Only a few passages we make.
From one point to another we take.
From these points we may stop, reevaluate.

I was born as were you
In a cocoon preparing for birth.
Nurtured internally from our earth.
Sustenance given by my mother’s blood.

Oxygen transported if by flood.
Time molded me into view.
My first cry heard by a very few
Who nurtured me as time went on
To prepare me for what was to come.

As fate decided, I met you.
Two souls waited, burrowed to begin anew.
I am here, for them to voyage.
Preparing them for their trip.
As birth is to marriage is to death.
As we take these mortal steps.

All three stages intertwined with the next.
The light, the love, the circle we embrace.
Transcending all, time and space.
As we arrive on the other side
A new life awaits, for us to transcribe.

For the books yet to be written.
For the stories yet to be told.
They will all contain these passages
We are born, we live, we grow old.

As our family tree adds another branch.
As a leaf dies and another grows.
Our blood and names unite as one.
Combining the soil, the air, the sun.
A door is opened,  another is closed.
A door is closed, another arose.

for Dana Turner

The cosmic river thrives.
It pulls you and moves you.
It’s within you.
It surrounds you.

Magnetic zeros unite and pull.
Making heroes of the unknowing.
Making the poor rich.
Making the healthy sick.

It does not flinch.
It does not know names.
It does not know preference.
It does not ask to be forgiven.

For it is the tide…driven.
Apathy stricken.
No smiling.
No laughing.
No fear.
No tears.

The cosmic ocean lives.
Bringing cellular apoptosis.
The birth of stars.
Enjoy the view.

Your body the boat.
To take you where you need be.
Lessons learned eternally.
Be open, float.

In the height of battle a samurai should be able to compose a poem.

Mindfulness. Focused observation. Words forming images, forming a new vision.

I am no samurai. I am no warrior.

Strong storms have a way of making even gray days seem nice.

As the water puddles have collected and the birds begin to come out.

Speak out. I am here.

The sun should come out again soon.

My stomach is not strong enough, now.

It’s only nerves they say but I don’t want to feel this way.

I want to be that samurai.  I want to write through the war.

Know what each drop of blood was spilled for.

As the rain drops fall.

Bombs bursting and all.

That small town 50 miles south of Jackson.  I can see it now.  That one road called the Boulevard that went from downtown out to the interstate.  I can see the kids in their cars with nothing better to do than to drive up and down that two mile loop.  I can see Perkins Hardware.  The parking lot where deals were made and futures paved.

I grew up in a small town.  Ten thousand souls for over fifty years. Not a new one. One dies another is born to breathe his first cry.  Recycling, reincarnating cousins, brothers and sisters in the same dank Mississippi soil.   A town stuck in stagnation.  A town last in the nation in education.  A leader  in discrimination.  I see the old plantation homes.  I see the moss hanging from the trees.  I see the tour of homes.  I see the old churches filled with old folks and new families living off of old money and new money. Doctor’s daughters. I see the lawyer’s sons.  I see the son’s of blue collar workers.  Sawmills.  Bodyshops. Empty vacant lots.  Weeds breaking through concrete, left forgotten.

I remember when the fast food restaurants moved in.  How my front yard, once silent, now within the airwaves of a Wendy’s drive-thru.  I remember when Wal-Mart moved in.  I remember the downtown where my father owned a sandwich shop.  I remember him selling ice cream from the back of an old yellow truck.  I remember the pride he had in that store when a small downtown had hope.  When America still made things.

I remember how my best friend was black.  How we grew up not knowing color.  How we played cowboys and indians.  I remember walking up to him in the hallway in first grade and how he acted like he never knew me.  Flanked on both sides by his black friends I realized I was white.  I knew then it wasn’t right.

Twenty years later I sit on Ancestry.com in another southern state.  I try and trace my family out of Mississippi.  There is nothing but that one state.  My bloodline seems to have sprung from a well beneath it.  No migrating down from New York.  No coming up from New Orleans.  Nothing but Benton Sebastian King’s John Hancock on an old census.  Tradesman in a sawmill.  Soon to be the father of many sons who gambled and drank.  One who won half of Brookhaven in a card game one glorious day.  Only to drink it all away.

Inspired by The Help by Kathryn Stockett

This book sits on a coffee table.
Handed down, generation to generation.
Only one exists
As time persists.

It tells the story of my life.
A collection of poems spilled out
As the present turned into past.
Written for the future.

To be found.
To be timeless.
To be profound.
To be a guide.

Written for my children
So that they might know me.
So that they might remember
That life is to be lived consciously.

As I spent time away
In my mind writing these words.
Thinking of the moment when
This book would sit unread.

Collecting dust on this table.
So that they might have me.
Collected and bound.
One day, to know my love.

