Sunday, December 12, 2010

I "heart" this Aracelis Girmay poem!


I got news yesterday
from a friend of mine
that all people against the war should
send a bag of rice to George Bush,
& on the bag we should write,
"If your enemies are hungry, feed them."

But to be perfectly clear,
my enemies are not hungry.
They are not standing in lines
for food, or stretching rations,
or waiting at the airports
to claim the pieces
of the bodies of their dead.
My enemies ride jets to parties.
They are not tied up in pens
in Guantanamo Bay. They are not
young children throwing rocks. My enemies eat
meats & vegetables at tables
in white houses where candles blaze, cast
shadows of crosses, & flowers.
They wear ball gowns & suits & rings
to talk of war in neat & folded languages
that will not stain their formal dinner clothes
or tousle their hair. They use words like "casualties"
to speak of murder. They are not stripped down to skin
& made to stand barefoot in the cold or hot.
They do not lose their children to this war.
They do not lose their houses & their streets. They do not
come home to find their lamps broken.
They do not ever come home to find their families murdered
or disappeared or guns put at their faces.
Their children are not made to walk
a field of mines, exploding.

This is no wedding.
This is no feast.
I will not send George Bush rice, worked for rice
from my own kitchen
where it sits in a glass jar & I am transfixed
by the thousands of beautiful pieces
like a watcher at some homemade & dry
aquarium of grains, while the radio calls out
the local names of 2,000
US soldiers counted dead since March.
&, we all know it, there will always be more than
what's been counted. They will not say the names
of an Iraqi family trying to pass a checkpoint
in an old white van. A teenager caught out on some road
after curfew. The radio will go on, shouting
the names &, I promise you,
they will not call your name, Hassna
Ali Sabah, age 30, killed by a missile in Al-Bassra, or you,
Ibrahim Al-Yussuf, or the sons of Sa'id Shahish
on a farm outside of Baghdad, or Ibrahim, age 12,
as if your blood were any less red, as if the skins
that melted were any less skin, & the bones
that broke were any less bone,
as if your eradication were any less absolute, any less
eradication from this earth where you were
not a president or a military soldier.
& you will not ever walk home
again, or smell your mother's hair again,
or shake the date palm tree
or smell the sea
or hear the people singing at your wedding
or become old
or dream or breathe, or even pray or whistle,
& your tongue will be all gone or useless
& it will not ever say again or ask a question,
you, who were birthed once, & given milk,
& given names that mean: she is born at night,
happy, favorite daughter,
morning, heart, father of
a multitude.

Your name, I will have noticed
on a list collected by an Iraqi census of the dead,
because your name is the name of my own brother,
because your name is the Tigrinya word for "tomorrow,"
because all my life I have wanted a farm,
because my students are 12, because I remember
when my sisters were 12. & I will not
have ever seen your eyes, & you will not
have ever seen my eyes
or the eyes of the ones who dropped the missiles,
or the eyes of the ones who ordered the missiles,
& the missiles have no eyes. You had no chance,
the way they fell on avenues & farms
& clocks & schoolchildren. There was no place for you
& so you burned. A bag of rice will not bring you back.
A poem cannot bring you. & although it is my promise here
to try to open every one of my windows, I cannot
imagine the intimacy with which
a life leaves its body, even then,
in detonation, when the skull is burst,
& the body's country of indivisible organs
flames into the everything. & even in
that quick departure as the life rushes on,
headlong or backwards, there must, must
be some singing as the hand waves "be well"
to its other hand, goodbye;
& the ear belongs to the field now.
& we cannot separate the roof from the heart
from the trees that were there, standing.
& so it is, when I say "night,"
it is your name I am calling,
when I say "field,"
your thousand, thousand names,
your million names.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

new poems after a long drought

Spent a leisure afternoon
at Galleria Borghese and saw
some human faces -- carved in stone --
that gave me pause...

There was Bernini's David, biting
his lip in keen determination
to land five smooth stones
on his chosen target.  And I recall
that lip-biting determination
'cause I have bit that lip once or twice...

And Pauline Bonaparte, resting reflectively
on a mattress of marble
whose flowing wrinkles and
living indentations show the
slight weight of the subject
in dynamic detail.

