishing.

Parts of Speech

Verbs do the heavy lifting:
shoot, explode, weep, scream.

Adverbs tell us, mostly, how:
often, swiftly, wildly.

Adjectives describe:
fearful, mad, thunderous.

Conjunctions link:
armed and dangerous, dead or alive.

Articles define:
an ally, the enemy.

Prepositions direct:
over the wall, through the tunnel, across the killing field.

Interjections exclaim:
Stop! No! Help!

Nouns remind us
that earth is filled with places
where people turn persons
into things.

When Louis Armstrong Landed on the Moon

Quiz question: Who was the first person to set foot on the moon?
Student answer: Louis Armstrong
Picture his space helmet
specially equipped
to accommodate the trumpet.
He must have resembled
a Seussian cartoon:
that polished horn
sticking stiffly through the visor,
the aperture gasketed
tightly with polymers,
a protection against oxygen leaks,
for this man with elastic cheeks
needed all the air he could get
on that airless orb
to shatter silence across
the Sea of Tranquility.
His jaunty rendition
of “When the Saints Go Marching In”
bopped its best that day,
and those saints in their heaven
that hovered like a low ceiling
over his bobbing head
realized slowly
that their feet had gone to tapping
against narrow golden streets.
As he leapt from rock to rock
across that milky desert,
surely his heart skipped beats
in time to music. Back home,
Mission Control heard his gritty vibrato
crooning a capella
through the fuzz of the two-way
as he gazed backwards at the foggy earth:
I think to myself—
what a wonderful world.

(Originally published in Porcupine Literary, issue 2, Summer 2020)

The Lilies You Sent

were lovely for so many days,
and I cannot bring myself to throw them out.
They still offer sheen and a shadow of flair,
but the petals fall in a whoosh. Gravity
is brother to death, and all the green is blackening,
and the water that once held them firm goes brown,
and even a carpel comes tumbling down
here and there. I collect what falls,
dutiful steward to withered angel wings,
and my fingers stain with the glitter of each anther,
the pollen that would propagate what lived
had it not died for the sake of spreading kindness,
a better reason than most, I suppose, to die,
and for this killing that brightened my life, I thank you.

Poetry of the People: Dale Bailes

My sixth Poet of the People is Dale Bailes. Dale is a long-time icon in the Columbia literary community and an encouraging mentor and friend to many. His poetry is expressive, and you feel his kindness throughout his work. Read his work and become his friend.

Bio: As a poet, Bailes helped design and participated in the Poets In The Schools
Program for the South Carolina Arts Commission. He edited seven anthologies of
student poetry for that program. His poems have appeared in journals and little magazines,
including SOUTH CAROLINA REVIEW, GREAT SPECKLED BIRD, and
CREATIVE CRAFTERS JOURNAL. The poems have been gathered in the
collection CHERRY STONES and in three chapbooks.

Recent publications include poems in Columbia lit mag FALL LINES and
Texas based AMERICAN WRITERS REVIEW.

Bailes holds an MFA in Professional Writing from the University of Southern
California, He has taught college writing and creative writing classes in such
diverse backdrops as state prisons, Navy aircraft carriers, community colleges,
and both USC east and USC west.

He continues his interest as an educator as a part-time Standardized Patient
at the University of South Carolina School of Nursing in Columbia.

____

VIGIL

First sunlight in tops

Of towering green trees.

How is there no music?

THE TRICK

Thinking of you in terms

of two-over-light was easier.

That way you shared

my morning rite and left me

to the idle pleasure

of my day. Now, having

seen you trundle from

a lonely man-filled bar

your shoulders slouched

against the weight of darkness

I know you more than I care 

to; know your crumpled

single bed and barren room

know why your ten-hour-day

is comfort to you.

Now instead of leaving me

to my own tight rare existence

you take me trembling with you

into your lonely night.

(from ST. ANDREWS REVIEW)

THE GENTLEMAN CALLER

No need to keep him waiting

fifteen anxious minutes; no stately

staircase has to frame her entrance.

Cordelia sits quite calmly at the table

saucered cup untouched and slowly colding

Her mind commands a sunny day, with horses

she smells the Spring and smiles

at mustached men. A storm can rage there

now, or suns go setting; white-haired

gallants still tip crisp hats and court her,

What matter if those days she lives

are twenty-five or fifty years divided?

This day alone will mean most to her heart

stout friend through all and keeper

of the great loves she has known.

Now he has come, the quietest caller

she has yet received. “Madame?” “oh yes.

I am quite ready. You are right on time.”

Cordelia, rising, bids a host of friends adieu.

Whispers gaily, “It was always you.”

(from MISSISSIPPI REVIEW)

THE JESTER

The Jester on your wall grins

at you. His hand has been, will be

poised to pluck the lute.

