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Northeastern State University |
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Department of Languages and Literature |
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Poetry Published Pg. 2 |
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"Turtle Considers Plato" December - Tahlequah, Oklahoma 1988
Barrelling down the Bertha Parker Bypass In my orange '76 Silverado pickup truck Tuned, of course, To the local AM Band belting out Songs of sorrow Beer and betrayal-- I hear Dolly Sweetly singing That love is like a butterfly And that A many colored coat Sewn with love Will keep you warm-- Heart, soul, body, and brains-- In a culture that Like Plato Hates tits And cannot, by God, Live without them. Ain't it the truth! 1996
Floating the Curve Yes. Tonight the sky floats clear. Yes. I see the stars where once I walked, moved out into the Universe and thereby hold A vision that came to me As a girl of four, lying On her back in a clover Patch -- one warm Oklahoma Night. Yes. I know we are kin On earth, in a curve -- blue/white -- Upon which we walk and laugh And kill. The small mouse breaths grey. Herons fly their ancient flights As part of the curve -- blue/white -- That leads us to tomorrow That stakes us out to our past. We are part of the curve -- blue/ White -- floating into the stars.
1997
The Tribe of Green Persimmon She belongs to the Tribe of Green Persimmon This woman, Hers the Clan Of Fruited Bitterness For whom the healing frost Never came, For whom the ash white sour -- by magic -- Turned to juicy sweetness
Never occurred.
Oh, the magic was all around On its way to her As it moves on the wind To all. But for her, This woman of the Clan of Fruited Bitterness, The Blessed Frost for Sweetness Passed just above and below To her right and to her left. And she was preserved from the Trouble of wisdom. Preserved from Lines of laughter, Preserved from the music of sadness that Sweetness sometimes sings.
She belongs to the Tribe of Green Persimmon This woman, Hers the Clan Of Fruited Bitterness.
To the Man Who Disliked My Poetry
Be at ease, you’re just one in a long line Who dislikes something, somehow–as they whine On about –my laugh, my color, my walk– So, my poetry –what I call heart talk Glides out over that wall and may be caught, Volleyed, to mark, to share what we were taught By each other’s words–I’d like to thank Frost For teaching me blank verse and Milton–lost In a vision and life of utter dark– Such heaviness of spirit that no lark At break of day arising sang for him– In verse or any other kind of hymn– No bob-o-link as a chorister trilled In sun, and he missed happy as the grass Was green nor would have thought it, for his lass Tempted him to cold sin before his grave Closed over him a dark and velvet wave. Still, Milton offered me, along with Frost, Blank verse, visions, grapes, hillwives, and souls Lost in fire or ice, losing paradise– Souls with wings and without, trembling in mist.
Floating in blank verse, I saw angels kiss. |