And look, there's Daphne fleeing Apollo,
preferring to turn into a tree, rather
than live the life of an object
of passioned pursuit.
Apollo, uncaring, feels her heart
still beating as her flesh turns to bark,
as her arms become branches.

Hermaphrodite, lying in repose,
hiding her passion and her bisexed parts.

And finally, perhaps Bernini's greatest
work of art -- Aeneas and Anchises.
Sadly, I know homeless Anchises' look of worry.
And sadly, I know fleeing Aeneas' burden.
Sadly, so sadly, I know these faces.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

I love this Yeats poem:

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Notes from physics class

Notes from Physics 221

external control is the objective,
the prerequisite of which
is knowledge of the workings
of the internal forces which
maintain the equilibrium of the body.

possession of this prerequisite
necessarily implies the attainment
of a proportionate depth of insight
with respect to that body
out of which one wishes to emerge.

separation from that body
enables one to view objectively,
judiciously, impartially the body,
to measure its dimensions,
define its properties,
derive its qualities,
understand its nature and origins.

the energy required
to thrust an internal body outward---

Notes from chemistry class


broken pieces
scattered all about,
resisting silently
their reconstruction.

subatomic particles
in random motion
looking for the best nucleus
to revolve around.

mass confusion
and disorder
as the electrons collide,
mix and split,

rejecting organization,
and responding
only to light
from a pure source.

Notes from Botany class

Notes from Botany 140

Generations alternating
naturally selecting,
introducing variation,
peacefully refusing
weak connections and denying
life to those that can't survive.

Generations alternating
genetically mutating,
giving rise to every feature,
showing bias to no creature,
but preserving in its nature
its desires and its drive.

Generations alternating
gametes fertilizing,
energizing all creation,
changing forms without cessation,
seeking just that combination
that will make its species thrive.


One of my favorite Claude McKay sonnets...

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth!
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength erect against her hate.
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time's unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

Saturday, June 12, 2010


I love this John Masefield poem! I first heard it read in Mrs. Kennedy's fifth grade class, then studied it in the ninth grade (the third form).

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song, and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and the grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull;'s way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yawn from a laughing fellow rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

Sonnet #27 (second in the sweet peace trilogy)

Sweet peace, spring love was never meant to last:
It's just a stint, a pause, a brief delay
In what is otherwise a boring, gray
Sojourn we call our lives. Today her buds
And blossoms tantalize our eyes; in haste
We contemplate the taste of spring romance.

Sweet peace, spring's bittersweetness gives us cause
To recollect and circumspect love's laws;
And yet, spring love commands her subtle dues,
And moves our thawing thoughts to feel her views.
Spring love intoxicates us: drunkenly
We stumble, stagger, tremble, wild and free.

Sweet dreams, sweet peace, soft beats your angel wings,
My weary, weathered soul awaits next spring.

Sonnet #34

We sought asylum after we were freed.
Resettlement and refuge was our hope
And dream. We recognized that we had been
Excluded from the human race, and yet,
We chose to cast our buckets where we were.
Our nobleness convinced us that some day
We’d reap in joy what we had sown before
In blood and tears: and all the while our fears
Suggested otherwise; to wit, we had no right
To earn by birth what we had been endowed.

In retrospect, we should have sought asylum
Off these shores. One hundred years and more
Have passed, too many years to resurrect those
Pristine hopes and dreams. And now, today,
The time has come to seize what we are due.

sonnet without punctuation

We mourn the setting of a brilliant star
Who blazed a path for many, then burned out
At first he sang sweet songs of puppy love
He later sought through song to heal a world
His passions lifted us before his fall
As children we adored his boyish ways
We grew, became adults with his success
As men and women we thought we knew his pain
His stardom overswept us like the dust
That sweet melodic voice became a rasp
On our subconsciousness, his call to heal
Was crowded out by bills and laws and hate
And so we mourn a man who paid the price
And hope that lesser lights will now suffice

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Sonnet #21

Remember years ago when we first met?
You selling books, me browsing, reading books
At Brandon’s store? We were so young, and life
So unrevealed, so full of promises
And boundless hopes and dreams, and guarantees
And opportunities. You went away.
I stayed and made mistakes. We met again,
You east, me west, you school, me ships and seas.
Confused, we erred and severed friendship’s bond,
And all seemed lost between us save a thread,
A laser beam of hope that, over time,
Compressed, distilled and purified, survived
Until today. We meet again. What fate
Awaits is ours to plan, to recommend.