You pull yourself from sleep

or death, recall some sound

that scared you to the fading point

where sleep and death are one

and come or don’t come

as your left eye struggles open

and your right eye simply won’t .

He has waited while you slept

while you crept through

the other room of the dream

and out. He has grinned as

a black cat crossed the street

to avoid crossing your path,

as ladders crashed around you

that you wanted to walk under.

He will watch you tumble from

the bed, return from all that pain

awake, stumble to another room

to wet your trembling hands.

His hands will tense, prepare

to play the chord to match

the sound your pleading eyes

will make, as you watch the mirror

drop you and you shatter.

(from SANDLAPPER)

Poetry of the People Featuring Adam Houle

My fifth Poet of the People is Adam Houle. Adam's voice is nuanced and immediately relatable; he is refreshingly unpretentious in communicating what he sees.

Bio: Adam Houle is the author of Stray (Lithic Press), a finalist for the Colorado Book Award. His poems have appeared in AGNI, Shenandoah, The Shore, and elsewhere. He co-edits 12 Mile Review with Robert Kendrick and is an assistant professor at Francis Marion University.

Hearing About the Wreck

Now I’m off the phone and pacing while my wife,

seven states away, waits in the smashed car

to relay the incident’s specifics to a bored cop

at the intersection of two wide and busy roads.

It’s a sunbaked Texas town where, I imagine,

the woman who t-boned her sizes up

the grill guard with her pea-patch husband,

both of whom are already scum of the earth,

idiot scum of the earth. Inattentive texting

while driving scum of the earth, who were posting

driving selfies or twitter polls seeking counsel

on which fast food value meal they should shovel

down their maws, chewing with their mouths open

in the living room of what I’m sure is the saddest

half a duplex in all the republic of Texas

while SVU airs and they rubberneck a gruesome case.

In another world, my wife is dead, her body

wrecked in the wreck, and that world chaffs too close

and though she’s fine, alive, shaken but fine fine fine

I’m crying and say aloud, I’d kill them both,

and in that moment, when just moments before

I debated alone paint shades for our kitchen

and asked the dogs what would be the ecological fallout

if a barred owl fell in love with a red-tailed hawk,

I’m pretty sure I mean it, which scares me

in the way it must scare the tv star

who tilts a conversion van off a crushed friend

or rushes back for an heirloom when the foundation beams

have already burst, flames rising from the floor

like geysers, the expected feats of fear and rage,

who realizes there’s another self

that sleeps and, when it wakes, is more terrifying

and courageous and, I see, more cruel, with a drill bit heart

that turns faster and with more bite the more it hurts.

Is he a necessary self? Sometimes, love is the right spring

babbling, bubbling over moss, feeding meadow reeds.

Sometimes, it’s an errant left turn and the sun burning

down the westbound lane fracturing light through a windshield’s

sheen of dead bugs. I sat there a long time,

I made a fist, I released a fist. I breathed.

A fist. I breathed. This fist. My heart’s modeled after it.

Open, it’s to hold or offer.

Closed, oh god of the plains, and I am your vicious club.

(First appeared in Baltimore Review, Winter 2019)

~~~

It’s an Empty-Headed Move I Love the Most

 I swear I’ll leave your ass in Tennessee

with the trumpet vines and BarcaLoungers

slumping under carports. Maybe at a BP

near the bottom of a hill, where a state road

curves that way and a sandy one cuts back.

Maybe there next week, I’ll leave your ass.

You can throw your hands up all you want,

cinematic like, dramatic, your rage so quick

to bloom you’ll smash your phone to bits

before you’ll call me. You can be happy

in the injustice of all that balance:

a thought forms and then rejects itself, lizards grow

by eating the gray skins they have outgrown.

The dog, Caesar said, is cat. The jelly jar is cracked

and that your one good glass. Alas, I guess,

is a thing you’d say. Cross a river. Then another

or the oxbow bend of the same. It doesn’t matter.

The world reaps what the world repeats.

It’s natural as nature to always feel afraid,

to keep playing, even when you’ve been outplayed.

(First appeared in Phoebe, 52.1)

In Service

Bless this moment before the hydraulic door

sighs open. Bless the tamped heel click

on the low knap carpet. Bless the medicine

cart its quiet wheels. Bless how it feels

to watch your face attenuate as the glass

levers inward. Bless its disappearance

and the hall that takes its place. Bless this:

mylar balloons taped to temporary name plates

along the corridor. Bless late comforts. Bless night

nurses ending another shift. Bless their laughter.  

(First appeared in Chattahoochee Review, Spring 2020)

Epitaph

the sky my mind

my heart an ocean

here’s an antidote

go find the poison

Poetry of the People featuring Michal Rubin

My fourth Poet of the People is Michal Rubin. What attracts me to Michal's poetry is the unadorned integrity, honesty, and humanity of her voice.

Michal Rubin moved from Israel to Columbia, SC 32 years ago.  A psychotherapist, a Cantor, and an emerging poet, her work was published in Psychotic Education,  The Art and Science of Psychotherapy, Wrath Bearing Tree journal,  Rise Up Journal, Topical Poetry,  Fall-Lines,  The Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Waxing & Waning: A Literary Journal, and South Carolina Bards Poetry Anthology 2023.

In a secret dark spectacle

after Ada limon

I saw the twirling gust of dust

moving into the distant

world of pain I remember

and I flew there to be

with kin I have not met

come! they said

and I sat in their midst

huddled underneath their wings

they fluttered, the wings,

and the chill of history penetrated

my sheltered space

I breathed it in 

the chill

and the chains weighty

on my wrists

as I was dragged by the power 

of the dead

into the land

