........... The Tree Roots and Her Off-shoots...........

 

 
Formed through the passage of time

Laid by ancient ancestral footprints

Like elephant hoofs traipsing over the African Plain
.....

to transport and sustain the descending lines

Drawn in the sand

Spreading far and wide over the parched red clays

Sown in patch-quilts of grays and blacks, browns and

Seamless hues of blues across the ocean divide

Deeply embedded

 in the turrets of the drumbeat

Powered by spiraling grooves

Layered and encrusted

Upon the floored formations’ foundations formed 
at the birth of the nations

Entwined with temple domes wrapped in swaddling cloths and headdresses

of fern vines and floral trellises 

 
Webbed and mounted 

As inter-locks and drifting threads 

Covering the body proper

Growing up

With the fueled and fertile hems beneath the river stream

Fanned out as wings of doves thirsting for a drink 
from the oceans

To sail off and scatter in flight in the dark of night

Arrayed as a fortressed behemoth 

 

Cloaked in the tender moss like felt of succulent fruit

From fiercely molded trunks 
Hunkered under aromatic scents

Seeded in the Master stone-makers’ workshop

Under the breath of the sun rising and setting

on the banks of many rivers

Entrenched in the rich bedding of sheltering arms

 In the shapes and sizes of stoic eagles to bear and transport

and sustain the rise and fall

Sweeping the outer crust of dust in songs the rains sing

Out of the sacred shoots burrowing

from the hallowed  

Secrets ingrown and sown in the soil

Below underneath the base

Nourished from the places of origin

Being the source of Attachments, Connections

Bonds, Additions, Parts… as a family, and purposely 
fixed firmly

As the established order

of a many-membered body
...

 Branched and stemmed to become the offspring of a thing

As a twig is an out-shoot “of the root“

Weak or strong, sturdy or feeble

Endurable or unbearable

in the times of storms and eruptions

Which shake the right of existence

Worn and withstood under the draping of spirited shadows 
Dressed in lace

Addressing the young from the weathered moor 

Shrouded in the veins nestled

in the webbed footed rung

Gathered about the foot of the

Channel Line and aligned in

Etchings and sketchings

of grooved horns

Braided and inlaid

Like lead in stone

Twirled and curled

 

to whirl and dance

in the midst of

All-seeing eyes
...

Bored into the cavities

Deeply creviced in a face

Having seen the columns stretched up to the heavens

Spreading forth winged backs of the wind

Planted alongside the tracks of tears and fears

In the light of night and days gone by

Passing on the order of the age giving life form 
from the womb   

As is the Tree of Life… our stem and root… 
in Whom we blossom and bloom
....

“And it shall be in that day that the Root of Jesse shall 
stand as a signal for the peoples…”Isaiah 11:10

“If the root of Abraham is consecrated, 
so are the branches.” Romans. 11:16

“And he shall be like a tree firmly planted 
by the streams of water,

Ready to bring forth its fruit in its season.” Psalms 1:3

“The trees of the Lord are watered abundantly 
and are filled with sap,

The cedars of Lebanon which He has planted.” 
Psalms 104:16

And already the ax is lying at the root of trees; 
every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit 
is cut down and thrown into the fire.” Matthew 2:10

“For the tree is known and recognized 
and judged by its fruit.” Matthew 12:33

“May you be rooted deep in love 
and founded securely on love.” Ephesians 3:17

Suffer the Little Children (September 15, 2013)

On this date

In nineteen- sixty- three

Four little black girls,

Addie Mae

Cynthia Dianne

Carol Denise

Carole Rosamond

Were killed

On a Sabbath morning

In September

At the 16^th Street Baptist Church

In Birmingham

While they sat in their pews

Do you remember?