Sunday, May 9, 2010


A Countee Cullen favorite:

There are no wind-blown rumors, soft say-sos,
No garden-whispered hearsays, whispers lightly heard
I know that summer never spares the rose,
That spring is faithless to the brightest bird.
I know that nothing lovely shall prevail
To win from Time and Death a moment's grace;
At Beauty's birth the scythe was honed, the nail
Dipped for her hands, the cowl clipped for her face.

And yet I cannot think that this my faith,
My winged joy, my pride, my utmost mirth,
Centered in you, shall ever taste of death,
Or perish from the false, forgetting earth.
You are with time, as wind and weather are,
As is the sun, and every nailed star.

Annabel Lee

And let's not forget Edgar Allen Poe's Annabel Lee:

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

February, 1991 Oral Assessment Autobiographical statement

In the following statement, I will outline the general milestones of my life and discuss that chronology from the perspective of the influences, the persons, the places, and the ideas which have guided me, steered me and propelled me through life.

First, and most significantly, as influences are my parents, Raymond Robert Maxwell and Sallye Anne Hairston Maxwell, both of whom are deceased, yet both of whom continue to exert a tremendous influence on my life, my daily decisions, my hopes and my aspirations.

My mother was the socializer of the pair.  She enjoyed parties and balls and relished giving teas on Saturday evenings and dinner parties after Church on Sunday.  She worked as a secretary but she found special satisfaction in volunteer work, carrying my sister and I out with her as she canvassed the neighborhood annually for Easter Seal, Muscular Dystrophy, the March of Dimes, NAACP membership drives and voter registration.  Her dream for me was to become a lawyer, and she saw law as the loftiest, noblest, and most lucrative profession.

My father was not a grand socializer, church being the extent of his social life.  But in some respects my father was just as much a people person as was my mother, concerned with improving the lot of those less fortunate by direct action and on an individual basis.  He was an electrician by trade, and he brought many families into the twentieth century, wiring, at low cost, old houses for electricity for the first time, which meant heat during the winter and light at night and television and access to the use of modern appliances.  He wanted me to become a preacher and a teacher.  The most enduring lesson I learned from him was that one can’t help large groups of people collectively to bring about a change in their condition, but small groups and individuals can be shown how to help themselves, and many small groups become a large one. 

I was born in Greensboro, North Carolina and attended public schools through junior high.  My elementary school teachers were all friends of my parents, either through prior association or from my parents’ involvement in PTA and civic activities, and they all took a special interest in our academic and intellectual development.  Supplementing our public education was the weekly pilgrimage to the Carnegie Negro Library with my father, where I developed a love for books and acquiring information while he developed his lecture for the adult Sunday School class which he taught.  At one point, I decided I would become a librarian, and eventually, my first real job was as a library assistant at that library.

At age 11 I joined the Boy Scouts.  George Herring, my scoutmaster, was a boyhood friend of my father’s, but he showed me no favoritism.  I learned under his supervision hiking, camping, map-reading, Morse Code, and self-reliance.  But more importantly, I learned from Mr. Herring that nature and the environment can be very unforgiving, and that there are no substitutes for gains and achievements that are hard-earned though diligence, persistence, and directed efforts.  (Here I was thinking about the campfire incident at the Snowflake Camporee at Camp Wenasa, December, 1968.).  The parallels between my experiences as a Boy Scout and years later as a naval officer, as I reflect back, are amazing.  Troop #442 presented me with my first exposure to a relatively heterogeneous group, where I began to develop the ability to deal with a variety of people with varied interests, from varied backgrounds, and with varied personalities.

I discontinued my involvement with the Boy Scouts when, in the eighth grade, my parents gave me permission to go out for the junior varsity football team.  I made the team as defensive and offensive end, playing both ways, and I was appointed team captain.   Our JV team went undefeated and unscored upon.  We were ecstatic, and I was certain that I was on the fast track to the NFL.  After the eighth grade, I was awarded a scholarship to a prep school in Virginia, Woodberry Forest, not necessarily to play football.  There my football career floundered, giving rise instead to a promising future as a middle distance runner.  But other things also happened at Woodberry Forest. 

