C.H.O.P.

Across from the old, abandoned warehouse
a railway track runs near a small store
that sits on a paved corner,
faded burgundy bricks barely hold it together.
Three large red circles face the street.
The store always opens at ten sharp.

Regular customers in yesterday’s clothes
wait to wander in and make their selections
for a liquid breakfast.
A woman in an over-large, blue, plaid shirt
pulls on the metal bar and slides
through the glass, her left hand
in her pocket.

She moves right to a familiar aisle
turning left when she sees her friend Jack.
An index finger slides lovingly from the cap
to the base as she lifts the bottle
from the shelf.

Back-tracking to the cashier,
who sits near the door,
the woman removes her left hand
clasping green bills and coins.
She drops the exact amount, turns,
and flicks a hand over her shoulder at Jeff,
slipping into the too bright sun.

Her right foot steps right down King Street.
Moving under a bridge, covered with ivy
and decorated with large cracks and crevasses,
discolored yellow concrete, aged from time,
she walks, clutching her pal in a brown bag.

Cars move briskly by, even in daylight,
with windows up and doors locked,
but she knows this part of town.
Her long, disheveled brown hair lifts
in a passing breeze of cigar smoke
from the man in front of her.

Coughing, from his smoke and her age,
she stops to let him get ahead.
Leaning against a mauve wall,
she tilts her head to the sun momentarily
then brings the bag to face level.

Her hands fumble on the black cap.
Pushing off the building to brace herself,
her left foot shuffles forward.
She pivots, looking to see what supported her,
and is surprised to find, the last thing
she thought she needed.
It is the Charleston House Of Prayer.

The Metaphor

1
An egg hits the gray-slated linoleum.
Shattering, spreading yolk and yellow
across the kitchen tiles.
Eggshell white chips lay
in pools of clear, slimy, stretchy core.
Moments later, the cardboard carton
slips from fingers,
landing facedown, open.
Eleven breakfast options establish
themselves near the rug
in front of the stove.

2
Blue yarn slowly separates
as a sweater spins through the wash cycle.
The bottom strand pulls away
from the whole, tangled
in the leg of a pair of jeans
that were accidentally tossed in.
When rinse begins, yarn is
entangled in the shirts,
the other sweaters that sit,
enclosed around the drum.

3
Salt water builds with intensity
as the current runs strong
leading from open ocean
to the shimmering golden shore.
The wave runs around creatures,
people, nature; nothing stopping
the chosen, intended path.
Rising, heightening, increasing,
the wave moves up, foaming, teetering.
Left only to crash back into its origins,
it hangs in balance.

Sweet Heart Cupcakes for Valentine's Day

Sun City, California

Childhood was kissing frogs on a Sunday afternoon
And swinging from the jungle gym in the cool summer evenings,
Bee stings or cuts from rocks left skin red, bruised and tough.
Mom would complain because socks were always ruined
After hours were spent jumping in mud puddles after a storm,
The stains setting as we looked at the clouds from the driveway.

Or maybe the dog could pull us in the wagon
Turning sharply around the curves of the neighborhood,
The wheels wavering and wiggling from the speed.
My room was a shade of blue, the kind that held the sky,
And mom had painted a white picket fence along the bottom
Complete with flowers, grass, and a few specially painted butterflies.

The most important responsibility I had was be in by dark
When the sun would fall behind Mrs. Dallas’ house
And the hot day would become soft.
I’d say bye to her and Clarissa and Billy
Promising to play again tomorrow, first thing,
It was my brother’s surprise birthday party anyway.

War Dance (Edited & Revised)

War Dance 2-3-11

It’s supposed to just be a movie.
Sociology of Peace is all about war.
The movies are supposed to help
Relate us college students
To what other countries
Go through every day.

Nick, sitting behind me
Against the back wall,
Reached up and cut the lights off
As the professor sits in the front row
After turning on the projector.

The sound of drum beats,
Like from Jumunji,
Pounds our ears
When the first scene begins.

“The Rebels tear homes apart
As war rages in Uganda, Africa.
It leaves families destroyed,
Parents, brothers, sisters,
Relatives, separated. Alone.
People are forced to live
In government camps,
Overflowing, for their safety…”

We watch the children’s testimonies.

