The Lasting Melody Made of God
(dedicated to Fahim Ali)
When our species decided
to discover
an accessible deity,
one song was slung across
an abyss
we suspected
was only dead space.
What we uncovered
was another culture.
Together, we articulated
earth’s universal tongue.
It’s a humming with uncommon notation.
Now it was our bloodless kinship.
There is more
beyond our mindscape
than oblivion
or bondage.
No, Genesis split
the original, gentle night
with a mother-of-mornings.
In the day, our instincts
naturally listened for hip cats
who carve chords
that quell chaos,
not cause it.
The facts are not farfetched:
Prayers progressed into psalms
that grew from a fertile,
gospel womb.
Those notes, hemmed
up in a hymn,
that today resonates as the rhapsody
of God’s first words:
We are all kept safe
in the Old Man’s hands.
Our darkest deeds
are blown free,
like dandelion seeds in a gale.
Yet,
if my concept of soul
lacks enough evidence
to earn your certainty,
rely on reason,
sunflowers, starfish,
and spider webs.
The only theology
worth knowing is:
None of this
is meaningless.
Be on Spring, Good South
Up at her home, still sweaty,
the evening is a bulge
of what 20-something
felt like. I leave loneliness
for a pixie with jet black hair
who navigates by an
orchid petal-strewn pathway.
Last book written,
barbecue eaten,
I am at the midpoint of my life,
and the right way
will find me. Up! Up, spring!
Tomorrow I’ll
feel the loss of frost.
She will fold me up,
and the oldest kin
spins out,
early. I keep unexplainable hours.
This day is an epic: Lunch
and dinner
served with onion rings.
Two cats crawl
past a grandmother and young boy.
Closer to Little 5 I find neon
and expensive lipstick.
The season plays a lead role
in any conscience I have.
Nature has the only knack
for words.
I am the eye
of an actor. The faux-persona plays guitar
while I work, now,
in this shorthand that you understand
well enough.
Atlanta has been my Lily
many times
since college.
Yellow bloom! Soft pinks
and abrasive, flaring red!
(I forgive your slow descent
on my South.)
Pen the hour, the pulse,
and the groan of growing
into a man.
Hunker down.
It’s time to emulate
the electricity
a kite can catch.
The warmest evenings
are when work
and love
and work (again)
feel like Christmas.
You don’t
fall victim to the Void.
You blow kisses to the
coy mistress in Ball Ground.
Sacrifice is an act of earning.
Be on fleek.
Think. Intelligent attraction
is the best carnival ride
with no line.
The calamity of open flowers
Owns the calm,
the happy, the lonely,
the best, best friends:
Atlanta,
be spring for me.
The Apartment
with a Narrow
Entry
I’ve been here three dozen times.
This apartment
has the appeal
of church. Not for much
longer. Winter
is a stranger
I’ve come to know too well.
Go tell Jack Frost
it’s the moment for mini-skirts!
I howl and then clip
the wick of my Ginsberg-ian penchant
to bark like a drunk.
The cold has sunk,
and I am slinking towards daisies.
The garden sees snow
moving far, far away.
Hyacinths grow like the gospel
memory plays for most my life.
A narcissistic whore-monger,
an acquaintance once echoed.
I don’t deny it, them,
her,
her,
they were not/are not
the her I’ll have tomorrow.
I don’t deem this
thinking.
These actions
are absolutely necessary,
but I am far from resolute.
I am in the woods, the breaking light
between branches.
I am fruit in a wren’s beak.
My name?No name, no badge,
no nightmare to share.
Shun the sun only
when summer delights in fireworks.
The nomenclature,
the nailing down of pine knots,
pinecones, and pencil shavings
smell like old books.
Spring!
More flesh appeals to me
likeapples do in Georgia
whose people go goofy for peached,
Don’t cha’ think?
Yet, does the “out there”
fares well with my mood.
It does.
Indeed I am free
to do the kind deed
of darning sweaters for next winter,
to make the whole of us:
Me, you,
thrive with the right rain.
You should come again,
here.
three dozen more times
where we’ll make love, careful,
hugged in a hammock,
door open, and Otis Redding
plying us for tenderness.
He’ll have us by the nape of our necks,
and in debt to no one,
we’ll enjoy
anonymity.
Clifford Brooks is a founder, poet, and teacher living in North Georgia. He is currently finishing his second book of verse, Athena Departs, it will be published in September of this year . His first book of poetry (2 books in 1) is still available at a variety of bookstores. The Draw of Broken Eyes & Whirling Metaphysics garnered him a Georgia Author of the year nomination, and several nominations for Pushcart Awards. Please visit the following website for all his, and his literary family’s, efforts at
www.southerncollectiveexperience.com.
http://www.amazon.com/Draw-Broken-Eyes-Whirling-Metaphysics/dp/0983365539
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