Notes in the Key of Gee!
by Allen Itz
barrel racing
it's about
grace,
agility,
communion between
horse and rider,
the fluid movement
of two as one,
each alternately
controlling, anticipating,
becoming a single thing
together, dancing
through the dustthat's the way of
barrel-racing,
best done when both
are evenly matchedI had a horse once
who always threw me
on the second turn
and a long-time lover
who did the sameboth
just a little better
at the game
than methat's the way of
barrel racing and
that's the way of
love
Details
Cuando vas en busca de Dios,
busca en las aspiraciones de tu corazon.To know the passing presence of God
on the temporal soil of man,
look not to the stars or mighty oceans,
but to the smaller details of his creation.
The flexing toes of a day old child...
such is the handiwork of a true God Almighty.The rest is only stage dressing.
does he still dream
his body survives
dependent
for every beat and breath
on the machines
that surround him
and his conscious mind
is blankbut what of dreams
we never forget our dreams
it's said
from the very earliest
sloshing in the universe
of our mother's belly
to the very last
as we die
riffling
one last time,
through the book of dreams
we made page by page
over our lifetimeso, if this derelict can dream
if this scrap of manwho used to laugh and love, this
shrunken giant who would carry meenfold me in his arms, hold me close
in the worst of storms, this decliningremnant of a son and lover who
slept at the breast of bothhis mother and mine
this fallen hero leaving the worldas he entered it, drawn together
head reaching for his knees,this frail ghost of my father
if he has yet
the final gift of dreamsif in some part of his mind
we can neither see nor measure,
he still drifts through dreams fading
like the shadows of a fire growing colder...
lunch at the wagonwheel cafein a steakly state of mind,
I went to my favorite purveyor
of barely broiled bovine
and said,
fire me up some bossie,
buster,
hit me with a slab
of your most recently deceased,
grill it fast over an open flame,
you know how to make it best,
crispy black on the outside,
running red within, 20 ounces
or so to start but keep that fire
burning cause I might want moreand your biggest idaho, baked,
with all the fixingsthat'll do real good
with a couple of buttermilk biscuitsmaybe something green for my heart
old guys grooving with Sgt. Pepper
sitting in a bookstore,
drinking coffeeSgt. Pepper
piped softly
overheadtapping my foot,
singing along,
old guy
by the window
doing the samegrooving
first time I saw
the album?1967,
a street in Frankfurt,
a shop window
I passed along
the waya big window, empty
but for the album
deadset in the centerspotlit, gleaming,
draped
in red velvetdisplayed
like a flag
of the revolutionwho would have
believed it thentwo old guys,
grooving
with Sgt. Pepper
sunrise doesn't always mean you see the sun
on the Texas coast in January,
sunrise doesn't always mean you see the sun,
sometimes, it means only that the world changes
from darker haze to light.
on those chill mornings,
when there's no wind to stir the mists,
fog wraps the bay
in the uncertainty of an ocean cloud
settling lightly on the ground,
like an old gray dog
in high and prickly grass.
on such mornings,
the sounds of the everyday world
arise from unseen sources
and become mysterious and obscure,
like walking blindfold
through a familiar house
or overhearing the intimate talk
of friends; that which you thought you knew
becomes hidden and strange.
there are secrets in these hanging mists,
secrets that pass unknown
on clearer days.(From Corpus Christi, Texas, a series in progress)
as well cast a line
she is a mystery
to meas well cast a line
in a dark and swirling sea
as try
to judge her mood
from the lights that flash
in her deep violet eyeslike a deer deep in
the gaze
of the stalking wolf
immobilized
by anticipation
I wait for her attentionshe is a fascination
to me
bright yellow flowers
bright yellow flowers
cover the ground,
a few standing tall
against the lake,
dark blue at the far shore,
light blue, nearly white
from reflected sunlight,
on the near side
and beyond the lake
brownish green hills
frame a pale summer sky...first a photograph I took
near Bloomington, Indiana
nearly 30 years before,
then a painting by my mother,
her first,
desperate to fill the days
alone after my father’s death,
a remembrance now...love, mom,
it’s signed at the bottom
day break
clear skies
and early dew
make the pasture glisten
under the pale falling moon of
day break
haiku week
1.