Woodberry Forest exposed me to society’s upper crust and a whole new world of perception and expectation.  I had a Spanish teacher from Spain, a history teacher descended from British nobility, and a track coach who told me that blacks could not run long distances competitively.  After a disappointing first quarter academically, I made the necessary adjustments to my studying habits and my grades improves substantially.  Athletically, track and cross-country practice provide me the opportunity to measure personal improvement, and the long afternoon runs enabled me to do the deep introspective thinking that, daily, nourished my soul.  I despised mandatory chapel on Wednesdays and Sundays, and I resented the conspicuousness of my absence which insured my punishment (there were only eight of us that first year, so the prefects only needed to count black heads and issue demerits to the ones not counted…).  I utilized extensively the school library, which was extremely well-stocked, better stocked that any library I had previously visited, and I especially cherished those long-distance runs, where my thoughts would take wings and fly.  (see endnote on the Woodberry days.)

After two years, I returned home and enrolled at Dudley Senior High.  The adjustment to public school was difficult, and I never made the adjustment.  Unfortunately, my track career ended at Dudley; I worked during the afternoons, evenings and weekends to help out with family expenses.  Those part-time jobs, at a library and a bakery, reading books and baking pies, convinced me that my future was in the understanding of economic theory and development.  The following summer, I was selected to attend the Governor’s School of North Carolina, a summer enrichment program for the state’s top performing high school juniors.  There I learned more about economics, the economic impact of current and international events, and the interrelationship of various disciplines of knowledge.  We also watched daily telecasts of the Watergate hearings.  At Governor’s School I met and studied with the brightest and best high school students in the state, some of whom I have kept in touch with over the years.

Going back to Dudley in the fall was analogous to a college basketball player who, in the summer between his junior and senior year, made the Olympic Team, traveled to Munich, and overcame great odds to win the gold medal, only to return to a mediocre team in the fall, or so I imagined.  Impatient, adolescently immature and foolish, and against my parents wishes, I left Greensboro and moved to Washington, DC.   There I got a job at a larger bakery, and spent my off hours at a larger library, the Library of Congress.

Washington provided me my first exposure to an international city, and I took full advantage of that opportunity, visiting embassies and consulates and talking with people from foreign countries and cultures.  The Arab oil embargo was in full swing at the time, and I was especially interested in Arab cultures and cultures.  Being of African descent, I also spent a lot of time reading about and talking with African nationals.  Shortly, however, the price of sugar skyrocketed, driving our bakery operation bankrupt.  We tried several remedies, such as decreasing sugar content in our products, substituting honey for sugar, and concentrating on bread sales (low profit margin) as opposed to cakes and pies which required large amounts of sugar (high profit margin).  But none of these measures were successful.  I found a part-time job at a restaurant, and started looking into enrolling in school, concentrating my efforts on American University.  My mother’s unexpected death resulted in my return to Greensboro, where I enrolled in electrical engineering at North Carolina A&T State University.         

Grief-stricken and perplexed, I made several false starts over the next two years, my performance roller-coastering between excellence and failure.  I worked for a year as a coop student at Farmer’s Home Administration in Reidsville, NC, and, everyday, walking back and forth to work, I passed a Navy recruiting office.  One day I stopped in to check things out, and the rest is history:  I enlisted in the Navy Nuclear Power Program.

After many months of intensive training, I reported to my first sea-going command, the USS Hammerhead (SSN-663), a fast-attack submarine.  My greatest achievement there was in becoming battlestations and special evolutions helmsman, where I became known for my ability to sense changes in the depth and course of the ship before those changes showed up on the indicators, and applying the proper correction.  That gift, in abstraction, of finding and solving potential problems before they became actual problems, has been a tremendous asset for me in life.  After fifteen months, I was encouraged to re-enlist for reassignment to the commissioning crew of one of the new Trident submarines, the USS Michigan (SSBN-727 (B)), serving under then Captain Wayne Rickman.  Captain Rickman was (and still is) an outstanding naval officer whose abilities and example of command I viewed as the highest expression of leadership.  The next three years passed quickly; I made several deterrent patrols and maintained my equipment in top-notch working condition.  As I approached rotation to shore duty, my supervisors encouraged me to apply for a program that would enable me to return to college to complete my undergraduate degree in preparation for a naval commission.  I applied and was selected to attend Florida A&M University (FAMU).