~~~~~

In Gaza

tomorrow’s touch

through the settling dust

will remind you of

love

unhidden in the rubble

behind the corner

forbidden moment

fused with desert breeze

salted droplets we carried

home

or what was home

~~~~~

Exploits

I write with no address

or neighborhood

letters that belong to

the smoke of burnt homes

or piles of old shoes

I try to stitch words 

so they become 

an embroidery of unwanted

stories

we live them

the stories

we spit them as hulls  

discarded shells of seeds

we feasted

I, the betrayer of dogmas spread

stained uniforms strewn on the page

I, the jailed soldier

braid sins into the chain of letters

words bathe in shame

each bullet finds a target

smoke of burnt homes fills the nostrils 

I, the one who left,

weave what you call art

with the exploits

remnants of our crimes

Poetry of the People with Al Black featuring Tony Pichof

Because I’ve planted a seed
That sparked a thought
And made them think

I chose Tony Pichof as my next Poet of the People for his earnestness and gentle unfrilly lyric quality. He represents the everyperson in each of us.

Al Black

Poet, Tony Pichoff (pee-shawf) retired from the Army in 2006 and has been working as a civil servant since.  He has been writing since his junior year in high school when his English teacher, Mrs. Magoo (yes, really!) accused him of plagiarism.  He has been awarded and recognized in several contests over the years and has self-published twelve collections* under the pen name, Tony Garrison (to honor his stepfather).  He is an active adult scouting leader.  He enjoys spending time with his family and working on his hobby farm.

The Best I Can 

Strangers on the street
Often ask me,
“How’re you doing?”
As they are passing,
Out of some unwritten
Rule of courtesy,
Not expecting an answer
When they acknowledge me.
“The best I can”
Is my standard reply.
Then I see them smile
As I walk by
Because I’ve planted a seed
That sparked a thought
And made them think
Just how they ought-
That everything
Will be okay
If we all do our best
Every single day.
And who knows,
I may just start a new trend
As everything, somewhere,
Sometime begins.
I sure hope it catches on
And becomes part of the plan.
But even if it doesn’t…
I’ll just keep on doin’ the best that I can.

~~~

Sick to My Soul 

We’ve all been there
In those moments we’d rather not be
When in the throes of illness
We feel helpless in our vulnerability
As nausea washes over us
And we know what’s coming next
When waves of sick crash into us
And leave us feeling the opposite of blessed.
Now, take that awfulness of being
And multiply it a hundredfold.
For only then will you be believing
How it feels to be sick to my soul,
With the difference being
There is no release to let it go
And it just keeps on festering
Way down deep within.
This smoldering betrayal
Is such a scorching sin
When I can no longer trust
Someone I once called, Friend. 

Poetry of the People with Al Black featuring Kelley Lannigan

Where is the map when we get lost inside ourselves? — Kelley Lannigan

I chose poet, Kelley Lannigan, as this week's Poet of the People because of the wonderful narrative flow of her poetry.

Kelley Lannigan grew up in rural Richland County and studied art and journalism at Columbia College. She spent her life curating art (most recently the Georgia O'Keefe Anniversary Exhibition at Columbia College) and as an editor and journalist for magazines and newspapers. She is retired and lives in Winnsboro with her cats writing poetry, painting, and taking on an occasional writing project.

Aubade

 The sun raises the red coin of its face.

            Morning, in her gown of light

                        dances among the trees.

A Cooper’s Hawk, the one we hear

            but rarely see, screams reveille.

                        Awake! Awake! Awake!

It rained so hard last night.

            Nipper Creek, dry for months,

                        runs like a marathon.

Trucks haul gravel from the quarry. Gears shift,

            grind, strain up the road’s steep slope.

                        Sometimes a SLAM! A BANG!

Soon, blasting will shake the ground.

            Trucks pass, their angry music fades.

                        Silence deepens like a dream.

Tops of pines, slow green brooms, sweep the sky.

            Old cat snoozes on the rough steps.

                        She chases something in her sleep.

She woke me earlier, pawed my chest in the dark,

reminded me that for now,

                        I am not alone.

