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Caveats for Hope
Harken well each tribulation
without which we could not know glee.
Heralds of joy and celebration,
the trials we face convert the foundation
of who we once were into who we can be.
If we harken tribulation-
these caveats of pure elation-
we learn to hope, have faith, and see.
To herald joy and celebration
life needs a mode of education.
Who's worse for learning humility?
So harken, harken tribulation!
Treasure times of contemplation,
but never shy from adversity
which heralds joy and celebration-
two halves to counter all stagnation
waiting to conquer the mind and body.
Harken well each tribulation.
They herald joy and celebration.
©2008, Larina Warnock
Winter Nesting
The twig so much more than the worm -
she searches for the perfect curve
of limb, perfect fit to twist within
other broken boughs. She fills in drafty gaps
with someone's lost ribbon - glittered,
shimmering thing plucked from rusty park
bench and made useful. Ignoring the worm,
she gathers instead blades of winter grass
bled of color -- convenient components to floor
a quaint home balanced on leafless branches.
I tell her to fly south, tell her life is more
than empty nest, but she spurns my warning
and chirps a practical wisdom that I,
of all people, should know
as I huddle under restroom eaves
eating leaves and drinking
snow. The twig so much more
than the worm.
originally appeared at The Guardian Poetry Workshop
Dancin' with Anna Mae
I dunno. She's sorta perty, I guess
but I reckon she bought that there dress
down at the Family Dollar. Why, just today
I heard her say she wished they had fittin' rooms
there. Imagine! Fittin' rooms at the Family Dollar!
Now don't you go shakin' yer head.
It aint like, I'd just expect a girl with brains
all bubblin' onto her sleeve to buy better
sleeves is all, 'n buy 'em somewhere dignified
like Wal-mart or the farm supply. Both them
stores got fittin' rooms built right in! Naw, I won't
ask her to dance. I did that three weeks back
at ole Bill's barn party and she just stood there
lookin' at me like I was stupid or somethin', 'n then
she just pranced right 'cross the floor swishin'
her hips this way and that-like this. No, I aint
no fag! I'm just showin' you how she was walkin',
waltzin' around in her Family Dollar skirt, thinkin'
she's better 'n the rest of us 'cuz she gone off
to college 'n stuff! You go on ahead and ask, then.
I'll sit here 'n watch her twirl those blond curls
'til they twist around yer soul and rip all the man
outta ya. Here in four weeks or a month, I'll come
to yer door and ask ya to go huntin' and you'll say
"No, sir, I cain't do that today. I got a date with Anna Mae
and I cain't be missin' no dinner with the darlin'. I'm meetin'
her parents t'night and I just couldn't make it right again
if I skipped out to go huntin', even if I brought a six point
home, cuz all that college and she still don't know
the difference 'tween an elk 'n a deer, but I love her!
By golly, I love her, and I'll do everythin' she wants
cuz she's got her claws all dug into my sleeves."
'N then, you'll be gettin' a job 'n changin' diapers,
skippin' trips to the holler to go shoppin',
shoppin' down at the Family Dollar. O-ho-HO, yeah,
I'll be jealous alright! Jealous of yer nine-to-five, bustin'
yer ass for nothin' life! I'll never understand why
a man'd give up his right to be a man 'n spend his time
coddlin' some little vixen pretendin' to be a lady.
Naw, you go on ahead and ask her then. You'll see
what I mean when she snuggles down night after night.
When the whole reason ya asked her to dance in the first place
prances in front of yer face every mornin' while she's makin'
coffee and eggs for yer breakfast, and kissin' ya good-bye
before ya head off to work. When those green eyes beam
at a bundle of cheap flowers ya bring after some silly fight.
You go on and ask then. I'll stand right here and watch
ya spin her 'cross the floor, and I won't think 'bout it a'tall,
I say. I got no need to object to you dancin' with Anna Mae.
originally appeared at The Guardian Poetry Workshop
I See God Standing in Stout Grove
Here, Heaven appears in bursts of broken sunlight
between treetops swaying with the weight of words;
supplication spirals up from bodies unbent, unkneeling.
Here, faces appear carved in soft red bark, and limbs
stretch earthward as invitations for embrace; gnarled
branches curl like arthritic hands without pain.
Here, seedlings appear along the frames of the fallen;
new trunks rise beside fern and moss over logs lying
prone; roots curl over ancient stumps and both survive.
This is my America, too:
This place where humans are just humans,
where any random label is the face of someone
who can turn a page in history and see the rest of us
changed, not by force or fear but by turning
our eyes and ears toward experiences we could not have.
This place where deserts and mountains,
forests and plains can mold and shape values
as much the same as different, three thousand miles
apart. This place where patriotism comes in myriad
forms—the soldiers, the protestors, the singers,
the teachers, the children, and the seniors who pass
belief in We the People on to each other like the gift
that freedom is. This is my America. This place
where one factioned fraction of the populace cannot make
us any less free, because together we are the people
and the voice that protects our people and our voice,
our children and our choice to live as we see fit-
including every set and subset of the values
that make this country great. Small town,
big city, educated and un-, we are strongest
when we stop seeking to divide and conquer,
when we compromise and honor
diversity and truth. This is the America I believed in
in my youth, where the dream was not to force
one singular point of view, but to practice the ideal
that every person counts, that every voice can
be heard, that every American is an American first.
written during Presidential Election 2008
The Blameless
I did not slay six hundred
thousand souls in fire and zeal
and ideology. I did not
wage a war I could not win
and call it courtesy. I did not
agree to separate the sinners
from the saints through smoke
and toil, for democracy and oil.
I do not have six hundred
thousand souls across the scale.
That weight belongs to other,
higher bred. I did not wage a war
I could not win—I turned my head.
The sand never clogged my lungs
or touched my face burned
with doubt and death. The sirens didn’t
jolt me awake, alert and holding
my breath. The shadows never haunted
me with promise of a spark. The powder never
dirtied me from shots fired in the dark.
I was never called to duty,
asked to don my boots and arms.
I never had to kill, be killed,
lose hope. I did not fight a war
I could not win—I did not vote.
originally written during Presidential Election 2008
It Takes Two
We limit our successes
when we face the world as a singular grain.
Of human potential, a couple just guesses—
melds sand and water, then quickly regresses
to one seeking credit and one laying blame.
Why limit our successes
by separating pants and dresses
and harboring a hateful pain?
Of human potential, a couple just guesses—
believes that one particle curses or blesses
a whole block of sandstone too large for the drain.
We limit our successes
by condemning no’s and sating yeses
with meaningless presents and love half-feigned.
Of human potential, a couple just guesses.
What good can come from unhindered caresses,
or relationships built without tempered strain?
We limit our successes.
Of human potential, the world only guesses.