They were

Lovable

Sweet

Beautiful and smart

Mothers wept and moaned

Fathers seethed with rage

Pain and sorrow

Rained down like the concrete blocks

Shattering hopes

Destroying promise

Toppling dreams

May come

With the screams

Their little bodies

Buried in soot and ash

Burned and scorched

Charred and scarred

To death

Entombed under the rubble

Of hate

Mob rule

Out-lawlessness

Mean-spirited bull dogs

Deranged gangs

And an ugly prejudice

Under covers of

Un-christened pretense

Disguised in whiteface

Protecting white in-humanity

Kept in place

By one’s race

Four little black girls

Were killed

In a church which

Etched in the wood panel

“Do this in Remembrance of Me.”

Come to the supper table of the Lord

And remember His love

But four little girls

Were crucified

And died

On the cross

Of the freedom fight

For equal justice

And equal rights

They were killed

50 years ago

In September

Let us

Remember them

Proverbs 15:3

“The eyes of the Lord are in every place,

Keeping watch

Upon the evil and the good.”

Special note:  I checked and found no black broadcast 

channel giving any coverage to acknowledge 

and honor this critical date passing into our history.

Thanks to HBO for airing Spike Lee’s meaningful 

documentary, “Four Little Girls”

Thanks also to MSBNC  and C-Span the discussions 

and recognition of this terrible event

Papa Doble “Hemingway”

 

 

 ...................

Reflecting on you...

While trekking

Through the chambered

Quarters  

Of the captain’s domain

Which bears your name,

I came down,

“A Cat in the Rain,”

To the old village town

Anchored in the southern Keys,

In the middle of splashing breaker waves

Towering native palms,

Blooming tropic trees,

With plush opulent leaves

And fertile green seas

Whose black marlin blues

In silver striped hues

Rise up in the light white

To meet the deep blue azure

Of the wide Gulf Stream

Coursing

In the purple-like smells

Of cool ocean breeze

Scuttling in and gushing out

In the rushing white swells

Off the coastal bed

Nearby me…

In red. 

“Today is Friday”

I stand afoot

The wooden planks

In “A Clean, Well lighted Place”

Where you rambled about your stable.

I like the ceramic figurines

Which sit atop the mirrored dressing table.

I like the two wooden African statues

Across from your sleeping bed.

And I like the glass-cased bookshelf

Displaying the books you read.

It is “A Soldier’s Home”

I like the photos of your friends and comrades

Among your travels and ventures east and west

And places north and south of the Border crest.

I like your collection of antique fixtures

And vintage-year mixtures.

It is The Enduring Hemingway"

I especially love the setting of your writing room

And the way my breath is caught in my womb.

I am consumed!

It is “A Moveable Feast”

Raindrops sprinkle the lush gardens and pebbled pathways

About your sanctured haven

And I love the wetness of the light rain bathin’

I love visiting you there

And you touching me here

In my inner-most ear

And all the rest of elsewhere

Loving you…

I gave thought

To “the Sea”

Shaping the flood gates opening through

Your window pane

Alight in the apparitions

Of the calms before the storms

When moments of truth

Collide   

Headlong

Onto the shifting dust tracks in the road

When low whispering reels

Bloom with the lilies of the fields

Transporting the barren deserts

And “the sudden emergence of daffodils”

Into “Islanded Gardens in the Stream”

Splendid it seems

As the “Green Hills of Africa”

Just beyond “the dry side of the valley”

While the House of God

Lay frozen

In the dried blood

Of the white hunter’s snare

There

Yonder between the reeds

Over the bridge

“Across the River and

Into the Trees”

Where

The road meets the cross

For the lost

Within the metered rhythm

Of a simply stated coil

Planted gently in the soil

As a lyrical narrative

To unleash the roots

Of tender young shoots

…And sometimes, strange fruits

“Rising” up in

Backdrops of setting “Suns

And starry nights

“Silhouetted on the rise of the banks”

When spotted leopards,

“The coolly majestic” Lion cats,

And other un-tame game

Meandered across the great divides

Telling tales of seafaring whales

And ocean sails

To “The Last Good Country”

While the notorious bounty

Of glorified injustice

And mocked manners

Of indifference

Are swept to the floor of fallen grace

By the prize in prejudice

And “the pursuit of happiness” are

Stitched together with masked

Tapestries reflected

In the looking glass

Atop of the snow capped summit

Of Mount “Kilimanjaro’s”