At FAMU, I majored in economics and took courses in international studies, mathematics, and ROTC courses in naval science.  I did very well there, graduating at the top of my class.  Two of my professors became best friends and confidants.  Upon graduation, I returned to the fleet as an Ensign, to the destroyer USS LUCE (DDG-38).

Within a month of reporting aboard, we deployed to the Mediterranean, conducted operations with NATO navies, and visited ports in Spain, France, Italy, Turkey and Israel.  The remainder of my time aboard LUCE was spent in shipyards and maintenance periods, on short underway periods in the Caribbean, and managing a large number of inspections, examinations and assist visits.

As I approach the end of the period of my military obligation, I am involved in the decommissioning of a great ship, the USS LUCE.  I am optimistic and excited about the challenges of the future. 

Sonnet #18

Shuttle Launch

Today I watched the shuttle launched towards space.
A tail of fire plowed the southern morning sky
Until it disappeared. I thought about
The people there, behind the scenes, who made
It all occur. There's someone there whose life
Is less than free from care, a lonely heart,
Dis-eased, distressed, beset by worries, woes,
Who, overcoming all, finds sweet the reaching
Of the goal. There're happy ones who feel the tinge
Of sadness at the thought of those who've missed
By fate the thrill of launch complete, the charm,
The pure romance of making dreams come true.
The shuttle jets toward heaven, far away
From troubles, closer still to hopes ideal.

Woodberry Forest experiment

It was an interesting, and maybe even a noble experiment. 

Ron Long, Terry Jones, and Art Gaines led the charge in 1969.  They were the first generation, the pioneers.  I think they had some interesting experiences, but I’ll leave that story to them to tell.   In the second year,1970, Ron Lipscomb, Kevin Miller, Wayne Booker and I arrived as boarding students, and Gary Mance and Wayne Williams came in day students, tripling our numbers and making a significant addition to the number of variables in the social experiment. In 1971, Clifford Johnson and Robert Long, Ron’s younger brother, joined us, both as boarding students.

Of course, it didn't take long for us to discover one another. Kevin and I both came from Greensboro and from Lincoln Jr. High.  (Five Lincoln students went to Virginia prep schools that year under the Anne C. Stouffer Foundation.  Veda Howell went to Foxcroft, another girl went to Chatham Hall whose name I can’t remember.).  I don't remember if we came together officially or if we just gravitated to a center.  Gaines, Long and Jones were the big brothers we went to for advice.  Ron Lipscomb and I had classes together.  And we all played football that first fall: Ron, Art, Wayne and Gary on JV, Terry, Ronald, and I on Junior Orange, Kevin and Wayne Williams on Junior Black.  In my second year I gravitated to cross country after showing some promise as a middle distance runner in the spring.    Several of us continued together in winter track, though Ronald Lipscomb early on distinguished himself in JV basketball in the winter, as did Ron Long in varsity baseball in the spring.

We got into the habit of sitting together in the dining hall for Saturday and Sunday breakfasts, which were buffet and informal (no coat and time, and no assigned seating).  It is amusing looking back on it, and maybe even a bit contrived, but at the time it seemed the natural thing to do.

My favorite teachers.  Dave Bloor tripled as my earth science teacher, track and cross country coach and assigned academic adviser. He was definitely one of my favorites.  I learned so much from Mr. Bloor, in the classroom and on the track.  I will never forget him.   Wilfred Grenfell ranks right at the top; I lived for his history lectures, and he, more than any other, bears the blame for my insatiable curiosity about Middle East issues and about foreign affairs in general.  Robin Breeden, our dorm guy, maybe we called him dorm master, would invite us into his apartment for tea and biscuits and tell us about the time he swam the English Channel.  How I adored those “civilizing” chats.  And the Bond couple, Tom and Vicki, with whom I studied both Spanish and French, started me out on a foreign language track that continues until today, with Portuguese and Arabic added along the way.

