Passage through August - Janet Buck poetry

Forgiving This Soil You are face to face with old. I need to forgive this soil, this drought -- blades of our mean flip words, lean as a tenderloin perfectly shaved in order to sell to the emptiness. Our fat, our grief turned upside down so no one will see. I grab the white, white flag of a page, but it trips intention into speech. I will never have a mother in you. Its fabric goes raw and bleeds. As a family friend trickles her blood on the stone of her grave, you babble about something you bought and can't exchange at a Brooks Brothers store. Is Palm Springs the only well you know? Where is the rain we deserve, the desert our agony earned. I turn to a bull with pointed horns. Wishing the skirt of your flesh could promise me more, more genuine color. Immersion foot from petty ponds, I swell with a tear, tuck it in socks that might have walked through rivers of ominous chill. © 2001 Janet Buck

Two angels perched on an airplane's wing inside a hangar without light. Discussing the rush of human love. Food of touch before their senses, arguing for using it. An egg timer tilted on mountain slopes, life is like a brick of cheese that molds or cracks if left unused. Argyle socks that shrink so fast in contact with a dryer's spin. I love free will-- thickly frosted corners on a birthday cake that do go stale if not for tongues. A stork with motion in its pouch. The moral of the story was Irish jigs in open space. The hero here was not a god, but perfect sails against tough winds. A place mat at a folding table, moments must be set with flowers. Riding real not plastic ponies pushing rivers toward the sea. Carpe diem graduates from angels to the real world. © 2000 Janet Buck

The Hope Chest

"No pain, no palm; no thorns, no throne; 
      no gall, no glory; no cross, no crown."

William Penn

Your hope chest was calling my name for years, 
but I tottered on thresholds and wept,
too blinded by tears to look for the key.
Feckless and horny for angels to come 
in a world just less because you died.
It was my job to sort the wreckage and live. 
I gathered my wits, pried the obstinate lock
as if it were winter itself
and seasons were toys of my will.

I bounced myself like quarters
on a soldier's cot, drew a breath,
rifled through layers of dust.
Nervous talons of my hands
came across a hat pin and a letter knife -- 
sewing scissors, knitting needles --
every memory shaped into a lethal point.
Minutes passed in battle tiffs --
how do you describe a war with triumphs 
in the summits of accruing grief
that rise to watch the sadness gloat.

Meadows of death are always coarse,
thistles digging tender feet --
they ache to have a compass there
that sends them home to better times
when smiles aren't mere photographs.
Bullets of gray hailstones fired rounds
against the window's dirty pane
like chopsticks clicking savagely
in protest of an empty plate.
I came across your diary, saved it 
for the stalwart hour that never came
when pages would not cut my throat.

Passing On

George died. 
At the funeral the priest was speechless. 
And so his brother said:

"George was strange. 
Wouldn't write with ballpoints pens. 
Preferred fountain pens. 
Said they really scratched the paper. 
Said he could always spill the ink bottle 
and fill an empty moment."

George embarrassed Mother. 
After they painted the old brick walls of City Hall 
gray and white, George sanded for 48 hours straight. 
Spent a month in jail for it.

In the white-paint dust on the sidewalk 
he inscribed:

"You ought to know you stupid pricks, 
It's mortal sin to paint those bricks. 
Had God wanted 'em seen in white or gray, 
He'd simply have changed the color of clay."

What can I say?

George was odd. 
Didn't like women. 
Said they flawed his self-sufficiency. 
Hated school. 
Said there was only one way to spell principle.

In his last dying breath, 
George uttered:

"Bury me with my books. 
I can read while I’m waiting."