Hallowed hills

Adorned

“White in the sun”

“Like White Elephants”

“In the Garden of Eden”

“At first light”

Emerging 

Across the battle fields of grain,

Along the banks of the river-bend

High and lifted up

In stories for the ages

Austered in metaphoric pages

Falling gently on the prose as a rose

Twirled in black lace

In- twine within the white lines

Drawn along side the face

Of the beauty and the beast,

The tragedy and the pageantry

Of triumph

And the defeat

Of cocks and bulls running wild

In bravura style guile

Under the huntsman’s gaze

Ablaze

In the thrill of “the good kill”

White-hot

Like the blast furnace

Trumpeting the sound

Of “their baggage animals”

From the horns of east Africa

Where the antelope and the buffalo roamed

To

“The west bank of the Big Wood River”

“Up in Michigan”

Beyond the hemlock forest,

Past times of tall pines

Alone in the cold white mist

Shading the gray dawn

Lifting over the ocean bed

Like the ends of the spider’s web

Bridged over troubled waters

Creeping up the stairs

To the floors far above

Where mythical messages of whispery

Voices

Border confusions, illusions and delusions

Of conflict

In the trenches up river,

Abiding

Alongside “the burned-out ravaged terrain.”

“It swirled against the logs of the bridge”

Where the Missouri breaks

Upon the dawn of eluding light years

Gray dimmed by twilight fears

Falling too quickly upon the blades  

Of weathered grass

Where you laid your crown

And slept

Under the cloaked sky

And perhaps sometimes wept

Over the lost of true love “Having” gone

But “Not” forgotten

When dreams drift in lonely streams

Of “Springtime in Paris”

Bringing “Torrents” of whimsy in the night

Fronting the inner mirrors

Highlighted in the corner there

Where 

Wounds inflicted by “Fathers and Sons”

Are moored  

To the dead “On the Quai at Smyrna”

In “The Long Valley”* of the shadow of death

Lined with hidden crevices and secret panels

Skirting the cold dark waters of the deep gulf channels

To unexplored worlds

When the wild blue yonder

Takes pause

And calls…

In the haunting wilderness refrain…

“Death had come…

And rested its head on the foot of the cot

And he could smell its breath.”

“Old brother death had come…

On a warm “…Summer” morn

In the hills of Ketchum.

Death alone had come…

For this seasoned gent -

This lion in Winter’s end,

Don Ernesto,

“For Whom the Bell Tolled”

In his season of discontent.

“Farewell…”

My friend – mon ami

“Old man of the Sea.”

Thanks for being

“In Our Time”

And in mine

Probing the depths of the sublime

Far out from the boundaries of the shoreline.

“We fish together now

For I still have much to learn,”

And discern…

In this light of today…

For it is written… so poignantly…

            “One generation passeth away, 
            And another generation cometh,

But the earth abideth forever.

The sun also rises

And the sun goes down,

And hastens to the place where he arose.

.....................

The Wind goes to the south

And circles about to the north;

It circles and circles continually,

Ever returning on is course.

All the rivers flow into the sea,

Yet the sea is never full.

To the place from where the rivers come,

To there and from there they return again.”

(Ecclesiastes 1:4-7)

“Man is not made for defeat.

Man can be destroyed,

But not defeated.” (Hemingway)

“For whatever is born of God

Is victorious over the world;

And this is the victory that conquers the world,

            Even our faith.” (1John 5:4)  Amen

*”The Long Valley” by John Steinbeck was featured

  in Hemingway’s Library

Special note:  Thanks to Carl Jaynes, my beloved friend,

who sponsored my trip to Key West, Fla

Photos taken in Key West (The Hemingway House; Birds at the pier)

The Artist

Cascading waters

Bricks and mortar

In the mirror

Reflecting grace

And beauty joined hands

To touch her face

Just so

She will know

The secret

Inside the Potter’s rings

Shaping things

“…And you shall be like a watered garden

And like a spring of water

Whose waters fail not.” (Isaiah 58:11)