A young girl named Rose
Tells her story to the camera;
She says she hid with siblings
In the bush outside her home,
While the Rebels grabbed her parents
From their bed, demanding to know
Where the children were.
(The class holds their breath.)
Rose heard her mother deny
That she was such,
Before they were taken.
Three days later, the children
Were found by soldiers in the bush.
They begged and pleaded,
“Where are my parents?
Where is my mother?”
The soldiers took them to a tree
On the edge of the African horizon.
The group brought there, including Rose,
Is told to identify their relatives.
A soldier begins lifting heads
Out of a large cooking pot.
Rose falls crying as she sees her mother,
In a way no child should.

The large tree, so like Rafiki’s,
Fades away as Rose’s face
Is brought back into view
Before the screen fades black
For a moment.

(I blink and look around…
Several of the girls in my class
Have tears running silently
Down their cheeks.
The boys stare with awe-shocked
Or disapproving frowns.
Then the black screen brightens
And we see a young boy.)

Dominic tells us first that he is orphaned.
He says his mother and father went
To farm in the fields one day,
But only his mother returned.
His voice cracks (and my heart breaks)
As he confides to us that he had to beg her
To tell him what happened.
(I blink several times to clear my vision.)
He swallows and says his mother’s story:
When they were tending to the crops
Rebels came towards them,
Repeatedly asking about their children.
His father says they have none.
He bravely tells the Rebels
To let them work now and turns away.
(Dominic’s face is marked
With clear rivers though dirt mountains
As he finishes the story.)
One of the Rebels grabbed the machete
From his father’s hands.
Before his mother could scream,
The Rebel had cut his father to pieces.
“Bury him now!”
The Rebel shouted at his mother.
“So she did and came home,”
Dominic concludes.
She made him and his brother
Sleep in the brush for several nights,
Fearing the Rebels would come
And take them.

Dominic continues his story
Stating that the Rebels did indeed come.
They took and killed his mother
And captured his brother too.
He is nervous today because he
Has heard of the capture of a Rebel
By a military camp nearby.
(The class watches motionless
And silent. I have no idea
How this will end so I hold my breath
For what feels like fifteen minutes.)

Dominic travels on foot the next morning,
Miles through the dangerous bush,
And speaks with a Lieutenant,
Requesting a moment with the Rebel.
The wish is granted.
He sits near his greatest enemy,
To ask a question.
“Have you seen my brother?
Is he still alive?”
They converse for a moment,
A tear runs down the boy’s face,
Streaking the dirt.
Dominic’s brother drove a bicycle taxi
And the Rebel confirms that
All drivers were killed.
It was orders.
He goes on to explain to the child
That each Rebel moves up in ranks
By capturing children or killing.
It builds the army’s strength, he says.
The boy thanks him,
And leaves.

(I cry silently now, with no shame.
This is horrible, I repeat in my head.
How can they live like this and we
Have no clue? How are we not told?)

The Acholi tribe children cling to music.
It brings them peace
In the face of war.
They practice singing and dance;
Some play instruments
Made of wood and strings.
Together, they dream of winning
The National Music Competition
In Kampala, a peaceful city.
For many, traveling to Kampala
It will be their first time
Out of war.

Before their journey, two days away from
The government protected camp,
The children receive matching uniforms
In royal blue and yellow.
Dominic scrubs his skin clean
With soap and water,
Before he puts his on.
Then he sits for hours in the hot sun,
Practicing his wooden xylophone.
He wants to be the best player.
(I smile in amazement at his skill,
Sending my best wishes into the screen.)

Rose packs her bag alone. Her aunt,
Who she now lives with,
Doesn’t want her to leave
Because Rose cares for her cousins.
But she wants to go, she assures us,
So she hums to herself
Her verses as she packs.
She wants to be the best singer.
(I admire her courage and wonder
At myself. If I could be that daring.)

As we watch the children of the Acholi tribe
Climb onto the trucks and busses,
Headed to compete in Kampala,
The village cheers and waves.
Though the children are all orphaned,
And living in a government-protected area,
Their shattered lives bring them together.
War brings them together.
The music teacher addresses them,
Assures them to be confident,
“This is not where our story ends.”