I rise for new day
with moans, groans and aching bones
chirping birds mock me2.
brilliant morning light
sun motes cloud the air
even the shadows are bright3.
the sun shines brightly
butterflies caress the air
spring opens the door4.
dark and quiet house
soft sleep sounds rest in the calm
of early morning5.
thunder breaks the dawn
dark clouds cloak the early sun
slowly starts the day6.
softly call the doves
a gentle whisper of dawn
a breath of new day7.
the hatchling has flown
the sky is now the limit
the nest is empty
how quietly we hearhow quietly we hear
the poetry within us.so softly.
a mistake we ask?
like the sea in a seashell,
is it real
or just another illusion?like a child on a beach,
with the shell to his ear,
the poet will answer,does it really make
a difference?
In a Cloud of Lilac PowderOld ladies hold my attention more,
since my mother died.I pass them in a supermarket aisle
in a cloud of lilac powder,
dressed for town,
white hair permed high,
and I think of her.I drive behind them on a busy street,
creeping in their deliberate wake,
fuming at their decrepitude,
and I think of her.I see them in church,
all in a line on widow’s row,
bound together in a struggle
to comprehend a world
grown more fearsome and unforgiving
at every encounter,
and I think of her.I consider the courage of their passage
through the ending of their days,
facing it all
with the certitude and immutability
of planets in their orbits,
and I think of her.Alone, steadfast, resolute
and unafraid,
they wait their turn.And, I think of her.
Indian Summer IslandMy ax strikes the tree with a satisfying crack
that echoes across the small island
and onto the surrounding water.
I swing it over my head like a battle ax
extending my arms, flexing my shoulders,
as I hack at the bark-armored battalion
of scrub oak and huisache
that must be cleared before spring.
The sun glints through leafless trees,
warming the wind and my bare chest,
making sweat run down my sides,
trickling over my ribs,
from my hair, from my forehead and into my eyes.
I cool myself from a spring water canteen.
and I rest, lying on the ground face to the sky,
on autumn-dried leaves that scratch into my skin.
I watch clouds move through the wood’s bare branches
and sense the earth, the sky and all creation
circle in intricate patterns around me.
I sleep in the still center of this web of universal motion
until a brown and white spaniel,
my only companion in this season of seclusion,
wakes me.
As the sun begins its early winter descent,
I gather tools and dog into my boat,
unlock its oars, and start the short trip
across the lake to home.
A faint light in my window guides me to my cabin,
to my dinner, to my fire,
to my still empty bed.
interludethe green reflecting ribbon river
stretches before the upswept bow
of my small canoe
as I slowly drift past an island,
indistinct against the darkening sky
but for chips of fresh cut wood
scattered on its banks,
shining in the orange shadows of dusk
like forgotten lumps of fresh mined goldthe wind stops
the world too it seems
and quiet settles on the river
like dew on pasture grassquiet broken as a small plane
passes low to the water,
its roar reverberating
through the green canyon
of water and surrounding trees,
frightening the birds,
sending them off from their nests
in anxious waves of thrusting wings,
then settling back again,
seeking again the lost quiet
of evening.
maea little stout by the gym-ravaged standards
of our time,
but certainly not plain.
more like lucious, then and now,
with blond ringlets that framed her face
and an undulating walk
and sassy talk
that scandalized the bluenoses of her time
and made her the theme of Sunday sermons
and Saturday afternoon quilting bees.
come up and see me sometime, she said,
and they did, again and again.
even the cops who busted her
were likely to admit that
the gun in their pocket
didn’t mean they weren’t glad to see her.