Terra Incognita

(In memory of Steve, lost to dementia) 

He was the kind of man we were glad to see.

The kind who leaned over the fence to talk about his goats,

his chickens. A farmer, adding his link to the long chain

of Huguenots who husbanded the land. Their sturdy houses

still stand sentinel over the Santee, the Pee Dee, the French Broad.

A family man. Husband, lover, father, teacher.

A worldly man. Soldier, navigator, pilot.

A hunter who knew what passed by its scat,

a mark on a tree, tracks in the snow.

The kind of man we called at 3 a.m.

about strange noise by the barns.

His bobbing lantern across the dark fields

made us feel safe.

Snow melts. Tracks erode. Terrain shifts.

Where is the map when we get lost inside ourselves?

He was a man who disappeared before our eyes.

Forgot our faces, his children’s names.

Left the water running. Could not remember

his phone number. How to use the phone.

What a phone was for. Forgot to eat.

Lay in bed until told to get up.

Replied “yes” to every question.

Missed the turn to his farm, piloted his old Chevy

into the next county. Then across the next.

Or simply sat for hours behind the wheel going nowhere.

Kelley Lannigan will be our poetry feature this Wednesday, 08/16 - 7 pm for Mind Gravy Poetry at Cool Beans, 1217 College Street, Columbia 

Poetry of the People with Al Black featuring Jeff Bryson

Given his years of service to the poets of SC and beyond, Jasper asked board of directors member Al Black to curate a weekly addition to Jasper Online featuring some of his favorite local poetry. A Poet of the People himself, Al produces gatherings of writers and musicians both in Columbia and throughout the Southeast. He is the author of two collections of works, I Only Left For Tea, and Man With Two Shadows.

I have chosen W. Jefferson Bryson as our first Poet of the People, because of the unvarnished immediacy of his truths; no bells and whistles or other affectations; just his truths in his words.

I know Jeff as poet and sometimes musician who grew up in the upstate and spent most of his adult life in the midlands as a social worker and then twelve years as the State Ombudsman and still was able to retain his integrity and humanity.

PTSP: Post Traumatic Stress Poetry   1970

How it Was

Until it Wasn’t

Two years down

How quickly it happens

On a Wednesday

Walking a path

Crickets and comrades

Then little dark men

In black pajamas

With old AKs

As big as they are

Leap out ahead of us

And scream and fire

And their aim

So poor, so terrified

Of hulking, red-eyed

American Devils

Their shots tear apart

The jungle around us

We aim together

And render them

Red mist, mostly

Painting the foliage

And the ground

All around.

And suddenly

Wednesday, again

Tour over, discharge

A duffle-bag

Jeans and a work shirt

Commercial flight

DC-9 to San Diego

Teach Your Children

On the radio

And all I know

Is friendly

Or foe

And me, now

Without a weapon.

Flashback, With Soundtrack  

Listening to Creedence

Reminds me of the jungle

The sound of M-16 fire

Of helicopters, of brown water

Of 50 cals, of F-4 Phantoms

The smell of rice paddies

Hot in the afternoon

Or drowning in rain

The smell of Napalm

The smells of Saigon

Viet Nam.

My Brothers

My God

Where are they

What has happened

To us all.

Zero-Dark-Thirty, One More Time 

Three-thirty in the dark. Again.

And I’m awake. Again.

And I remember. Again.

All gave some. Some gave all.

And the elephant grass

Grows tall and thick

Through my memory

And I forget

Until I dream.

And the sound of M-16 fire

Suddenly returns in the deep night

And the thump of 50 cals

I feel them in my ribs

My own heartbeat

Even now, quickens

And I remember

The smell of Napalm

And screaming death

And I will sleep no more

Tonight.

Steppenwolf  

You hear

Magic Carpet Ride

I see fire

Blossoming, rising

Red and black

Mushroom clouds

Of Napalm

In forever-green

Jungle.

Hueys

Cobra gunships

F-4 Phantoms.

Burning villages

Cluster bombs.

It won’t hurt you

It only kills plants.

Mekong catfish,

Twelve feet long.

China Beach.

Saigon.

Vietnam.

Some of us

Never went.

Some of us

Never left.

Something As Simple As a Song  

Creedence

Steppenwolf

Blood, Sweat and Tears

Da Nang

Dok To

Long Binh

My Lai

Khe Sanh

Hue

Suddenly 

How can it have come to this?

To be a sick, sad old man

Alone in a small apartment

In a raging city of angry strangers

All my comrades

Lost or gone

Ghosts of memory

Living or dead

And the greatest tragedy of all

Not a trace of senility

Or forgetfulness

Or rest

Or peace

In me.

W. Jefferson Bryson is a retired Social Worker. He has spent a lot of time with Vietnam vets and heard a lot of stories. Sometimes they come back in bits and snatches in poems like these.