white percale

your brittle bones loosely bound
          by transparent skin

lie askew on white percale

no longer knowing you, never

knowing you, I turn away
to watch strands of moonlight weave
          through venetian blinds

leh

On Wilder Avenue

You turned your back and walked away
Under our magnolia tree’s blizzard of blooms
Leaving me with unsettled heart
Second guessing words I’d spoken
Under that magnolia tree’s riot of blooms

Forty years traveled—our paths again cross
Regret colliding with tomorrow’s intentions
And in that time—the years between
Separate journeys conspired to reunite us
Under that damn magnolia’s myriad of blooms

text & photo by leh

Look Away

I suggested once to a black writer
   he capitalize South.
His jaw tightened. His
   under-the-breath reply
   forced me to lean closer.

            It’s a White thing.

The Old South
The FreeWhiteandtwentyone South
The KKK South
The burnCrossesonlawns South
The Southwillriseagain South
The shootthenworddowninthestreet
   becausehespoketoaWhitewoman South

            In Dixieland where I was born…


                 Rest in Peace
                    Trayvon

leh

Ozark Dust, a Villanelle

Breathing in red dust of their ancestors
Three soldiers, at ease, solemnify
Blood spilled in yesteryear's war.

On a splintered bench, sits Ozark lore;
Three warriors claim battles gone by,
Breathing in red dust of their ancestors.

Invisible wounds earned on foreign shores
Recall to the three, cries of semper fi
While forfeiting blood in yesteryear's war.

Fissured Ozark clay, front of Amos' store,
Formed with memories of do-or-die,
Embodies the dust of their ancestors.

On a splintered bench, esprit de corps,
Rest three weathered comrades, nary a blind eye
To blood they spilled in yesteryear's war.

Parades long past, now on homeland shores,
Three soldiers at ease, semper fi,
On a splintered bench, fear disillusionment more
Than blood being spilled in tomorrow's war.


text & photo by leh

Speak Aloud

For this man of the written word
I braved a rare, desert night rain.
Martín Espada recited his work
his rhythmic, melodic voice
demanding poets to speak up
convey information with an edge.
The evolution of a poet being
the revolution of a conscience
the invisible becomes visible
an outlet for the unspeakable
words unspoken for all to hear.

I approached this poet advocate
signing his offering of books
and he glanced at my pen
which, of course, I handed to him.

 

Are you a poet?

 

Y…e…s… Yes, I am a poet.

 

His fingers caressed my pen…
¡Alabanza! to you, poet!

 

Then, surrendering his book, he said…
Believe in yourself.

 

Now, it would have been more than enough
to know that Martín Espada went on that night
to inscribe his books with my pen, but…
Believe in yourself?
Words spoken for all to hear
the invisible became visible.

                                            

text&photo by leh

Bad Poetry Day

Days of youth gone by
is a renown melancholy cliche
from someone else's prose,
but that's how I feel this 18th day
of bad poetry come what may.

The body aches, the mind is blank,
but I demand that all be well,
so a cheerful countenance I superimpose
into this august Bad Poetry Day --
this glorious day of come what may.



text & photo by leh

Celestial Spaces

It is precisely because

one can never be certain of the outcome

that it takes great courage to follow one's heart

into celestial spaces

where the unknown becomes known

omne ignotum

to whithersoever Crow caws

~text & photo by leh