maintaining the faithhome from sunday services,
the table awaits uscrispy chicken,
fried just brown,
piled high on the platter
with little blue flowers
we got from Grandma
when she died,
mashed potatoes,
with cream gravy on the side
for filling the little lake
you make with your spoon,
string beans
cooked with onion and bacon bits
sprinkled with croutons and almond slices
singed a little on the top,
corn on the cob
fresh from our neighbor’s field,
awash in melted butter,
deviled eggs with a dusting of paprika,
celery sticks stuffed with pimento cheese,
cauliflower buds dipped in sour cream,
pineapple slices on a lettuce bed
with a dab of mayonnaise
covered with shredded cheese,
thick cornbread layered with peach preserves,
hot double crust apple pie
with a melting scoop of home-turned ice cream...we fill our souls on sunday morning
with jubilations of the holy spirit
and revel in the afternoon
in the fleshly pleasures of sunday dinner,
filled and fulfilled in body and spirit,
we open our hearts, loosen our belts
settled in for sunday napand thus is faith maintained in the
land of milk and honey, circa 1955
MarionOh, my sweet, bespectacled beauty,
head bent in pensive study,
checking dates, calculating fines,
I kept the book over long
just for this moment. But,
now my voice and graces leave me
and my tongue-tied stammer
makes me seem a clown.
Oh, my shy, seductive beauty,
ignore the percussion of my palpitating heart;
forget this scene of comedic passion.Let me just get another book
and try again next week.
Millie, Billie, Lolly, Lou and LesterLuny met Molly on a Sunday evening
in Tuskaloosa at a potluck supper
at the First Corinthian Baptist Church.I was there talking to Luny
when Molly walked in, a slender little girl
in a flower dress carrying a big bowl
of country cornbread dressing.Didja see that girl,
he asked,
the pretty one in the flowerdy dress?I said I did.
Do you know’er?
I said I did.
Can I meet’er?
I’ll introduce you, I said,
I think she’ll like you.So, I did, and I could tell
right away, she did.Pleased to meetcha, Mr. Luny,
she said.Just call me, Luny,
he said,
most everbody does.And you can call me, Molly,
she said.He did and pretty soon they wandered off,
heads together, talking and laughing,
leaving me to spend the rest of the evening
with Brother Borchuck, talking about
the cane bottom benches out front and the need
to get them repaired before one of
the heavier brothers or sisters of the church
busted through them and sued us all,
including the Lord.I didn’t see Luny again until I was leaving.
He was in his pickup, smoking one of his
roll-your-own Bugler cigarettes,
spitting stray tobacco from
his lower lip like you have to do
when you roll them as loose as he does.That Molly sure is pretty,
he said,
blowing tobacco from his lip.I agreed and said,
I think she likes you.I know she does,
he said,Luny took another drag from his cigarette
and blew it out and pulled on his left ear.
Says she likes kids,
says she’d like to have a bunch.A bunch of kids, I said,
that’s a lot of responsibility.Yeah, I don’t think I’d want more than five.
(From “luny’s tunes” a series in progress)
Morning In My Neighborhood
It’s early morning
in the first month of Spring.
A light breeze ruffles
sunlit leaves
and grass throws green
at the pale blue sky.There is a quiet
to this fresh edge of day,
broken only
by the soothing swish-splash
of lawn sprinklers
and the tentative bark
of a half awake dog.It is an older neighborhood,
with full-grown trees,
well-tended grass
and settled people,
early risers,
not the type to lie in bed
in the daylight hours.
Those who will leave
this morning
have already gone.
Those who remain
drink their coffee,
read their newspaper
or,
like me,
take a morning walk.We greet each other
as we pass
and,
for just one moment,
share the morning.
new dayto stand
in the light
of a blue cold dayto hear
the splash
of a clear creek runningto breathe
the tonic
of clean mountain airfrom such
comes faith
that a fresh age is dawningon a new and better day
Notes To Myself In A Time of ChangeLife is a line,
its terminus uncertain,
a meandering procession
in multiple dimensions,
going away and back
in and out
and away again,
circling itself, crossing itself,
creating unexpected webs
and unplanned intersections.We wait in line
or we cut ahead
according to the habits
of our nature.
Fast or slow,
sooner or later,
we reach its head
and discover that which
awaits us,
not the end, we hope,
but another line, another chance,
another incarnation.Life is a line.
It is its own purpose.
It is its own end.
Its prizes
are in its process
not
in its resolution.
Its consummation
is in its living,
not
in its culmination.Life is a line.