I have warm memories of running cross country.  Those long autumnal runs, named Arrowpoint and Chicken Ridge, and the long 13 mile trek to Achsah and back, introduced me to and acquainted me with the beauty of Orange County.  Those runs were the ambrosia that nourished my soul.  The habit I formed, of finding wonders and magic in routine and mundane chores, like long distance runs, would later prove the key to my personal and professional strength.  But I digress.  We had a great cross country team, eventually winning the Virginia Prep League championship.  The camaraderie of that team filled a social and a personal void for me.

Still, though, for reasons perhaps imagined and perhaps real, thoughts lingered and grew within me that I really didn’t “belong.”  Those thoughts reached a height in the spring of my second year, a growing and knawing loneliness that I couldn’t explain or even understand.  At the end of my second year, I told myself I would not return.  The loneliness and alienation I felt at Woodberry, I would later come to learn, had a lot less to do with Woodberry itself and a lot more to do with my own emergence from adolescence and puberty.  It would stay with me through college, where, like a ship without a rudder, without an anchor, and without a means of propulsion, I bounced around for three long, uncertain years.  Finally, in 1978, the year I should have graduated from college, I left school, degree-less, and enlisted in the Navy’s submarine force.  It was there that I finally hit my stride.

In the intervening years, I lost track of everybody.  I bumped into Ron Lipscomb on Duke’s campus, maybe in 1976.  Kevin Miller (God rest his soul) and I had mutual friends in Greensboro.  In 1985, I went back and finished college and upgraded my Navy status from enlisted to commissioned.  My tenure as a commissioned officer lasted the required four years; I finishing my obligation and transferred to State and the Foreign Service in 1992.  I stumbled on Ron Long’s name in the late 90’s at SEC and got back in touch.  Ron put me in touch with Art Gaines, who by that time was doing humanitarian relief work in East Africa.

In Praise of Limerance

You try to steer me, gently,
On a course avoiding you,
Then call my love a butterfly’s,
Point it to flowers, new.

“Take my deep desires elsewhere,”
Is the song you sing to me,
“Let us always hold fond memories
Of the love that used to be.”

Well, I understand your message,
And I hear all that you say,
You’d rather not get serious,
Just be best friends at play.

But my soul’s a mighty hunter
Who has locked in on its prey,
I’ll tone it down and pace it,
In a very patient way.

And just when you least expect it,
I will be there for your needs,
And you’ll wonder why
I tarried with those flowers.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Summa Cum Laude (Prayer Song for Sallye Anne Hairston Maxwell)

"She delights the earth
with her footsteps,
and in speaking, fulfills
the desires of the deaf"

A flower, a synesthetic glow...
An inflorescent melody
(in search of combination)
That violates its meter
And disregards its rhythm
(as defined by classic standards)
To uphold its right to grow.
A pearl, a diamond,
Cast among swine...
Tomorrow is retrieved from the rubbish
And polished to a more brilliant luster.

A vessel, undefiled...
Well built and well prepared:-
To weather all the storms and blasts;
To sail the oceans, deep and vast;
To overcome the dark morass;
To persevere until the last;-
And with me, heaven, share.

The Flight by Night (Third Song for Charlotte)

What was the meaning of the flight by night?
Was it to escape the enemy’s oppression?
Was it in search of a rare sunbeam?
Or was it to recapture a nostalgic dream?

What was the meaning of the flight by night?
Was it a stage in a gradual progression?
Was it to retrieve the gifts of life and time?
Or was it the revival of something more sublime?

What was the meaning of the flight by night?
We must fight to overcome this frightening obsession.
We must search until we find the answer to this question.
Then, and only then, will we be free from past transgression.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Sonnet #30

"This is the Captain, this is a strategic launch!
Man Battlestations!" rings around my soul,
And rousing me from sleepiness and slumber,
Demands that I assume my chosen role.

We rise up, like a beast, from ocean’s bottom,
The hatches open, doomsday is at hand;
We push the buttons, random pick the numbers,
Then send the missiles after our command.

And afterward the afterword is zero…
There’s no one left to tell us how we sinned;
We’re sole survivors, that makes us the hero,
We build the world anew and make amends.

But how can we ignore, erase our wrong?
We pay the price; are we the best, the strong?