We are never good enough.
We will never measure up.
Injecting guilt into life.
Injecting fear into wrong or right.

For each life choice is being watched.
Not just by God on his omnipotent cloud
But by the congregation with their soap opera frown.
Each year is a repeat of the same old stories.

So and so got pregnant out of wedlock.
So and so doesn’t like boys, I hear.
So and so is not a true believer, I fear.
So and so asks too many questions.
What day of creation were the dinosaurs made?
Why do non-believers have to burn in hell to pay?

So and so is dating a doctor.
So and so’s house just went into foreclosure.
So and so’s son is in rehab we hear.
So and so drinks too much beer.

The rumor mill churns each Sunday morning
From my old church where my parents met.
Most card carrying conservatives they vet
Each and every church member, eventually to forget.

The dance starts out in a glory
As we fall in love with a new member’s family.
I hear they moved here from Georgia for law.
They have three children; we need our church to grow.
I hear they don’t like football, so I don’t know.

They didn’t join the country club because he doesn’t golf.
How can a lawyer not golf and be one of us?
He surely is in the wrong city to practice much.
I hear their teenagers really don’t believe.
Last Sunday, their boy asked about Adam and Steve.

I spent a lifetime in the church.
I sang in the choir from our perch.
I was in youth group and held hands too much.
I asked too many questions and didn’t learn enough.

This is my background and my religious story.
I must apologize for Christians in name only.
The message of Jesus Christ is about love and respect.
Not about building walls of judgment to neglect.

Not about injecting religion into politics.
Not about taking away the freedom of others.
Not about forcing social issues over progress.
Not about supporting a do nothing congress.

Many of us are still recovering.
The damage has been done.
Many decades later
These stories keep playing as if a rerun.

I graduated from building blocks to tic tac toe.
I graduated from Tonka Trucks to Lego.
I graduated from Ewoks to G.I. Joe.

We pass the baton from one generation to another.
Degrees earned and Resumes written.
Skills acquired and careers gotten.

I remember sitting in school thinking about all the nonsense I was learning and if it could be used. I conjugated verbs and learned of present tense in my past tense. I solved word problems with abstract equations. Not knowing the future of my people or my nation. Not knowing I had a choice as a child that was never given.

I demanded chicken nuggets and Sloppy Joes.  I didn’t know of preservatives or growth hormones.  I didn’t know of monoculture farming as the storm was brewing. I didn’t think of my carbon footprint wherever I went.  Because I lived in the land of rock and roll.  Heavy metal, birth control.  Mullets long and hair fluffed tall.  Jeans were tucked, reds were smoked and Zimas drunk.  Menthol’s green, Nintendo magic mystery machine.

College came and things changed. The angst of youth turned into the apathy of the group, pregnant with choice.  One long buffet of food imported, boxed and delivered to every freshman feeding at the trough of life.  The freshmen fifteen turned into the freshman thirty because no one ever got dirty.  Sweat was something experienced between air conditioned containers.

The music changed.  Heavy metal lipstick on a pig.  Stolen guitar riffs from the sixties mixed with rap hard and dirty.  Lyrics were lingering and searching for meaning.  Trying to find the voice of a generation devoured by choice. Years were lost finding tokens and building avatars.  Playing video games while playing drinking games.  Never knowing hunger or thirst.  A generation depressed for having so much.

I graduated from beer bongs to whiskey.
I graduated from Tupac to 50.
I graduated from a small town to New York city.

Brooklyn fever, dot com boom and bust.  Then the airplanes hit. The twin tower’s dust covered the world.   Finally my generation was ready to die. No more lusting for my father’s war.  No more Korea or Vietnam, for this is a young man’s land.  Hands were raised, promises were made and broken.  The truth not found, the lies abound.  Sworn in to fight for peace in distant lands.  So many deaths, soon to be forgotten.

As we limp from one war to the next, trading one sandbox for another, our toys are the hottest.  The best money can borrow.  Remote control flyovers with Hellfire missiles.  Our drones are passing overhead as families and children are blown to shreds. We have trained for this playing Zelda, playing Halo, playing Call of Duty.  I understand war.  I now know why my father was silent.  There is no honor in this.  There is no honor in this.

Each night at the dinner table I make choices.  Each mouth full a conscious decision to correct the past.  To allow myself to understand that I have allowed this to happen.  That I am to blame.  To educate my children that they can refrain.  Not forcing, not pushing, but nurturing empathy.  And just like that, tonight it happened.  My little girl said she doesn’t eat chicken anymore. Says she doesn’t want them to suffer.  A new generation is at bat.  Soon to be aware of the many mistakes we did exact.

I graduated from a child to a man
I graduated from being a meat eater to vegan.
I graduated from apathy to taking a stand.