The line is life.
on a day in octobersnow tipped mountains
bask in aspen boldclear air tingles
with brisk electric chillthrough it all
a road climbs
in fitful indirectionuntil
in a momentary clearing
we can see below us
everywhere we have been
on this brilliant october day
progressthey’re building the things
pointing every which way,
concrete columns,
laid out over acres of construction, meant
to support several levels of highway overpass
when the interchange is complete,
impossible to make sense of now,
with cranes and motorgraders and hacked-off
commuters backed up for several miles
in four directions, creeping between the pillars,
Stonehenge unhinged on Interstate 10.
screen saverfresh out ideas
and constructive
inclinations,
staring
blankly
at
my
screen saver,
I am
overcome
by the suspicion
that I have
stum
bled
across a
metaphor
for the course
of my recent d a y smotion-constant-mot
summer in south texas
summer
in south texas,
horned toads and rattlesnakes
negotiate for every piece
of shade
sunset from the baydusk slips across the coast
a stealthy tide
washing
over a sinking plain of redtall palms line the shore
bending
waving
in gulf breeze like
spindly dancers swaying
under the sanguinary sun
until
waist deep in creeping darkness
they surrender
to the velvet embrace
of the moon's black dominionlast light
fades with a sigh
(From Corpus Christi, Texas, a series in progress)
sweet ashesin the coldest hours of these long nights,
I trace my life
through its corkscrew path of fate and fashion
and, in the freezing dark, hold close
those hours I spent with you.our love was a mighty burning fire;
its sweet ashes warm me still.
The Late Great BonzoTRAGEDY BEFALLS DOLPHIN SHOW
Dateline: BUENOS AIRES
February 13, 1971Bonzo,
your sleek, leaping body is
now entangled
in the carnival web of your bright
wet spectacle.
Above you,
Rico splashes in quick confusion.
Spectators,
no longer laughing,
sit silently in the bleachers.
Your powerful body,
no longer gleaming,
is brought slowly to
the concrete-bordered surface
by weeping swimmers.
Bonzo,
we cry for the loss
of your gaiety and grace,
your intelligence and charm.
You seemed of another world,
just a visitor to ours,
tolerant of our one-dimensional
inadequacies.
You once were
as we would wish to be
and now you are no more.
The LossMy father died
before my son was born,
so they never shared
a time together.I've imagined their meeting many times
as my son has grown,
but never more vividly than now,
as he slips into manhood
and becomes his own person,
musician, poet,
true and faithful friend,
inheritor of all that was passed
on to me, inheritor
of all that I am
and ever tried to be.How they would fuss,
so alike they would be,
smart, stubborn, opinionated,
abrasive in their self-assurance,
with a redeeming imp of humor
to ease the sting,
with a tough and agile mind
covering for a tender, fragile heart.How fine it would have been for me
to become a part of their company,
to be a bridge between them,
a living cord of life and dreams
that bound them each to me
and through me to each other.But that can never be.
How sad it is,
the loss at our end
of all that ever was.But sadder still to lose at death
that which could have been.
the perfect kiss
it was perfect,
a wonder to behold,
the grace, the glory,
the heat,
the passion.he was tall,
good-looking,
confident
of his persuasive
power.she was short,
fair and thin,
bookish in a
Katherine Hepburn
way.he circled,
he approached,
then sat close
beside her,
self-assurance flying
like a checkered flag
at the end of a race
already won.he spoke softly
into her ear,
one hand on
the bar, the other
resting lightly on her
shoulder.so earnest he was,
so tall, so handsome
and self-assured.so small she was,
so unadorned
and unassuming.she listened carefully
to all he said,
raised her hand
to touch his cheek,
smiled,
brushed her lips
against his ear,
whispering.he crumpled,
folding into
his tailored suit
like aluminum foil
used and thrown away.it was a wonder to behold
the grace, the glory,
the icy dagger, the calm
dissection
of the perfect kiss
off.
true romance
crick-et
crick-et
crick-etcricking love songs
to a crochety moonpo-et
po-et
po-et
yippi ky yay
cowboys
I know ride the
range in helicoptors
but they still wear boots and are still
bow legged
Copyright 2001
